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Yes, that’s right folks, after promising to write something for the blog every day, what do I do?
THE VERY NEXT DAY I BLOW IT OFF TO SEE A MOVIE.

I applaud myself.

Truth be told, I had a momentary doubt.  A writer to whom I usually pay a great deal of attention told me that what I’m doing is essentially “morning pages,” I.E. the freeform writing done to loosen up by a writer, kinda like the stretches a gymnast does before performing their routine.  He also said that usually morning pages work best if you keep them private, because when you write for an audience, you write differently.

So I thought, maybe I should keep it private. I’ll just write every day and then not post it. After all, Montaigne didn’t publish what he wrote right away. Jung only posted his scribblings after extensive review and editing.  Descartes waited until after he actually died to publish his ramblings, making him possibly one of the first authors to actually plan to publish their book while dead.

You can see where I’m going with this:

Clearly, Descartes was a zombie.

BUT I DIGRESS.

I decided no.

I’m going to write here. And it’s going to work, for three reasons.

One.

No one reads this blog. I know. I have the stats in real time in the right-hand corner of this blog post screen. So it might as well be private.

Two.

I don’t really care. There’s a very short list of things I won’t tell other people, and I really don’t think about them all that often anyway.

Three.

When I write like this, reader, I’m not talking to you. I’m not talking to some imaginary internet person.
I’m talking to myself.
Aloud.

That’s right, you heard me. Aloud. I’m just transcribing.

Well, I take that back. I don’t always talk aloud. But I do talk to myself. About myself. I direct commentaries at various Jungian archetypes–

LIKE, FOR EXAMPLE

Anima! Haven’t seen you in ages. Not in dreams, not in those sudden bursts of recognition when passing a picture, not in any urge to write, just in those fleeting moments of crazed joy while I’m in the middle of playing my instrument.  Perhaps that’s because I’ve grown more mature emotionally. Perhaps it’s because I now have many more assertive feminine figures in my life than I did in that hellhole that is Orange County, so you’ve less need to step in to keep me balanced and sane.

Regardless, of the reason, I’m not sure how to feel about it. On the one hand, a vague sense of loss, like after one of your dreams. On the other…well, actually, not anything on the other. Interesting.

No nightmares, though. None at all. Not a peep from anyone even mildly cthlonic. Which is very nice–it means that this is a REALLY good place.  Which is good, because I like it here.

It’s raining. Finally.

I like rain. Everything seems more alive in the rain–the squirrels are running around frantically, the cicadas get even louder in protest, the trees move and rustle in the wind, and even the sky begins to talk, thundering far off in the distance.  Greens get deeper, colours more vivid.  Walking for an hour in bright sunlight is a chore–walking an hour in rain is a pleasure.  Water gets into your shoes and squishes charmingly.

I especially like thunderstorms. I hope we get one soon–there’s a gazebo out in the middle of the common grass that would be a perfect place to sit and watch the wild rage of a storm.

Someone on Facebook asked a while ago which X-man powers I would take, if I could only have two.  And after much deliberation, I’ve finally got an answer.

Of course,  Facebook has moved on, and is no longer interested, but I am, and so I’ll recount it.

Telepathy and weather control.

Telepathy not so much for the mind control aspect–I really think that could be boring, if the only thoughts around you were your own. More for knowing people–seeing what’s troubling them, knowing which subjects to avoid, (always remembering birthdays!).

Weather control for an entirely selfish reason: I’ve always had this kind of mental image of standing in the eye of a hurricane, high above the ground, watching the storm rage and lightning crash on every side. It’s an image that surfaces occasionally in my drawings or my writing. Plus, I like rain. And I could carry a little bubble of rain and cool air with me and ALWAYS BE ABLE TO WEAR A COOL TRENCHCOAT.

Think about it: if you can control the ambient temperature, you can ALWAYS wear your favorite articles of clothing. No matter what the weather around you is like.  Love that shirt, but it’s snowing outside? No sweat–bump the temperature up to 70 and strut around in your favorite tee.

That would be awesome. In fact, I think weather control would be my first choice. Because think! What better way to make a living? Live in Florida, or anywhere in the Midwest, or anywhere along the east coast, getting paid to fly around and divert hurricanes and tornadoes!  That would be AWESOME.

So no, I’m not writing for anyone. Well, I suppose that might be untrue. I am writing for myself, as I said, and that means all of me.

WHICH, by the way, reminds me of something.

I got an odd look a few days ago when I said that perhaps American students should forego helping abroad when there are people still starving in our own country. It was an undeveloped thought–one of the many that go flying out of my head in the course of a day–but the response from a friend was immediate and quite deep. She replied that it’s not so much a matter of who gets helped as it is of the emotional growth of the people who help them, and the lessons they can learn–in short, that you learn from helping others, no matter who it is.

Which is a good point, and one that pretty much crushed my statement entirely. I agree with it, too, which is even worse–it’s hard to argue against something you are 100% in favor of.

SUBJECT CHANGE

College. Freshpeople. Beer.  Of course most of them drink. Well, I don’t know about “most”–this is very much a campus that puts the “liberal” in “liberal arts,” and everyone is free to drink whatever they like. But some people do drink. And too much at that.

At an earlier stage in my life, I might not have liked that. I might have followed friends around trying to protect them from themselves and herd them home when they got smashed. But I can’t.

I can’t help everyone. And this fact royally pisses me off, but it’s true. I can’t be everywhere, I can’t predict everything, and I sure as hell don’t know everything. All I can do is act upon my immediate surroundings, and that I do. I rescue bugs. I talk to sad people. I offer tips on anything I have any relevant knowledge about. Little things. But they’re little things that count to me, and they count to the ones I help (I hope; otherwise I might spiral into an existential crisis, but no one’s asked for a refund yet).

And someday, this work I’m doing will pay off. I’ll acquire that swift insight that Jung and Descartes and Montaigne developed through their works–that immense self-knowledge that manifests itself as an awareness of how the human soul functions. And I’ll be able to tell at a glance who is troubled and who is simply cranky, able to predict how best I can help, even if that way is nothing at all.

It’s odd. I really never thought about my name until a few months before I came to college. I Googled my name, and what came up was the wikipedia entry for the archangel Michael.

Michael’s not just “some guy” as angels go. He’s a guardian angel, the self-proclaimed defender of the weak and the general of the armies of Good, who once fought Satan in a knock-down dragout cage match and won.  His shield is emblazoned with the words “quis ut deus,” latin for “who is like God,” which is in Hebrew quite literally the word “Michael.”  It is both a statement (he is one of the highest of angels) and a challenge to evil (who possesses the arrogance to place themselves as the master of reality?).

That’s a weighty name to live up to. But you know what? Challenge ****ing ACCEPTED. I’ll take up that mantle.  I’ll become a philosopher and an artist and a champion and a guardian, and before I’m done the world will be a far better place for the works of another Michael.

The rain’s turned to a storm.

I’ve opened my window. It’s cool outside, and the room is rapidly following suit, but I don’t mind. The thunder is enough to make me feel at home.

Perhaps I’ll live in Pittsburgh. I liked it there, liked it alot.  Or perhaps I’ll even live here, in this little town. We’ll see how the winter turns out.

Everyone’s been warning me that the winter will be brutal, but I don’t care–I’ve faced cold before, and it utterly fails to faze me.

Besides–the longest walk I have to make is ten minutes.  It may be the coldest ten goddamn minutes of my life, but it’s ten minutes. No major tissue damage can occur in ten minutes, unless I’m in goddamn space. And I’m not in space. You know how I can tell? My eyeballs are still in my head. That’s right, I went there.  Eyeballs. 

2 minutes left on the timer, and almost time for lunch.

I love lunch here. [Almost] everyone eats at the common dining hall, and students are not allowed to bring books/backpacks in. You are literally forced to stop studying and socialize. The library closes at 10 most days, meaning you are obliged to go to your room and, ideally, get some sleep rather than burn out studying. And the people!

Well, suffice it to say I have not yet met a single person who I would not want to have a three-hour conversation with. And in some cases I did. And it was wonderful.

18 seconds left. Put that 90 wpm to good use with random thoughts.

I hope there’s pasta.

That is all.

–Tor

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