Puke and Piss

I sometimes worry about my future in writing. There are those underlying fears that tell me I might just have very little talent - that for all intents and purposes there is no future. I generally tend to ignore those fears, and in five years when I'm either scouring toilets or gracing The New Yorker I'll find out if that was a good idea. But, more realistically, there are the fears that any person with absolutely zero knack for anything other than writing and literature must inevitably face: fruitless passion. I've often thought about teaching literature. I've often thought about writing the next great American novel. I've often thought about going to the moon and slapping hockey pucks towards the north pole. It's not necessarily going to happen. However, the fears that I've developed seem to have very little to do with the choices I've made and everything to do with the fact that one side of my brain freakishly outweighs the other. There's about as much personal choice in me becoming some sort of twisted literary-type as there is fun in neurosurgery.

Fruitless passion is quite possibly the be all end all of any, well, passionate person. I'm generally a fan of books, and more specifically, reading. I'm sure that comes as a major shock, but just try to contain yourselves for the next few minutes. If I were to somehow translate my literary passion into hopes of a teaching career, there's a very distinguishable chance that backfiring may occur. I suppose teaching passion for a particular subject would be easier if we all shared the same passions, but I also suppose that will probably never happen. In terms of writing, I could very easily sit here and write, write, write until someone begs me to stop, but who am I kidding, no one would ever beg me to stop. I'm not very accustomed to structure, to guidelines, to the tastes and demands of a reading public (you're all very fortunate I pay you to read this). Basically, I'm afraid that whatever passion and/or talent I may possess will get me nothing more in life than a blogger account and a library card.

Switching gears a bit, I'd like to make mention of a strange phenomenon I've noticed. Forgive me as I continue to talk about myself. For as long as I've been able to read (which will be six months this January), I've been strangely affected by the authors I've read. I've picked up small habits from the various works I've conquered, one example being the ridiculously long sentences trademarked by Dickens. Yet, more so significant than diction and structure are the profound thoughts which are seemingly unearthed. If I've just read something incredibly poignant and powerful, something to which I can strangely relate, I can't for the life of me discern whether or not that thought pervasively existed within my subconscious or if I'm desperately trying to justify comparing myself to admirable authors. If it should be the case where I've shared identical thoughts with certain literary greats, then the marked difference between us proves their ability to translate, to translate thought into concrete existence. Lord, how I envy them. If anyone should possess the secret to such power please don't refrain from sharing the wealth.

I've concluded that moving to Ireland will be good for at least one thing - supplying my life with relative topics of interest. In case you haven't realized, the significant lack of any significant action is the most significant reason for my blogs of abstraction and pointlessness. God forbid I start penning the memoirs of my nineteen short years upon this earth. O, the peaks and pitfalls of my maturing life! It began with the day I was born, which I remember with remarkable clarity, although the recollection seems to escape me at the time. Then arrived the first day of kindergarten, during which another boy of similar stature somehow managed to not only vomit on my backpack, but in it, as well. Ah, and of course first grade, where as a young man in total control of my bodily functions I missed the toilet, tinkled my pants, was much too embarrassed to face the destined humiliation, pretended to get very sick, and suddenly felt better as Dad drove me home where the comfort of dry drawers awaited me.

I suppose that was a nice hint of the course my early memoir would take, nothing but a lot of puke and piss, all of which I treasure. Hopefully with a bit more life to live I can paste some sense into the whole deal, and apparently it seems that in order to live this life I've got to take it overseas. I've got to take my fingers and my eyes, my tortuously long sentences, and my ability to take notice of my own thoughts to a place that hasn't yet experienced them. While I hope to someday return with tales of adventure and growth, despair and redemption, I'm readily accepting a commitment to follow my words wherever they may lead.

And let it be neither towards puke nor piss.