a bit of the nuts-and-bolts stuff that holds us together...

sorcha is no longer writing, and i can only vaguely remember how she came to be in my pals list to begin with, so i am going to delete her.

i'll hang onto lady sartre a bit longer as she did this before. she seems to be a bit of a summer writer.

anne is only still around cause she is indeed a real-world dear friend, and i understand that she gets excited for a project and then cools. it is possible she might return soon. or never. who knows? who cares?

got together with the new guy to jam on some hendrix and beatles and cream. it was lots of fun. i need to do a bit more personal practicing before we get together again, but i am sure that we will.

have been recording some music, but have been brought to a screeching halt by the fact that my acoustic guitar seems to be parting out on me. i am beyond aggravated by this, because it is a good guitar, and i love it, but it seems incapable of withstanding the pressure exerted by the slightly thicker strings i have put on it. until i either get it fixed or replaced, my home-recording stuff might be on hold (the jezebel acoustic factors greatly into most of the projects i am currently working on).

which makes me wonder why seemingly inanimate objects seem to take a sick pleasure in not functioning properly when i am around. want your computer to go on the fritz? sit me near it. want a car door to quit opening? sell me the car. and while not expensive, certainly not cheap either, a perfectly good acoustic begins to disintegrate before my very eyes as i pluck a song out on its strings.

we recently watched stranger than fiction, which was an incredible movie and everyone should rush out to see it. well, err, rent it, i mean.

but it made me think about stories i have written and the characters i have created. excepting the current magnum crappus, the vast majority of what i have written was straight from the inner confines of my often twisted imagination. also, much of it was in the form of short stories. looking back, i didn't deign to give most of my characters names beyong her, or him, and did little to flesh out their personalities. nearly all are dead by the end of the story, most often at their own hand, and usually so that the world might be a better place (yes, i absolutely loved donnie darko--yes, i am most assuredly a sick fucker--no, i am not seeking help).

so i guess i am safe from someone other than the real people upon whom characters in the current magnum crappus are based ever coming up to me and saying "i am the character in your story."

because the conversation might go something like this:

"are you darth sardonic?"

"yes. why?"

"i'm, umm. well, what i mean to say is..."

(me standing there, head cocked, eyebrow on full tilt, quizzical and amused smirk on alert.)

"that is to say, i'm him."

"him?"

"him."

"weird little goth-metal band from sweden, him?"

"no, you fucking idiot. him. the him from your story that goes off into the desert and slashes his wrists so that flowers bloom [this is an actual story i wrote, i believe my freshman year in college. i need to reread it, but i believe i didn't give the main character a name, but i gave his friend a single name, like smith. he does, indeed, go into the middle of the desert and slash his wrists and his last vision is of gorgeous roses blooming and spreading across the sands]."

"and? it's not a bad way to go. you make a desert bloom roses."

"well, that actually does appeal to me alot."

"of course it does, cause i didn't bother to give you any more of a personality than that."

"ah. well, which desert?"

"shit, i don't know. pick one you think would look good as a rose garden."

"hmmm. ok. thanks."

"anytime."

so it would seem to me that overall, i have been quite lackadaisical towards the characters i have created. do i feel bad?

nah, they'll be alright.

darth sardonic