Style

Style's great. I'm a big fan of the high collar, the toothpick or cigarette, the right kind of aloofness…the perfect remark, well-timed and delivered. Dramatics, seen?

But it's not for me. The problem is, to run style needs attention, ("health is secondary when you've got a style to maintain") and I can't be bothered - not 'cause I'm too cool, but I'm not focused. Also I don't have the necessary pride; you need pride to run style and I'm a firm believer that pride (at least the noisy sort) goes before a fall.

I just made the poor decision of borrowing the Battle Royal manga volumes 1-3 from Danielle, and I've discovered all over again why I love manga (many reasons) and why I hate it (you've got to have the book in your hands, and that's expensive). I've also flirted briefly with the attraction of writing storyboards for manga and comics. I could do that; perhaps even well. For a time I'd had plans to write storyboards for my cousin Jon based on a plot idea I've been throwing around since forever - he was going to do the drawing. Of course, that fell through due to lack of attention.

The problem with the really fun ideas - just like style - is that when you give them a close look, for me at least, they're always just permutations of other fun ideas. The aforementioned plot was a near-future story about teens in the aftermath of a ebola-like virus that killed everyone on the planet who didn't have a certain hormonal imbalance particular to the pubescent. So right there you've got Ender's Game, maybe The Girl Who Owned A City, Atwood's Oryx and Crake and pretty much every other post-apocalyptic, life-in-the-ruins-of-modern-society story. Think crumbling futuristic structures a la Trigun or Vampire Hunter D. Lord of the Flies, even. I could go on, but I won't.

There seems to be limited room for style. I mean, you can wear your fedora everywhere, but it's only a matter of time before you bump into some other genius who's latched onto the same brilliant idea, and the two of you look like mirrored dorks staring at each other. Even when I feel creative, I'm always nagged by the feeling that I'm just regurgitating some meme I've caught. Even the dreams which I used to think were the source of such great, imaginative ideas are - I accept now - just random recombinations of shit that's been done and seen, seen and done.

So I despair of being original, of finding a mode of poetry or an idea to write on that's solely my own. To be honest I don't care if someone else has come up with the same thing independently and I've never heard of it, but the way I soak things up chances are I'm just apeing. Maybe it'll come with time, experience and effort (or the careful avoidance of effort). Or maybe everyone's muse is just a sort of synthesis, and I shouldn't be ashamed of it just 'cause I can see it.

It's about wanting to sing the unsung song, once and forever unique. It's about knowing you're alive. How's that for style?

Now Playing: Animatrix Soundtrack - 08 - Overseer - Supermoves (Animatrix Remix)