The New Inklings

My friends, John and Chris, and I got super nerdy the other night at my favorite bar. We decided somehow to start talking about The Lord of the Rings. I assume we started talking about movies and then got to that specific series of movies. Then we segued into how the books were so different from the movies. The changes that the directors made were not all acceptable to us, nor did we view them as necessary increase the ticket sales in movie theaters.
For example, one change was removing the beloved, though oft overlooked and/or forgotten character, Tom Bombadil. I understand that his is a very slow-moving part of the book, but it would not have hurt anything to add those character-building scenes with him interacting with the four young hobbits. I can honestly say that leaving out Bombadil was detrimental to my experience of watching the movies.
Another thing we talked about was how in The Lord of the Rings they overemphasized the love story between Arwen and Aragorn. The argument entailed the logic that while it was definitely unnecessary to the furthering of the main plot, Aragorn is such well-beloved character that nobody minded the extra scenes with Liv Tyler in them. However, this is not the case for the entirely fabricated love sub-plot in The Hobbit movies between the elf warrior-girl and dwarf treasure hunter-boy. That one pissed me off. I did not enjoy The Hobbit movies in their entirety as much as I like The Lord of the Rings, probably because I always liked The Hobbit book more than The Lord of the Rings. The story is shorter and more focused. The movies just didn’t have the same vibe as the book and there were too many large, unncessary changes that were very odd choices. It was a book about adventure and treasure and friendship and NOT ROMANCE! I mean, they added an extra character simply to add a romance into the script. It was a simple little slap in the face for a purist like me. Oh well. Enough ranting.

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As I Sit Here, Wishing to be Weird

As I sit here, completely uninspired and desiring to be, I watch other people. I always have watched other people; I watch them, wondering if they’re inspired or even happy. I’m not happy. I’m sitting here writing what feels like prose poetry, forgetting the definition I learned in school, catching every spelling mistake and getting frustrated because I hate prose poetry. Why can’t we keep the two separate?

And I realize that I need to cut my fingernails because it is no longer satisfying, but annoying to have them hit the keys on my keyboard. Maybe if my nails were stronger, but they don’t feel strong. I don’t feel strong. I’ve been sick for the last week, and I still feel exhausted. The coffee and bagel aren’t helping my energy levels…

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I am still sitting here writing whatever this is. Whatever this is that is completely inspired by my utter lack of inspiration. My desperation nags at me. I don’t want to be writing right now. I want to read, reread The HobbitPride and Prejudice (no zombies please). I want to do something where it’s considered acceptable to do nothing but read all day, the same books I’ve read a thousand times, if I so choose. I always talked about going to culinary school while I was a cook. Well, maybe I am still a cook, but not right now, right now I’m funemployed, as I’ve called it… My little joke, euphemism for not having a job because my old employer lost interest in us.

And I remember how fun it is to have my hair “weird” colors. I miss pink and purple and I long to try “opal” and I can’t because I worry that I may actually get an in-person interview with a company who doesn’t want to hire people with “weird” hair. At least I grew out my faux hawk. Not to mention, this is San Francisco, the mecca of weird hair, weird people. WEIRDNESS. I long to be more weird, but it’s expensive to be weird. Tattoos, hair dye, piercings, unless you have awesome weird friends with talents they’re willing to freely give away. The services required to look “weird” are not cheap. Unless you wanted to look cheap as part of your weird. I don’t know. I want my hair to look artistic and cared for, not just weird.

I am still sitting here and I’m glad, knowing that my goal of forcing myself to write something down would make me write anything and would also literally make me feel better. I do. With my “normal” blonde hair, or maybe it’s bland, I don’t think so, yet. My shirt that says “but first, coffee.” Another attempt at normal I guess. If I stopped being so normal, I would be more brave. I miss being weird. When I first moved here, to San Francisco, I was more weird. I had more “muchness” to me. But I’ve been scared and become lazy too; I think that’s the problem.

I don’t know where to go to become inspired. I want people to call me to hang out and they don’t. I don’t know where to go. I want someone to guide me a little. Help me become weird again. Instead I sit in the cafe, drinking coffee. Pretending to be normal. Wishing I could play guitar. Maybe in an alternate life I learned to play and became a busker. Maybe that’s in the future.