Matthew Wayne Selznick

I think I’m becoming less cynical as I get older. This is strange, because I don’t think it’s supposed to work that way. I look at some of the people I know who are older than me, and by and large I see depression, world-weariness, and of course cynicism.

Now, I have my sadness, my occasional regrets, yearnings, what have you. But I feel pretty good about life and human beings and all that.

I see another minority edging toward equality, despite what the godsayers and our president (yes, I know that should be capitalized — let’s see him earn it) might attempt.

I see two! honest-to-goodness robots crawling around on the surface of Mars.

I’m writing.

I have a dog that looks me in the eye, and a cat that asks for pets as soon as I wake up (and lets me scratch her belly.)

I’m healthy.

I just finished watching “Forrest Gump” on television. I remember, when I first saw it in the theatre years ago, that I thought it was a manipulative piece of fluff. Now, I’m more willing to be “manipulated” by a film… in other words, I’m willing to feel something. As for fluff, well, how’s this for some purple prose: fluff fills the pillow we put our head on to dream.

Saw “Big Fish” a couple of days ago. Waterworks for yours truly for at least the last fifteen minutes. Nice job — very well put together, and for that we thank the writer of the novel and the screenwriters. Definitely Tim Burton’s best work (although Ed Wood was mighty fine, too.) Can somebody tell me what Billy Crudup’s (sic?) been in before? Can’t place him.

Anyway, I’ve always been sappy, but sentimentality is definitely in for me these days. Why not.

Just so you’re sure I’ve not gone completely soft, consider this: All the recent discussion / controversy about “The Passion of the Christ” is, to me, similar to folks arguing if “A Bug’s Life” accurately portrays the life of the Grasshopper in Aesop’s fable.

That’s all for now.

I’m going to stay off the soapbox on this one (but I’m happy to debate if anyone wants to comment.) By posting this link, obviously I’m in favor of this. If you are, too, then sign the petition and pass it on to everyone you know of like mind:

Thanks!

You’re Love in the Time of Cholera!
by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Like Odysseus in a work of Homer, you demonstrate undying loyalty by
sleeping with as many people as you possibly can. But in your heart you never give
consent! This creates a strange quandary of what love really means to you. On the
one hand, you’ve loved the same person your whole life, but on the other, your actions
barely speak to this fact. Whatever you do, stick to bottled water. The other stuff
could get you killed.

Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

It’s my day off and my last one was on Monday and that seems like a whole week ago (’pert near) and I have to be at work again tomorrow at eight which means waking up at six and that’s in less than twelve hours and I’m sick with a cold and sore throat and while I did a lot of catch up on my internet businesses today I still haven’t written a word of the book and time is ticking and I’ve got a cold (thank you work) and don’t have the energy to do much of anything.

Crap.

A couple of hours ago, I saw my wife off on a short business trip to Northern California. Even though it was five AM, I couldn’t go back to sleep. Got some coffee going, fed the dog and let him out, and found myself in the musing mood that usually comes to me in the earliest of mornings.

I’ve been reading biographies lately. Fredrick Pohl’s “The Way The Future Was,” and now Sting’s “Broken Music.”

I think I’ve previously read just one biography, of H. P. Lovecraft, and that was at least ten years ago. I wondered why I’d done two in less than a month… maybe it’s a sign of growing maturity, or a sign, perhaps more accurately, of an awareness of my age?

Reading the stories of a Grandmaster of science fiction and a music hero of my teenage years in their own voices (I hope) helps put my own life in perspective, and helps realistically chart what I’d like to see happen next.

On the one hand, I wonder at how early in life each of these people achieved a degree of success I’ve let to see. There’s no resentment or disappointment in myself there, for Fred Pohl grew up in New York City (where the 1940’s pulp magazines in which he got his start were flourishing) and Sting was in London in the late seventies, when the musical landscape was shifting dramatically from prog-rock extravagance to wide-open punk and New Wave. Each experienced a degree of poverty that I’ve never known.

I grew up in South Orange County, California, in the early eighties… the music I would come to love had already achieved a kind of stratification of its own, and if my family struggled with money (as I know they did) care was taken to insure I was never really impacted by it. The two most successful bands I’ve been in were crippled separately by ego and lack of drive. My writing was stymied by lack of confidence and, frankly, lack of experience in the craft and in life.

I’m not saying I wish I’d suffered more, or that I’m the victim of my circumstances, poor me, boo hoo. On the contrary, I’m saying I’m the person I am, and the level of success I’ve enjoyed with my art — the amount of time and commitment I’ve dedicated to my art — is entirely of my own design.

So, here in the late half of my thirties, what’s next?

I have an optimistic attitude these days. I have my goals, and while the my loyalty to my time management tools has naturally cooled slightly from the white-hot degree of the newly converted I displayed at the end of last year, I plan to stick to… well, to the plan. This is the year to finish a book, this is the year to return to playing music. I know that issues of confidence will continue to plague me, but this is an enemy that, once revealed, is easier to combat.

Okay, I’m mused out. Time to get to it. Thanks for reading. Get going yourself!