A finger on the scale

Aside from having an all-access pass to Dr. Google, one of the super-best things about the internet is being able to find people who share your obsessions or neuroses or lovely-but-quite-boring interests.

Of course as soon as I typed the above I thought–in the very stilted manner that I can’t seem to shake off since I began writing legally binding copy–“Wow, that generalization conveniently leaves out the destructive and often illegal actions that can arise from mutual obsessions and dangerous inclinations.”

Naturally from there I began thinking about poor exploited children and e-affairs and the international arms smuggling that goes on under the cover of knitting forums.

But I got a grip, because I really just wanted to say that in talking about the direction of an earlier post with a very creative person (vs a pal who would rather eat glass than discuss the creative process, and by “pal” I mean Mr Vix) I was totally amazed that she took my musings and turned them into something one could freaking exhibit as an indie short. Or turn into a commercial if going all 80s art world provocateuse beckoned.

She gave me something linear and fantastical with the opportunity for riotous dialogue. Something wry yet bittersweet. And for a moment I was all, “OMG if I ran with this I could be on my way to becoming an honorary Sedaris!”

And then I came to my goddamn senses. Because while it was amazingly uplifting to have her overestimate my capabilities that way, coming up with those sorts of wild tales is not how I roll. The storytelling that’s mine by nature and nurture won’t go to those heights. It’s a horizontal creature, destined to make make wrong turns and go in circles and head down dead ends that require tedious backing out and, if all goes well, getting to re-orient after meandering by an accidental landmark.

The storytelling that’s mine by nature and nurture doesn’t do closure, but for a minute there it was nice to dream.

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