Dearest Rachel –
It’s six o’clock of a Saturday morning, and with it comes this sensation that I really don’t feel like doing anything just yet. Not heading to work out (despite registering my highest weight in several days), not wanting to write you (more due to not wanting to bothering with having to write, as opposed to contacting you. If you were here, I’d be more than happy to talk to you directly. Then again, if you were here, you’d probably be sleeping in for another three hours or so yet), nothing. At the same time, the longer I sit around doing all the nothing I want to for the moment, the more I realize that my mind is aswirl with random stuff that, if I don’t write it down, is going to fade away like a dream. Thoughts splash across my consciousness like a Jackson Pollock painting, and somehow, I feel the need to let you know about them, for whatever reason.
Even in the admission of this fact, the analogy brings up thoughts of the story I’ve heard – and which I don’t know if it’s true, because the organizations involved will never admit anything about their activity, whether aye or nay, so one could practically make up anything – that Pollock and his body of work were a CIA psy-op, in reaction to the rigidities of Soviet Realism. Supposedly, pop art as a movement was all just a put-on to demonstrate to the Russians that Americans were so free that they could make art that deliberately meant absolutely nothing, even as they filled canvases and indeed, whole museums with the stuff. The stress of working for a spy organization – even doing something that he loved, art – took its toll on Pollock, and the car crash that killed him might not have been entirely accidental. Again, this is all speculative on my part, but I don’t think I’m making this up out of whole cloth on my own. I’m not that skilled a storyteller, especially first thing in the morning.
Which is probably why I have such an affinity for AI-generated art, whether pictures or music; I’m not good enough to come up with anything of my own, but just borrow things from here, there and everywhere, and reconstitute them into individual works that, when they stand alone, look like something completely new and different, but I know better.
Another thing running through my head is last night’s dream, in which I was auditioning to work as a voice artist on the Extra Credits series of channels. Even in the midst of it, the whole concept felt strange; their current narrator, Matt Krol, has been doing yeoman work for a number of years now since Daniel Floyd left to work on other projects (although whatever he’s working on doesn’t seem to have reached anywhere near the level of his original creation. Hopefully, that’s okay with him). It’s not as if the channel needs another voice artist. But in my dream, they were running auditions, and I submitted a few of their older works, with my voice in place of Matt’s to give them a side-by-side comparison (See? I can’t seem to come up with anything original on my own).
Apparently, I got the job, because I was then set to work on an installment their “So You Haven’t Read” series, going on about Douglas Coupland’s Generation X, a novel I’ve always wanted to re-introduce to the masses, since our generation has long been ignored by pop culture. The war between Baby Boomers and Millennials (and now Gen Zedders) has been fierce, but somehow we’ve fallen through the cracks (not that we should mind). I always thought it might be a good reminder that we were once accused of being the same slackers that Daniel complains about Millennials are (and Boomers were once, when they were young). It’s not a matter of generations, so much, as everyone forget what they were like when they were young – and the young people have no idea what it’s like to adult.
But on going through the novel, as I have several times since actually planning a project on it in real life (including the idea of reading through it with Daniel and getting his reactions on audio and video), I’ve discovered that, while there is some plot to it, it’s pretty flimsy. For having given our generation a name, it isn’t as if it’s the Great Canadian Novel (since Coupland hails from Vancouver) for our time by any stretch of imagination. One of the Great Classics, it isn’t, and never will be. Then again, maybe that defines us better than we know, eh, honey?
I also feel like I should be writing you about last night, and my first stab at cooking – real cooking, with a basic recipe and whatnot, not just grabbing something out of the refrigerator or freezer, slapping it into the oven, and calling it good – in what feels like months. After the mild disappointment that was our trip to that one local Filipino place a week or so ago, I thought I’d try my hand at making it myself instead. It seemed simple enough.
In any event, I should probably use larger quantities of both vinegar and soy sauce when I try this dish again, so that the liquid doesn’t totally evaporate during the cooking process. Besides, the meat wasn’t all completely submerged in the mixture, so some of it may not have sufficiently marinated. Just a few thoughts for next time, I suppose.
Meanwhile, despite having what looked like such a small portion, I still tipped the scales as high as I did this morning. Maybe it was the chocolate I had afterwards. I suppose I should gear myself up to work it all off again, then, much as I don’t really feel like it. It isn’t as if I need to be anywhere, as the study group isn’t meeting this month, and it’s not as if you’re here to put me through a different (and more rewarding) sort of workout.
Ironically, you’d probably just be waking up when I get back, so… yeah. Might as well put myself through my paces. So, keep an eye on me, honey, and wish me luck. I’m going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 