Sangria and Star Trek

Yesterday, Lunger and I made a pitcher of Sangria with homemade wine and watched three episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation in a row. Needless to say, we got a little tipsy. Despite our inebriation, we still couldn’t completely suspend our disbelief.

“When is that Tasha Yar chick going to die? Is it this episode?” I asked, scowling at the television.

“I hope so, she’s so boring. I mean, what, besides random security questions, is her purpose on the Enterprise?” Lunger asked and poured himself another drink.

“I have no idea! And her hair is so weird. It’s short AND poufy!”

“Noooo...I like her hair. Short hair is cool.” Here, I chuckled derisively.

“Commander Riker is so the Shatner of this series.” I shook my head.

“He gets better.”

“Not much. Besides, he’s always getting with the ladies and making that weird face where he squints one of his eyes.”

“Hmmph.” Lunger slurped the last of his drink. “You know how they made those beaming images? They put glitter in a glass of water and filmed it. Then they super-imposed it over people in the transporting scenes.”

“No way!” I shouted, “That’s so cool!”

“Yeah, look at the sparklies.”

“Hah! You know, I always thought they made Data for the Federation.”

“No, they found him on this planet. Look! It’s a plastic mould of his face!”

“I wonder why they made his nose so big. Oh wait, didn’t that Dr. Soong guy make him look like a younger version of himself?”

“Yeah, he did.”

“Is it just me, or does Data seem jealous of Lore? I thought he didn’t experience human emotions.” I crunched on some ice and cocked my head to one side.

“I think he’s just suspicious of his ‘brother’.”

“Yeah, he seems kind of evil. Isn’t Lore evil or something?”

“Nah, it’s more like he’s agendafied.”

“What’s his agenda?”

“I don’t exactly remember. We watch a lot of Star Trek. Does that make us Trekkies?”

“No, we just like it. I think you have to go to a convention to be a Trekkie, and like wear Vulcan ears or something.”

“Well, I did go to that one convention.” Lunger conceded.

“That was an accident.” I argued. “You just stayed at the same hotel.”

“True. We should look up the definition of Trekkie. Do you think it’s in the dictionary?”

“Surely not.”

Actually, it’s not. But, on Wikipedia it says: “Trekkie (or Trekker) is a term that in recent decades has been used to describe a fan of the Star Trek science fiction franchise.” I think that’s too broad a definition. I’m not willing to admit I’m a Trekkie until I possess my own Klingon mask and federation uniform. I don’t even read those crazy novels based on the TV series. I’d like to hold on to what dignity I have left.

Adventures in Job Hunting

As of late, I’ve managed to snag some job interviews up here in the great white north. I’ve applied for positions with titles such as Technical Writer, Proposal Specialist and other generally uptight-sounding monikers. Each time I tell these human resources people that I applied for a particular job because I love to write, they hastily inform me: “But you understand this is business writing, not fiction.”

Really? No way! If you briefly read my resume, you’ll learn that I studied business writing in college, and therefore understand the style of writing for which you are willing to pay someone money to produce. Why do people assume that business writing is such a boring job? I don’t care what I’m writing, I love to write. I know a lot of writers won’t agree with me. I thought technical writing would be boring when I began to study it, but I found that I enjoy doing it almost as much as I enjoy making shit up (a.k.a. writing fiction).

To me, the joy is in the process, whether or not the subject matter personally interests me is negligible. I love communicating effectively; it makes me feel like a badass. Ok, well, not literally a badass, I mean, it’s not like I’m shoplifting or boosting a car. Not that I would know what either of those activities really feel like. Obviously, a poor comparison. Anyway, most people don’t know how to properly construct a sentence. I know how to write directions so that a sixth grader can figure out how to use a software suite. Yes, I am aware of what an enormous geek I am. Over the years, I have learned to embrace it.

I say, down with human resources! Just because you don’t like your job, doesn’t mean I won’t like mine! If I can actually find one, that is. I must learn to defeat these demons that guard the gates to employment. Why do they ask such inane questions? There must be a right answer to “What do you see yourself doing in 10 years?” that will get me a second interview. Otherwise, I see myself vacuuming the living room, baking pies, and issuing time-outs.

In Mourning

Ever have one of those nights when your head just won’t shut up? Voices and people crowded inside my mind last night and refused to let me rest. Ghosts, shadows, and harpies clawed at my subconscious until I woke with a headache and a guilty conscience. Last night, or more accurately this morning, I remembered all of the people I’ve done wrong, and all of the people who have done me wrong. It was a who’s who of mistakes and broken promises.

I remembered people I loved but couldn’t tell. I remembered people I couldn’t love who loved me. I remembered people I loved who rejected me. And I thought of how I’ve disappointed myself.

I wish I could think of all the people I’ve hurt and apologize to them, and I wonder if the people who hurt me would do the same if they could. I’d like to think that I would be big enough to accept apologies from those who killed me softly over the years, but I can’t say for sure that I would. I wonder, too, if I’m obsessing over this stuff because I forgot to take my anti-depressant the day before yesterday.

That’s something that all medicated depressives go through: Am I rejecting my true self for an emotional palliative? I don’t know if I was passionate and kinetic or just sad and angry about everything before the meds. I know I got to a place where I couldn’t function at all. I had stopped writing poetry before I took medication. Now, I feel a wide variety of emotions, not just varying shades of pain.

But the doubt is still there. I wonder if I would be as prolific a writer as I used to be if I went off the meds. Then, I wonder if I could get out of bed if I stopped taking them. I can still write. The words still come in the steady stream through which they’ve always flowed. The ideas still spark. Maybe I don’t write poems any more because I am finally content.

The poems I wrote in the past always despaired of love, mourned disconnection, writhed with desire. I’ve never been able to write a decent poem about someone who loved me back. Maybe that just feels true, even though it’s not.

To all the people in my head, I am sorry and I forgive you. Sometimes, it’s hard not to dwell on the past.