Silly words and funny stories.
A way to overcome the blank space each page and screen that obstaculizes my day is to simply set a single word. Usually it’s gone the second I wrote it, deleted in an everlasting competition for the perfect beginning for the perfect story.
But not every story is perfect, and neither is every word. Even though I think the word “donut” might be close on calling a shot.
Most stories aren’t perfect though. Some look really promising, but then there is a twist in where the words lead me, taking me into an abyss of weird trails. Eventually though I’ll think of something that I can write about, and then the words just fly out. This is a very pleasant feeling of release and creativity. The problem is that it’s not a reliable business model. You can’t only put out when input hits you. But still, that’s whats most fun.
Last weekend I was at a party at someone’s flat, actually at two parties at two people’s flats. I received a call from a friend that I hadn’t seen in some time; it was already past midnight, and while I normally are rather reclusive in my social live, at least at the moment, this was perfect timing. I all but jumped out of the house, got on my bike, and rode to some address I didn’t know to meet someone amongst possibly hundreds of people I didn’t know. Like my former self would have done, the person I was before I started a real job as a waiter.
Now, this party wasn’t that big of an event as I had anticipated. There was plenty of beer in the bathtub, which is the sensible place to store beer for such occasions, the flat was nicely decorated, there was food made from stuff that had been rescued from a dumpster a couple of hours prior, and Bon Iver was playing, which is the equivalent of having a guy who’s in his second day of learning the guitar playing Wonderwall.
On the list of things to kill a party, next to a Gestapo officer, For Emma, Forever Ago is definitely in the top five. Especially if you host a bunch of people who sing along.
So there I was, the living room of this flat filled with a circle of people roughly my age, singing Skinny Love, the Last Christmas of love songs, from the bottom of their heart, and I had just opened a beer. My friend was nowhere to be seen. I stepped outside to give him a call, where he notified me that I was in the wrong flat. In fact, there were two parties in the same house, one that was presumably a blast and one that was evidently blasted.
I grabbed another beer from the bathtub and left in silence as to not disturb the reverent circlejerk.
The other party was more fun. But that wouldn’t make for a good story.
You see? There was an idea about something that happened, or might have happened, and I made it a story in only a couple of minutes. But it didn’t lead anywhere. Isn’t that unsatisfying?
But we could still talk about the title of this event. Unawakenative. Simone, who created the flyer, hyphenated it as unawake-native, which I think is reasonable, since it sounds less wrong. Like someone who’s a native in Sleepyland. And at times I feel like that person. But it might also imply some Nietzschean dream philosophy bullshit, and I don’t really agree with that. What I actually had in mind was the creation of a new word, a compound of un-, as a negation, awake, as a base, and -ative as an adjectivation implying relatedness. “She was a very unawakenative character” would imply that she was sleepish. “Sleepification was her trait. She engaged in slumberly conduct.” It could also have been called unawakenish, but my unawakenative self didn’t think of that when Sanja asked me for a title to this event.
So here we are, no longer wondering what the fuck this title is supposed to be about, with no idea what to do with this information. Thank you all for coming.