The Cerebral Catalyst

Well, summer is definitely here, and what an interesting one it promises to be. At least I've been a lot more active this summer in many respects. I've got this column here, which some people seem to have been reading, although no one has actually bothered to e-mail me about anything. Which is understandable, considering we haven't really gotten into some really heavy stuff, so I think I'll lay some of it on you this time.

I had a lot of time last summer to think about things, having spent about five weeks on my ass at my parents' house recovering from ACL surgery. That was interesting there, really, cause I was never much of an athlete, and I got to realize that I'd never be able to play professional football, amongst other things. Now, as funny as that my sound, given the fact that I never had any ambitions of playing football at any level, it was just interesting to note that a certain chapter, how irrelevant it may have been, was closed in my life. It made me think about destiny. I mean is there a certain force out there that influences things, maybe we could call it God, or what? Are we destined to do certain things, are we controlled by fate, or do we have a choice in the matter?

I've always thought the majority of people who believe in fate don't have any control in their lives, or that they usually sit back and expect things to happen. This is where we get into aspects of a person, and aspects of a situation as related to a person's life, or what they achieve in the course of their natural life. The person versus the situation. For example, one could be raised a certain way by their parents, but when they go off on their own, they could change completely. It's a big part of psychological studies, or at least social psychology. I often think about myself in relation to these questions. These are things I usually think about when I'm drunk, and of course I'm hungover a bit as I write this. Anyone who knows me knows that I love to discuss these big philosophical issues when I'm drunk. Either that or I get belligerent, and everyone knows how that is, with a drunkard.

The whole point is this. Actually, I'll get to the point after a long and boring history of relevant experiences in my life over the past 6 years or so. Yes, I have been in college for a while, but I'm not some sort of freeloader or some Chris Farley character. I was one of those people who didn't know what the fuck they wanted to do in college. I was always told that's what you do in order to get a good job, or some other bullshit like that. The whole experience, I've found for me, has been heuristic. I've actually learned things, in both street and book smarts over the years. I think that's what life is really all about.

Now, there is obviously nothing wrong with graduating school in four years, I'm not that obtuse to suggest there is. The point is, I started out at Duquesne University in the summer of '98, you know, full of this energy, this desire for experience. And that whole first year was definitely one of the best in my life. I've been haunted in a way by that year for a long time. I'm really susceptible to getting bogged down living in old memories and old times. I think I've just now realized that there is so much more ahead, it was like I was in a coma for many years.

So after about two and a half years, I transferred to Pitt, and ended up spending the better part of a year drinking and skipping class because I think I was actually afraid of experiencing something that would have rivaled my time at Duquesne. It's a cliché sort of thing to say, but I was living in the past so much that I ignored the present. There was something like a veil but closer to a cataract over my eyes. I'd always wanted to be a writer, but I actually hadn't written a damn thing since I was twelve. Now I'd always been prolific in writing songs on my guitar, but since I had no real outlet, the things just sat there for quite a while, until I forgot them.

Anyway, to condense all of this rambling, key events from last summer have led me to where I'm at now. I've realized recently that if I hadn't taken the path that I did, I wouldn't have met any of my fellow Cerebral Catalyst denizens and friends. Things have a funny way of working out that way. The past year or so, I've spent a lot of time trying to turn shit into gold, in a way. Not to disparage anyone or anything, I'm not talking about them, I'm just trying to say that for the past year or so, I've spent a lot of time beating myself up over decisions I've made, and the fact that I'll be an old man before I graduate school. This gets us into the old fate question. Was I fated to fuck up enough to meet all the great people I have the past two years? Was it fate that I selected a random British literature course? I have to lean towards fate here in a way, but only after realization and hindsight. I think I'm the kind of person who lives for hindsight and realization, which can be very dangerous in a way.

Have you ever noticed yourself having a not so great time doing something, but when you remember it, it's stored in your brain as one of the greatest things you've ever done? Like a lot of things I experienced that freshman year at Duquesne were nowhere near euphoric, but when I think of mundane things, like how the bathrooms would smell after being cleaned, or how the light was in my room, it's like I'm in some sort of heaven, like I'm existing in that precise moment of time. Pretty bizarre, you may think, but all too common when you place people and events on a pedestal. I say try to live in this present, because that's when you are alive.

In this very moment, I am alive and typing this thing at a frenetic pace because I want to write. It's a dangerous thing, wanting to be creative. Maybe that's why artists are always moody, bipolar types. We live for that moment of elevation we get when we create something really unique and worthwhile. For me, anything like that is usually dragged out by its heels, trying to stay inside where it's nice and safe and warm, and there isn't anyone to criticize it or tear it down. These things, our creations, are a part of our selves. I think true art comes from true introspection, feeling. What they call "writing close to the bone." And I can talk about it as much as I want, and romanticize it as much as I want, but that does nothing. The work itself needs to be out there. It needs to look as good to the world out there as it does to us, in our heads. Are these deranged ramblings or good philosophical insights? I'll let you decide, if you're out there. And I'll also be doing this thing every other week from now on, as if anyone out there could actually handle more.

Cheers from Captain Fun!

P.S.: Sangria tastes good!

Visit Captain Fun's Swarthy Archives.

______________________________________
Joseph L. Conty, Jr. wears a buffalo hide tunic and sips peach nectar from a chalice. Known to drink multiple flagons of mead for breakfast and chew bear fat for gum, he would like to remind the public that anyone else who dares to use the moniker of "Captain Fun" isn't fit to carry his merkin.

Emergent Properties:

Main

F.A.Q.

About

Archives (alphabetical)
Archives (chronological)

Links - Updated 05.05.08

Books - Updated 05.05.08

Pandemic Poetry

Taglines

Site founded May 7th, 2003, by Project Catalyst.
All written material is the copyrighted property of its respective authors.
All other elements can be blamed on the Cerebral Catalyst Editorial Board.