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Date Posted: 11:25:20 10/21/05 Fri
Author: fresne
Subject: Blank verse and messages in bottles
In reply to: Mac G5 's message, "To OnM" on 13:50:33 10/15/05 Sat

An understandable impulse.

I remember how hurt I was when a friend of mine told me that they didn't like the Nightmare Before Christmas.

Since I saw Nightmare, mumble, mumble, times in the theatre, and my Jack Skellington bobblehead is the pride and joy of my car, um...I had this desire for everyone I knew to like that movie. I suppose because in many ways it represented a me that I hadn't felt like I'd been able to expose before. Putting Christmas jolly on my Halloween stripes because I hadn't quite compassed my way through the gray wood.

I've been thinking about that lately particularly in the context of Firefly, a show that I just want to skip around and tell everyone, "you just have to love what I love." With an equal ferocity and devotion. Is it rose-colored lenses to enjoy anything to the point where there's almost a physical compulsion to defend this or that aspect of your adoration. Fans in the attic. Some Dorian Grey Impulse. Or is it everyone being important and earnest?

And as I think about it, it's certainly not unique to fandom.

I just got back from a business trip where one co-worker insisted that I should enjoy baseball, because it's poetic (ah the joys of 10 hours spent traveling). Another insisting that the Rolling Stones are the best rock band of all time, which is why they should be my favorites. That...well, actually let's skip the uncomfortable deer in the headlights, when will this plane flight end, political discussion.

While this board certainly doesn't give into the impulse to the degree that some boards do, there have been times in the more post heavy past where threads have gone right off the side as merits and general validity are ponged and pinged back and forth.

I suppose it's a desire for a certain validation. If that friend would have only loved Nightmare Before Christmas as I do, then I'd know that she really sees me. If only I enjoyed baseball, then I'd see that fragile poetry in the heart of another.

Which I'm not sure if that brings me back to Buffy's invisible girl or River buffeted by the debris of thoughts coming downstream. Perhaps both. Neither.

I' just meandering on a Friday morning, as posts slowly tumble down the page. Like rocks before glaciers. Polished and far from their original homes.

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