Hello no one.
Instead of writing some sort of introduction to myself I’ll just get right on with it and scribble down my thoughts of the day.
They appeared in my head when I read another person’s blog post (http://incrediblevanishingpaperweight.wordpress.com/2011/05/06/stephen-king-can-you-e-mail-me-your-autograph/) and go like this:
Last summer, I went to London. While in London, I met one of my favourite authors twice during one day. The first time I asked for a hug, and managed to start a little hugfest. A week later he complained in his vlog about strangers wanting to hug him.
The second time he couldn’t pronounce my name and I made him sign a book to “the nerdherd” (even Firefox’s spell checker knows it’s spelled “nerd herd”).
If I were expecting to blow this guy’s mind with how awesome and cool I am,
I guess I would have to consider the whole thing a major failure.
And maybe I had hoped to be extra cool, extra awesome and extra extra all-that.
I was, after all, being a fan.
But in retrospect I wasn’t acting weirder than any other sweaty nerd fan he
met that day. I wasn’t cooler either. I was human and I was a stranger.
And somewhere between the hugging, talking and ducking under his arm at a gig later that night because he was in the way (I suppose that makes it three times that I met him), this person, whom I had thought of as some sort of icon or even something like a literary character, became real.
He was there, and he was a piece of meat with a mind and maybe a even a soul.
This is what really made the experience worthwhile, apart from meeting other sweaty, very real, nerds. Here was this hero, a person I thought I knew, but still obsessed about having touched – once! – and he was really as existing and ordinary as he had claimed to be. Hey, at the gig he was even sweating too!
All the time, I’d be sucking up his words about the dangers of imagining people as less or more than human like he was some sort of prophet, but hadn’t quite managed to live by the rule he set. And now, as he stopped being a prophet,
his words became true.
But my words are just a little bit truer. Because I can pronounce my own name and I don’t mind being hugged by myself either.
This is one of the morals of this very short story. The second one is a little bit more pink and icky:
There’s really nothing better than pure, awkward, unsophisticated reality. Life beats art, every frigging time.