What oughta be famous won't be

There are so many patterns that I see that I do not feel like I can ever say. What you think of as pricelessly unique has a near clone in three other states (in the US or of matter, take your pick).

I don't even know why this makes me angry tonight. It does though.

There are so many people chasing down a life: a good life, or an interesting one, or even just one that they think has a reasonable chance of some paltry amount of self-expression or stretching past the age of 60.

For every room full of beautiful people (or smart ones) there are a lot more flaming wrecks or quiet desperations than landings that stick.

I don't see much logic in it. It isn't that the most talent wins or that the character sheet with the most dots on it gets to be happy.

I hope there isn't a reason you haven't called.

Some sketches.

Taste, competence, and a brain that hits like brass knuckles, wrapped up with a glorious face and lovely figure. Struggling and hitting her potential against a brick wall with not enough talking and too much listening. I see how much more she does with less than certain household names (in our small circles). I see the same lips and cheeks and challenge, but only one of them has an eccentric empire. The only thing that I can see that my friend lacks, in this particular instance, is vanity (which has significantly derailed the lives of boatloads of other acquaintances). How is that the key?

Another soul. He rebuilding himself because he doesn't actually want to die of bad choices at the guttering end of youth. Still, he knows his business from ant to ant farm to the factory that builds ant farms and the strange little man who thought it all up. I know a newcomer to the same world who fell into it sideways (smelling like a bad diner and tragedy) whose reputation has a certain hot air balloon quality. This house of cards has money (or maybe it is debt) and trust and chances that the skillful not-quite-anti-hero will never have. He has dried beans.

I don't know. The woman I know with the best luck in terms of resources: social skills, code switching, raw IQ, amazing will power, and make-a-sucker-walk-off-a-sheer-cliff good looks, is miserable. All. of. the. time. Stalled and treading water in a field that is probably collapsing with terrible taste in men. So many people have significantly terrible taste in men.

Eh. I probably shouldn't be writing any of these things. People might recognize themselves or be sad that they don't. I know plenty of floundering individuals that keep their cross-hairs aimed at their own two left feet. Yeah. I think it.

Anyhow. Uncertainty has shaken me up this week, but so has inertia. I have opinions about it all, but mostly I won't tell.