I realized fully just now that the logic of a dream is impossible for me to recapture once normal thinking is restored, or perhaps there is no logic, and I just take things at face value. I wonder whether that's an obvious observation, or is true for most people. Dreaming is one of the common human experiences I know least about, as I haven't been able to remember a large number of them since I was little. I want to try to recall more of the nightmare I had this afternoon by describing it here, even if it doesn't make much sense.
I was young. I'm not sure how old I was but I was more vulnerable than I can remember being. I was on some kind of grade school field trip. I'm not sure where it was to, but it was one of those trips that were always filled with mixed emotions for me, as most of those trips required students to bring a lunch, which was more of a strain on my mother than the usual school lunch price of somewhere between free and $0.20, and the teachers encouraged us to bring a small amount of money for a souvenir or something of that nature, which I could rarely bring, or bring enough of. (Have you ever walked into a museum gift shop with three dollars? How useful is a keychain to an eight-year-old?)
Anyway, somehow, I got separated from the group, and they all left without me. Sometime along the tour of, it think now, it was a supermarket, I met a really nice car (a white Volkswagen Beetle, I think) who offered to take me back to the school. I accepted, but the thing broke down right there in the parking lot. Just then, someone who'd been sent by my school arrived. He was a cross between my PA freshman year and Groundskeeper Willie from The Simpsons. He was really kind, and since, for some reason, he happened to be driving a tow truck, he took me and my motorized friend back to the school.
When we approached campus (because where we were going was somehow both Stephen Decatur Classical Elementary and Cornell College), the weather worsened. We were in the middle of a freak blizzard, but I was somehow aware of this knowledge and not worried, half-asleep and basking in the glow of being in extremely friendly company. We drove up a hill of the campus I know so well, but because of the weather, he was forced to turn off into a steep side parking lot.
By the time we got up there, I'd dozed off, and woke to find myself in the cab of the truck in the lot. Thinking that I'd been again abandoned, and annoyed that I'd have to walk a long distance back to the main building of campus, I went to the back of the truck to unhitch the Beetle. Apparently, I didn't know what I was doing, because the white Beetle rolled into a black one that was parked right behind us, destroying them both. Even worse, the tow cable came up and snagged the nice truck driver I hadn't noticed behind me by the neck, yanking him up to that crane-y part, whatever it's called, and snapping his neck, instantly killing him. He looked surprised, and happy to see I was awake.
I grew up instantly into who I am today, excepting something of the increased sensitivity which I'd had until that point in the dream. About this point, I think I realized I was dreaming, but felt incapable of escaping it. So, I ran to the train station which was conveniently located where the train bridge is in real life, and hopped a train to some place that reminds me of my favorite malls in Chicago. On the train ride, all I thought about was whether or not I'd get to see "her" again.
I don't remember the inside of the mall, but as I left, I was approached by a small group of people dressed in killer sunglasses and long black cloaks. They told me that I wasn't actually in any trouble and offered me a ride back to school. The mocking sneer on the face of the woman who headed the group convinced me that while I wouldn't come to any harm in their care, that I would not enjoy the ride back. After leaving them, I was hailed by another friend of mine (this one, I think, had the look of Chris from Cornell, but was a compilation, as everyone else in this dream was) and offered a ride to campus, but I refused, wanting to reflect on my guilt and remorse as I walked back; and not feeling that I deserved a ride.
I started the long journey, but was soon obstructed by a road block similar to one you'd experience in a video game if you were not supposed to go to that area yet.
On the side of the road there was a pickup truck owned by the woman who was engaged to the man who owned the tow truck. I was wary of her, afraid that she'd hate me for being responsible for the death of her fiancé. However, though she was saddened, we sat in her truck and reminisced about the tow truck driver. Afterwards, she encouraged me to call "her" and I tearfully poured out not only the events of the dream, but everything in me. I realized that I'd let a mistake control me for so long from when I was too naive to know any better. I woke up, sweating, as much from the sun shining in my eyes as anything else.
A professor that I respect once told me and a few others a story about this other professor who was relentlessly unforgiving about students' mistakes. He had once started the building plans for an aqueduct with the equation 6+4=24; a simple, but understandable, mistake. Several other people checked his work, and no one caught it. They built the aqueduct with this mistake underscoring all of their work, and when they turned the valve to start the flow of water, only a trickle came forth, and his career as an engineer was over. I understand that man's obsession with error-free work, but I have little desire to be like him. I don't want to let past mistakes dictate my future, and I have a tendency to be somewhat critical of others' mistakes and entirely unforgiving of my own, which I'm trying to outgrow. I'm glad that I'm old enough to have caught at least a few of the trends that dominate my behavior thus far, and young enough to use the positive ones to my advantage and try to reverse the negative.
Someone told me not too long ago that after I finish up at Cornell that I can always go wherever I want, and for far from the first time, I thought of that and it scared me. I wish I knew where I wanted to go. I'm somewhat glad I'm here for now, living with Dear Friend Hope and pseudo-living with the ever trusty Rusby, but this arrangement isn't meant to last. There are a number of groups of people I want to be near spread out pretty far from each other, and a few people that I want to be near badly who could be anywhere by then. It's too bad that I don't have money and look down on kidnapping, or many of my loved ones would wake up one day from a chloroform-induced nap in a ranch built specifically for them. If it were any way to survive, I'd live out of a van and travel around helping people, like an ascot-less one-man Scooby gang.
I've been told that my sense of humor can be inappropriate based on considerations for others. However, I'm never sure what that means. After all, the fundamental nature of humor is itself, inappropriateness, or that which isn't expectable. For example, I find slapstick funny not because someone is injured, but because of the frustration of ordinary aims or movement, or when more than one person is involved, the "wrongness" of their interaction. (To be entirely fair, I never found that much humor in slapstick, and this is the source of what little enjoyment I have been able to glean from it.) Most other jokes are the same. A joke can be about any subject and be funny, so long as it's recognized that the source of humor isn't the suffering or inferiority of others, but the clash of the everyday and the expected, or even the surprise and shock of not paying a subject the amount of respect that it normally warrants. Maybe I'm just trying to excuse myself, but I have a feeling I'm onto something.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Sunday, March 30, 2008
I would have called this "Rambling Sadness," but googling "rambling sadness" yields a depressing number of other blog entries.
I have always had in me this burning desire to answer questions, whether they be for my own edification (Wikipedia is a godsend in this department), or my own back-asswards way of getting others to know me. However, being as warped as I am, I am often unable to find those with the right questions or answers handy. For instance, if I have a distant look in my eyes, as I'm sure I do frequently, and you asked what I'd been thinking about (the wrong question), in a recent instance I'd have the unpleasant choice between lying and admitting that I'd been wondering whether Apatosaurus was physically capable of gnawing through its own throat. For the record, I hope none did, but it might be kind of nice to know whether they could. For this particular question, Wikipedia is of little use. So yes, being as mildly insane as a fruitcake has its drawbacks (the answer to the right question).
There'd likely nothing in my little corner of the world like the prospect of spending most of Spring Break alone with my roommate's cat to shatter an overactive ego. Would that my ego were active enough to be thus fractured. It's day three and I'm already starting to notice the effects of isolation. (Without the Internet, I'd totally crack.) I have a strange desire to kick my ass for not being hardier, as little sense as that makes. Hm, sounds like some motivation my father would have had. He worked hard to try to make his sons stronger, more manly. I think he may have missed his target a bit in my case.
I've been vacillating between deciding to actually take care of myself again and self-destruction. Every time I start to feel like I should be better to me (eat better, drink less, etc.), I get caught up in these hedonistic guilt trips, if such a thing makes sense. It often starts with ennui and a desire to feel something besides depression and nervous energy. I then remember how many years I might have before me, and deciding that I don't deserve that many and I should try to seek pleasurable, life-shortening distractions. (2 birds, 1 stone, right?) I've refrained thus far from suicide attempts, hard drugs, drunk driving, and anything else likely to drastically shorten my life span, but the fact that this has become a motivation I actually listen to disturbs me enough. I refuse to make any sweeping statements such as, "From now on I'll..." as I appear to be addicted to new beginnings, to resolutions that I can't stick to. My own ability to be hopeful has become my worst enemy, causing me to seek a secular sort of salvation in better habits, in friends and lovers, in potential careers and homes, in new distractions and the distraction of ridding myself of old ones. I'll catch myself thinking, "If only I had X," X being financial freedom, or friends to talk to, or mutual love, or a car, or good looks, or a way to make a measurably positive impact, or another chance at life, or more stuff, or less stuff, "then I'd be much happier." This pattern of thought makes me nauseous because I know deep down how false it is. As much as it pains me, I'm able to think of a reason that any of the things that I want (that are possible) aren't well suited for me.
My other major mental addiction is self-discovery. I'm capable of inventing all kinds of motivations for my own behavior and being just as convinced of those as I am of those things which really do drive me. That combined with my shitty memory really puts a damper on the efficacy of deep-sounding blog posts and other forms of seemingly therapeutic venting. I really do have little more insight into myself than I do into others; I just have a larger, though incredibly inconsistent set of data for myself. "Why?" is the worst question to ask me. As a lover of philosophy, and principally concerned with the whys and what nows, I feel impotent in that I have no answers for anyone. I just have to make do, with my tiny points of pride embedded in the vastly larger suspension of guilt and depression. It looks kind of like a fruitcake.
There'd likely nothing in my little corner of the world like the prospect of spending most of Spring Break alone with my roommate's cat to shatter an overactive ego. Would that my ego were active enough to be thus fractured. It's day three and I'm already starting to notice the effects of isolation. (Without the Internet, I'd totally crack.) I have a strange desire to kick my ass for not being hardier, as little sense as that makes. Hm, sounds like some motivation my father would have had. He worked hard to try to make his sons stronger, more manly. I think he may have missed his target a bit in my case.
I've been vacillating between deciding to actually take care of myself again and self-destruction. Every time I start to feel like I should be better to me (eat better, drink less, etc.), I get caught up in these hedonistic guilt trips, if such a thing makes sense. It often starts with ennui and a desire to feel something besides depression and nervous energy. I then remember how many years I might have before me, and deciding that I don't deserve that many and I should try to seek pleasurable, life-shortening distractions. (2 birds, 1 stone, right?) I've refrained thus far from suicide attempts, hard drugs, drunk driving, and anything else likely to drastically shorten my life span, but the fact that this has become a motivation I actually listen to disturbs me enough. I refuse to make any sweeping statements such as, "From now on I'll..." as I appear to be addicted to new beginnings, to resolutions that I can't stick to. My own ability to be hopeful has become my worst enemy, causing me to seek a secular sort of salvation in better habits, in friends and lovers, in potential careers and homes, in new distractions and the distraction of ridding myself of old ones. I'll catch myself thinking, "If only I had X," X being financial freedom, or friends to talk to, or mutual love, or a car, or good looks, or a way to make a measurably positive impact, or another chance at life, or more stuff, or less stuff, "then I'd be much happier." This pattern of thought makes me nauseous because I know deep down how false it is. As much as it pains me, I'm able to think of a reason that any of the things that I want (that are possible) aren't well suited for me.
My other major mental addiction is self-discovery. I'm capable of inventing all kinds of motivations for my own behavior and being just as convinced of those as I am of those things which really do drive me. That combined with my shitty memory really puts a damper on the efficacy of deep-sounding blog posts and other forms of seemingly therapeutic venting. I really do have little more insight into myself than I do into others; I just have a larger, though incredibly inconsistent set of data for myself. "Why?" is the worst question to ask me. As a lover of philosophy, and principally concerned with the whys and what nows, I feel impotent in that I have no answers for anyone. I just have to make do, with my tiny points of pride embedded in the vastly larger suspension of guilt and depression. It looks kind of like a fruitcake.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
A Million Little Things
Cigarette In The Rain
(not justification for smoking, just the pleasantness of it)
*Flick Flick*
*Breathe In*
Flame sputtering against the wind, against the drips
*Breathe Out*
*Breathe In*
Ephemeral Fingertips at lips like a kiss from someone who knows how I like it
Pseudo-Sexual Touch: absorbed and ignored by the Public
*Breathe Out*
*Breathe In*
Letting Fire and Air and Death co-mingle inside me
Feel Earth at my back, eyelids heavy with Water
Semi-Sacred Rite: unsafe, unspecified, unspoken
*Breathe Out*
*Breathe In*
busywork for hands
*Breathe Out**Breathe In*
self-love and self-loathing at once
*BreatheOut**BreatheIn*
three minutes to think
*breatheout**breathein*
tiny ashy smudge as my mark
*Breathe Out*
An Altercation with my Manager
What I wanted to say in Italics
What I actually said in Bold
Sebastian, have you ever heard the saying "Appearance is everything?"
Only from really shallow people, so I can't say I've ever paid much attention. Don't worry, I'm sure everyone knows you can't possibly be this saccharine in real life.
*Struggles not to laugh, succeeds* I... I think so.
Well, when we walk by here and see you sitting in the aisle, we don't know what to think.
Or, apparently, how.
I'm not saying you're not stocking product or cutting boxes, it just looks bad.
I haven't said anything about your haircut, but to be honest, it doesn't look all that great either. What's your point?
*Blank expression*
I don't know if you've noticed that no one else really does that.
Considering that we work aisles by ourselves, I haven't had the opportunity to observe many of my coworkers' stylistic approaches to putting the excesses of capitalism onto shelves, but if you'd like, I can study the masters more carefully. One thing that I have noticed is that the cleaning staff doesn't speak a lot of English or have to clock in. Gee, I hope those are all documented workers. (Not really, I don't actually care. But it'd be nice if you were paying them at least minimum wage.) I've also noticed that you don't let us outside for breaks, and that that's a labor violation in some states, but unfortunately not here. I notice all kinds of things.
I can barely reach the bottom shelf or two without sitting, let alone organize things down there. My main concern is getting the crap onto the shelves where it belongs quickly and without hurting myself or damaging it. I didn't realize that bending over for your enjoyment was part of my job description. If you'd like to come back and talk to me about job performance please do so. You can save job aesthetics for someone that works when there are customers or that gets paid enough to care what you think when you look at them.
*Unpleasant silence*
So if you could please not do that in the future, that would be great.
What would be "great" would be if you could stop trying to justify your existence with these pointless little tidbits of "advice." A trained monkey could do your job, and that's to say nothing about mine. And by the way, condescension is best reserved for pets and your drooling offspring. It makes for lousy management technique. As you seem to be aspiring to be a lousy manager, keep up the good work.
Thanks for the tip.
I hate my job. Fifth of five days in a row tonight. If that bitch says jackshit to me tonight, it'll take the better part of a miracle to keep from snapping at her.
Only from really shallow people, so I can't say I've ever paid much attention. Don't worry, I'm sure everyone knows you can't possibly be this saccharine in real life.
*Struggles not to laugh, succeeds* I... I think so.
Well, when we walk by here and see you sitting in the aisle, we don't know what to think.
Or, apparently, how.
I'm not saying you're not stocking product or cutting boxes, it just looks bad.
I haven't said anything about your haircut, but to be honest, it doesn't look all that great either. What's your point?
*Blank expression*
I don't know if you've noticed that no one else really does that.
Considering that we work aisles by ourselves, I haven't had the opportunity to observe many of my coworkers' stylistic approaches to putting the excesses of capitalism onto shelves, but if you'd like, I can study the masters more carefully. One thing that I have noticed is that the cleaning staff doesn't speak a lot of English or have to clock in. Gee, I hope those are all documented workers. (Not really, I don't actually care. But it'd be nice if you were paying them at least minimum wage.) I've also noticed that you don't let us outside for breaks, and that that's a labor violation in some states, but unfortunately not here. I notice all kinds of things.
I can barely reach the bottom shelf or two without sitting, let alone organize things down there. My main concern is getting the crap onto the shelves where it belongs quickly and without hurting myself or damaging it. I didn't realize that bending over for your enjoyment was part of my job description. If you'd like to come back and talk to me about job performance please do so. You can save job aesthetics for someone that works when there are customers or that gets paid enough to care what you think when you look at them.
*Unpleasant silence*
So if you could please not do that in the future, that would be great.
What would be "great" would be if you could stop trying to justify your existence with these pointless little tidbits of "advice." A trained monkey could do your job, and that's to say nothing about mine. And by the way, condescension is best reserved for pets and your drooling offspring. It makes for lousy management technique. As you seem to be aspiring to be a lousy manager, keep up the good work.
Thanks for the tip.
I hate my job. Fifth of five days in a row tonight. If that bitch says jackshit to me tonight, it'll take the better part of a miracle to keep from snapping at her.
On Death
As unique as we are, or at least as we purport to be, many of us spend a remarkable amount of time avoiding the reality of the one commonality we all share: impermanence. Of course, seeking death is foolish, as dying is the last thing we ever do. However, all of the fear and fighting, the attempts to explain or obfuscate, is pointless. Death should be celebrated, not just as a mystical transition, if you believe in that sort of thing, but as the end of an era, when you step down from being responsible for your effect on the world and become a piece of it.
The Care and Feeding of Cats
If you know about cats in an off-hand sort of way, you've heard that they're picky eaters. There is some truth to that statement, in that many cats, when introduced to tastier-than-usual foods, will snub familiar and previously acceptable cuisine seemingly in hopes of holding out for the preferred treat again. I am similar in a number of areas of my life, but the one I'm thinking of in particular is dating. In more formative years, I got extraordinarily lucky and I find myself unenamoured of anyone that strikes me as less than "spectacular", when I'm worth a "pretty damn good" at best. I'm entirely unwilling to "settle," both because I don't want to and it wouldn't be fair to try to force someone to live up to the yardstick of an old love. I forget sometimes that really good relationships, of all types, take a lot of time and effort to build all on their own. It's really hard for me to make an effort when I don't feel worthy enough to contact friends I already have. Even if I were to find a relatively good match, I'd be likely to wreck it, conciously or not. Unlike food, I can live without close companionship. I just find myself unsatisfied with my connections with people, but I have no idea where the change needs to be made. I took a test online recently that said I have a lower than average emotional intelligence. I don't know whether to buy it or not, but it would explain at least part of the reason why I get all choked up at sappy anime when the death of a loved one didn't cause me to shed a tear.
Well, that's all I've got time for. Stay tuned for me bitching more about my job, and the further unraveling of the collected thoughts of long hours of putting crap on shelves. If you're lucky, there'll be no more bad poetry.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Would you like a little philosophy with your whine?
I never could figure out why people hated the "lazy" attitude I've always had. Work is unpleasant, and why should life be any more unpleasant than it has to be? Now that I have some philosophical sophistication, I realize that I side with Nietzsche against the Western Judeo-Christian traditional concept of "work ethic," which from the beginning has been a way to keep those who work for the necessities of life planning their lives around work. The difference between myself and Nietzsche on this issue is that he believed the proletariat should serve the ruling class to allow them the time and freedom to create their great works of art and philosophy.
Having a "real job," with all the heavy lifting and bending and such that it entails has awakened me to the perverseness of the unskilled labor system. Despite the fact that they still need people to do my job, and that I'm performing and learning it well, and that I said I was available every night of the week, and that I wanted to work full time, I was only given three nights my first week. Having picked up a fourth, I was given two my second week and three my third. It's like they know that a full-time job would get me to a place where I could actually save enough money to get a good start somewhere else. Maybe I shouldn't have asked about insurance at the interview, and keeping my hours down is a way of keeping me from claiming it too soon, since I don't get it until I've worked 1000 hours. (And it doesn't come into effect if I'm not a full-timer anyway.) In any case, I'm screwed here if my work situation doesn't improve. I'll be damned if I'll confuse any sense of misplaced pride for a "work ethic" and screw myself out of taking a job where I'm personally valuable if I can find a way to get one. My best bet at the moment is Geek Squad or something along those lines.
The best thing about my job is that at least during the last half of the night, when I'm shelving crap in grocery aisles, I'm afforded much time to think. For the first time in I don't know how many years, I can answer the question, "What do you want most?" What I really want is to wake up and discover that the last 4 years or so have been more of a prophetic dream than my life. I'm happy for all the friends I've made, but I've done so many stupid things for so long; I'm ready for a do-over. But we don't get those, do we? There's no such thing as save points in real life. I'd like to go back to before I was a perpetual third wheel, to before I screwed things up with the only person who'd ever loved me back, to before I nearly abandoned the city where my oldest and most of my closest friends are, and I'd like to do it knowing what I know now. I feel like I personally understand why reincarnation is an attractive belief. Fresh starts have always been an attraction for me, from the days I was very young. It's related to my inability to start a book in a series not having read the ones before it, or my obsession with getting everything in games with collectibles. (Pokeman is the bane of my existence.) I tend to throw out reminders of my past that others might keep, like school yearbooks from elementary school or scrapbook-fodder with a few notable exceptions. I no longer have almost anything older than high school, other than a few toys, a button or two in my collection, and these shreds of memory that are depressing in both their incompleteness and their unimaginably pleasant nostalgia. It feels like most of my life right now is geared towards recapturing something of my past: either the joys of childhood or participating in mental self-flagellation for past mistakes or negative character traits. (My recent desires for leisure activities have included writing, rollerskating, SNES, bowling, miniature golf, anime, and more rarely, makeouts. Of them, I write, watch a bit of anime and play the occasional SNES rom.) I'm sick of my whining, so here's the long and short of it: I need an increase in social interaction and professional psychological help. I'll probably end up getting neither (since, let's face it, I'm lousy at seeking others out, especially when I need them, and I can't afford a shrink) by the time it'd make a difference.
Having a "real job," with all the heavy lifting and bending and such that it entails has awakened me to the perverseness of the unskilled labor system. Despite the fact that they still need people to do my job, and that I'm performing and learning it well, and that I said I was available every night of the week, and that I wanted to work full time, I was only given three nights my first week. Having picked up a fourth, I was given two my second week and three my third. It's like they know that a full-time job would get me to a place where I could actually save enough money to get a good start somewhere else. Maybe I shouldn't have asked about insurance at the interview, and keeping my hours down is a way of keeping me from claiming it too soon, since I don't get it until I've worked 1000 hours. (And it doesn't come into effect if I'm not a full-timer anyway.) In any case, I'm screwed here if my work situation doesn't improve. I'll be damned if I'll confuse any sense of misplaced pride for a "work ethic" and screw myself out of taking a job where I'm personally valuable if I can find a way to get one. My best bet at the moment is Geek Squad or something along those lines.
The best thing about my job is that at least during the last half of the night, when I'm shelving crap in grocery aisles, I'm afforded much time to think. For the first time in I don't know how many years, I can answer the question, "What do you want most?" What I really want is to wake up and discover that the last 4 years or so have been more of a prophetic dream than my life. I'm happy for all the friends I've made, but I've done so many stupid things for so long; I'm ready for a do-over. But we don't get those, do we? There's no such thing as save points in real life. I'd like to go back to before I was a perpetual third wheel, to before I screwed things up with the only person who'd ever loved me back, to before I nearly abandoned the city where my oldest and most of my closest friends are, and I'd like to do it knowing what I know now. I feel like I personally understand why reincarnation is an attractive belief. Fresh starts have always been an attraction for me, from the days I was very young. It's related to my inability to start a book in a series not having read the ones before it, or my obsession with getting everything in games with collectibles. (Pokeman is the bane of my existence.) I tend to throw out reminders of my past that others might keep, like school yearbooks from elementary school or scrapbook-fodder with a few notable exceptions. I no longer have almost anything older than high school, other than a few toys, a button or two in my collection, and these shreds of memory that are depressing in both their incompleteness and their unimaginably pleasant nostalgia. It feels like most of my life right now is geared towards recapturing something of my past: either the joys of childhood or participating in mental self-flagellation for past mistakes or negative character traits. (My recent desires for leisure activities have included writing, rollerskating, SNES, bowling, miniature golf, anime, and more rarely, makeouts. Of them, I write, watch a bit of anime and play the occasional SNES rom.) I'm sick of my whining, so here's the long and short of it: I need an increase in social interaction and professional psychological help. I'll probably end up getting neither (since, let's face it, I'm lousy at seeking others out, especially when I need them, and I can't afford a shrink) by the time it'd make a difference.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Twisted Transition
I'm probably going to break my rules about being calm and contemplative and not bitchy in this blog, but I am past the point of caring.
So, I'm all moved in to my happy little home in CR, and I have many of the little comforts (oh dear God, may I never have to live without internet again) that make it worth it, but the transition from college student to independent individual is going about as well as you would expect a fuck-up like me to manage it. No definite job, no real prospects, few marketable skills and nothing more than a high school diploma in certification, no driver's license, no reliable transportation. Yeah, I planned this well.
I taught myself to tie a tie today. I have never felt quite as hopeless as I do now. Even should I find work, it's not like I'll do much more than survive, and entertain myself a bit. Ugh. What happened to me? I had such promise. In any case, for me, it's the necessities first, and if I feel like I need to expand my life, I'll just have to find a way to do so.
When did life become so small, anyway? It seems like last week my focus was on the problems of the world; now I'm busy trying to figure out survival. I used to complain of feeling like I was a side character in someone else's story. Being somewhat Sartrean, that's kind of a bittersweet analysis, reminiscent of Simone de Beauvoir's long and unfair dismissal as Sartre's footnote. Now I feel as if I've passed into the stage where I'm just making cameos for my die-hard crazy fans. Being a secondary character is better than being written out of the story entirely.
So, I'm all moved in to my happy little home in CR, and I have many of the little comforts (oh dear God, may I never have to live without internet again) that make it worth it, but the transition from college student to independent individual is going about as well as you would expect a fuck-up like me to manage it. No definite job, no real prospects, few marketable skills and nothing more than a high school diploma in certification, no driver's license, no reliable transportation. Yeah, I planned this well.
I taught myself to tie a tie today. I have never felt quite as hopeless as I do now. Even should I find work, it's not like I'll do much more than survive, and entertain myself a bit. Ugh. What happened to me? I had such promise. In any case, for me, it's the necessities first, and if I feel like I need to expand my life, I'll just have to find a way to do so.
When did life become so small, anyway? It seems like last week my focus was on the problems of the world; now I'm busy trying to figure out survival. I used to complain of feeling like I was a side character in someone else's story. Being somewhat Sartrean, that's kind of a bittersweet analysis, reminiscent of Simone de Beauvoir's long and unfair dismissal as Sartre's footnote. Now I feel as if I've passed into the stage where I'm just making cameos for my die-hard crazy fans. Being a secondary character is better than being written out of the story entirely.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Americone Dreams
I never know what to say when people ask me, "How are you," or some variant thereof, but that's hardly ever stopped me from answering. In one sense, I use the societal conventions of brevity, for which I often cross the border into dishonesty, as a guidepost. For those who are obviously asking to be polite, or because "it's what you say," or are just waiting to give you some sort of gossip or news or pretty plainly don't have the time or the inclination for an in-depth answer, I stick with a non-committal "Fine," or, "Okay," or my trademark comment about my tiredness. (These responses are also freely and guiltlessly given out to those who are lacking in some other capacity, like compassion or ability to understand the my personal existential dilemmas, or anytime I just don't feel like introspection. In short, most people, most of the time get this kind of meaningless response.)
For those I'm more inclined to be honest with, I might tell them, "Been better, been worse," or, "I'm a bit drained," or the probably-not-as-clever-as-I'd-like-to-think-it-is, "The world's still spinning; I'm still on it," and let them seek clarification if they want it. The trouble remains that even if someone were clever and caring enough to notice that even at my most expressive, I almost never do much more than list facts and let others infer my feelings, and were to ask me how I am, making sure to find ways to bridge the great gaps over trivialities and my own defensive bullshit, I'd know of no response that could adequately describe my current condition relative to any other time.
Of course, attempting to do the impossible is in my nature, so a (hopelessly inadequate) description of my innermost emotions is forthcoming. However, for those (in?)sensitive to overly melodramatic portrayals in journals, ignoring the rest of this post is probably for the best. Given that I had to put in a warning flag for whatever poor, unfortunate souls read this, how could I ever actually say to another human being that I feel like I'm in a constant state of being torn apart and rebuilding myself like Prometheus' liver, only I'm not sure I don't always feel this way and have just had it laid bare by refusing to shield myself from recent pains? I'm practically ready to dismiss myself for whining.
Objectively, I know my life isn't terrible: I'm young, funny when I feel up to it, not incredibly unhealthy, and gifted with a brilliance that would be rare enough to be notable, if I chose to develop it as my defining feature, though I never thought it fair to compare one person's suffering to others'. Maybe I'm just so weak that I can't help but to seek definition in the constant inner critical destruction and unsupervised re-edification that I force my soul through. I refuse to censor myself in regards to my feelings; what comes out into this text box is as honest as I get. At least my lousy metaphor allows for me to be borne in the clutches of an eagle as the life drips out of me; Stephen Colbert would be proud. I wish I could like his ice cream flavor more, but I continue to find caramel unpleasant. Worst thing you can do to sugar.
In any case, I'm multiple kinds of tired and should attempt to relieve at least a few of them by getting some sleep. Maybe I'll feel less on the edge of creating bad Livejournal poetry in a few hours.
For those I'm more inclined to be honest with, I might tell them, "Been better, been worse," or, "I'm a bit drained," or the probably-not-as-clever-as-I'd-like-to-think-it-is, "The world's still spinning; I'm still on it," and let them seek clarification if they want it. The trouble remains that even if someone were clever and caring enough to notice that even at my most expressive, I almost never do much more than list facts and let others infer my feelings, and were to ask me how I am, making sure to find ways to bridge the great gaps over trivialities and my own defensive bullshit, I'd know of no response that could adequately describe my current condition relative to any other time.
Of course, attempting to do the impossible is in my nature, so a (hopelessly inadequate) description of my innermost emotions is forthcoming. However, for those (in?)sensitive to overly melodramatic portrayals in journals, ignoring the rest of this post is probably for the best. Given that I had to put in a warning flag for whatever poor, unfortunate souls read this, how could I ever actually say to another human being that I feel like I'm in a constant state of being torn apart and rebuilding myself like Prometheus' liver, only I'm not sure I don't always feel this way and have just had it laid bare by refusing to shield myself from recent pains? I'm practically ready to dismiss myself for whining.
Objectively, I know my life isn't terrible: I'm young, funny when I feel up to it, not incredibly unhealthy, and gifted with a brilliance that would be rare enough to be notable, if I chose to develop it as my defining feature, though I never thought it fair to compare one person's suffering to others'. Maybe I'm just so weak that I can't help but to seek definition in the constant inner critical destruction and unsupervised re-edification that I force my soul through. I refuse to censor myself in regards to my feelings; what comes out into this text box is as honest as I get. At least my lousy metaphor allows for me to be borne in the clutches of an eagle as the life drips out of me; Stephen Colbert would be proud. I wish I could like his ice cream flavor more, but I continue to find caramel unpleasant. Worst thing you can do to sugar.
In any case, I'm multiple kinds of tired and should attempt to relieve at least a few of them by getting some sleep. Maybe I'll feel less on the edge of creating bad Livejournal poetry in a few hours.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
It burns us, preciousssss...
Ow. Ow ow ow. I'd almost forgotten this pain; it takes a lot out of me not to try to deny it, just to confirm that this is my pain and that it means something to me. I'm really good at running away from uncomfortable things; facing them down is not in my natural skill set. I can shift blame like I get paid for it, but I'm really bad at dealing with injuries for which there's no one to blame, no incompetence or cruelty. Heaven knows I've been more than a bit of a fuck up in my time, and I still feel like to some degree, I'm doing my penance. I may feel that way for the rest of my life, but I also have this urge that I've thus far resisted to fight back somehow, to argue my case, but I know that it'd be a massive breach of my character and an overstepping of my bounds to do so. In a distant sense, it's kind of funny how a year ago I was in almost the opposite position after Spring Break, knowing that I had to be the rain on someone else's parade. Knowing how hard that was for me, how could it be right for me to do anything but accept my fate with a smile?
I'm doing the best I can to slow the burning of my bridges; but there's this deep, vague, apprehensive feeling that I'm destined to end up an island. I have a desire to know how I'd handle it now, feeling stronger as I do, but I never want to turn my back on the world again. For a few days at least, I'd like the world to be a welcoming place for me; I think I want to feel like a human part of things, if just for a little while.
I'm doing the best I can to slow the burning of my bridges; but there's this deep, vague, apprehensive feeling that I'm destined to end up an island. I have a desire to know how I'd handle it now, feeling stronger as I do, but I never want to turn my back on the world again. For a few days at least, I'd like the world to be a welcoming place for me; I think I want to feel like a human part of things, if just for a little while.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
This Is A Call
He tells everyone a story,
because he feels his life is boring,
and he fights so you won't ignore him,
because that's his biggest fear;
and he cries, but you'll rarely see him do it.
He loves, but he's scared to use it.
So he hides behind the music,
'cause he likes it that way.
He knows he's so much more than worthless,
he needs to find the surface,
because he's starting to get nervous.
--From "This Is A Call" by Thousand Foot Krutch
I love this band. Best Christian rock band in the cosmos. I heard them twice on the radio today, and it's hard for a Christian rock band to get airtime, mostly 'cause most of them suck ass. But these guys are great. This song in particular meant something to me. Touched a chord, hit a little close to home, or some other little cliché designed to cover exactly what I mean. Really, though, I'm far too much of a collection of cliché and random memes, albeit in eccentric combination. That's part of the reason I've made a tad of an effort recently to at the very least appear to enlighten myself, to use language that much more exhaustively.
My mind, when it has the increasingly rare opportunity to wander without my usual careful boundaries, goes places I wish it wouldn't. It summons uncalled-for and potentially untrue images of my first love, of the girl she was, of the woman she could have become, and may have, for all I know. It conjures up all kinds of painful alternative pasts and presents, in which I wasn't a coward, or lazy, or poor, or so emotionally crippled, or afflicted with this damned apnea.
I saw the Pacific ocean today. I have now had my hands and feet in each of the oceans bordering this country which I've only on this trip come to know is truly as beautiful as it is sick. For some reason as of yet unknown to me, my first instinct when I reached the water, which I'm glad to admit I obeyed, was to put my hand in the water and raise it to my waiting tongue. Which is to say I've also tasted both of our oceans. My hand fell away, and I can't imagine why, but I was almost surprised at its saltiness. I think I expected it to somehow taste different from the water I tasted in North Carolina that summer.
We're taking a longer, and therefore potentially more dangerous way back to Cornell considering the condition of our adventuring vehicle. I have been a major supporter of this new route, as it takes us through more parts of America that I've yet to explore. I'm beginning to question the wisdom of our detour, not for the potential of breaking down and being stranded in the desert, but for the very personal reason that it'll give me more time to think before my consciousness is reabsorbed by the bustle of daily life on the Hilltop. The more time I spend among these guys, the more I'm lost to the morays of my memory and the other pitfalls of unrestrained imagination.
because he feels his life is boring,
and he fights so you won't ignore him,
because that's his biggest fear;
and he cries, but you'll rarely see him do it.
He loves, but he's scared to use it.
So he hides behind the music,
'cause he likes it that way.
He knows he's so much more than worthless,
he needs to find the surface,
because he's starting to get nervous.
--From "This Is A Call" by Thousand Foot Krutch
I love this band. Best Christian rock band in the cosmos. I heard them twice on the radio today, and it's hard for a Christian rock band to get airtime, mostly 'cause most of them suck ass. But these guys are great. This song in particular meant something to me. Touched a chord, hit a little close to home, or some other little cliché designed to cover exactly what I mean. Really, though, I'm far too much of a collection of cliché and random memes, albeit in eccentric combination. That's part of the reason I've made a tad of an effort recently to at the very least appear to enlighten myself, to use language that much more exhaustively.
My mind, when it has the increasingly rare opportunity to wander without my usual careful boundaries, goes places I wish it wouldn't. It summons uncalled-for and potentially untrue images of my first love, of the girl she was, of the woman she could have become, and may have, for all I know. It conjures up all kinds of painful alternative pasts and presents, in which I wasn't a coward, or lazy, or poor, or so emotionally crippled, or afflicted with this damned apnea.
I saw the Pacific ocean today. I have now had my hands and feet in each of the oceans bordering this country which I've only on this trip come to know is truly as beautiful as it is sick. For some reason as of yet unknown to me, my first instinct when I reached the water, which I'm glad to admit I obeyed, was to put my hand in the water and raise it to my waiting tongue. Which is to say I've also tasted both of our oceans. My hand fell away, and I can't imagine why, but I was almost surprised at its saltiness. I think I expected it to somehow taste different from the water I tasted in North Carolina that summer.
We're taking a longer, and therefore potentially more dangerous way back to Cornell considering the condition of our adventuring vehicle. I have been a major supporter of this new route, as it takes us through more parts of America that I've yet to explore. I'm beginning to question the wisdom of our detour, not for the potential of breaking down and being stranded in the desert, but for the very personal reason that it'll give me more time to think before my consciousness is reabsorbed by the bustle of daily life on the Hilltop. The more time I spend among these guys, the more I'm lost to the morays of my memory and the other pitfalls of unrestrained imagination.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Shock and Awe
A: What's up there?
F: Shock and Awe.
Me: At least, that's what I'm calling it.
B: That's actually a pretty good name for it. You were talking about your penis, right?
Me: Yeah!
B: Cool!
Wow. We quite probably need to grow up, but great times among nature are to be found out in the middle of nowhere, WA. I have so much to share when I get back. It's not as if the city kid in me isn't groaning under the strain of being even further out of touch with the heart of human civilization, but more like his temporary irritation is worth the joy of experiencing the outdoors and slower-paced life and good food in a way I rarely get to.
I read a novel today. Sure, it wasn't a big one, but in way less than six hours, I read a book from cover to cover (and started another) without feeling the least bit rushed. In the past few days, I've made a trip halfway across the country in a day and a half; climbed down, and back up, a mountain; harvested and eaten raw oyster and oyster stew, nearly died about a half-dozen times, and realized what I love about this awful modern age. I should probably get back to the boys. This has been great for me.
F: Shock and Awe.
Me: At least, that's what I'm calling it.
B: That's actually a pretty good name for it. You were talking about your penis, right?
Me: Yeah!
B: Cool!
Wow. We quite probably need to grow up, but great times among nature are to be found out in the middle of nowhere, WA. I have so much to share when I get back. It's not as if the city kid in me isn't groaning under the strain of being even further out of touch with the heart of human civilization, but more like his temporary irritation is worth the joy of experiencing the outdoors and slower-paced life and good food in a way I rarely get to.
I read a novel today. Sure, it wasn't a big one, but in way less than six hours, I read a book from cover to cover (and started another) without feeling the least bit rushed. In the past few days, I've made a trip halfway across the country in a day and a half; climbed down, and back up, a mountain; harvested and eaten raw oyster and oyster stew, nearly died about a half-dozen times, and realized what I love about this awful modern age. I should probably get back to the boys. This has been great for me.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Power Overwhelming
What is it about life that's so satisfying right now? Sure, the same old problems are about, but they seem more manageable. I'm still pancreas-deep in debt, racked by my unfulfilled desires, and no less at odds with the way the world works, but I feel like my life is more mine than it's been in ages. I've been a bit more honest lately and I lost a little weight, what of it? Without something a tad more substantial to measure my success, I suspect this sudden self-satisfaction may be just an upswing on my cycle of moods, but I'll be damned if it isn't a great one. Even if I only feel good for now, the boost in personal, internal productivity is way up. I'm braver, I no longer feel like I have to stumble over myself making up for my failings, and I'm mastering my body, one step at a time.
Strength seems to be a characteristic that was always important for me, and to which I never paid enough attention. My father taught me to always be strong, and his weakness of both body and character shocked and disturbed me. My own strength surprises me whenever I can be bothered to consider it. I no longer entertain thoughts of suicide even at my saddest, and I've all but come right out and stated my romantic intentions. And yet, I have to wonder at my real strength. I seem to have survived a great deal and come out relatively undamaged. But is this strength, or the cowardly act of never putting my heart out there where it can be harmed? Being an apparent romantic, my tendency is to believe, or want to believe, I've risked much, lost much, and won more overall. But how strong can my heart be if I've practically never known the feeling of being overcome by my emotions? Am I too strong to be overtaken be even myself, or do I have a shallow soul, incapable of the kinds of feelings that overwhelm a person?
You make my life so very difficult, dammit. You make me feel more out-of-control than anything else. If it isn't out-and-out meanness, it's a minor, insistent torment staged in such a way that even I'm not sure whether it's intentional, or just the natural consequences of our discourse. If it be intentional, I must praise your skill at manipulating me, and if not, remain dumbstruck at your ability to surprise me. Which do you play at, devil, or angel; serpent or saint? Either way, every minute's a challenge. I'll get you yet, just you wait and see.
Strength seems to be a characteristic that was always important for me, and to which I never paid enough attention. My father taught me to always be strong, and his weakness of both body and character shocked and disturbed me. My own strength surprises me whenever I can be bothered to consider it. I no longer entertain thoughts of suicide even at my saddest, and I've all but come right out and stated my romantic intentions. And yet, I have to wonder at my real strength. I seem to have survived a great deal and come out relatively undamaged. But is this strength, or the cowardly act of never putting my heart out there where it can be harmed? Being an apparent romantic, my tendency is to believe, or want to believe, I've risked much, lost much, and won more overall. But how strong can my heart be if I've practically never known the feeling of being overcome by my emotions? Am I too strong to be overtaken be even myself, or do I have a shallow soul, incapable of the kinds of feelings that overwhelm a person?
You make my life so very difficult, dammit. You make me feel more out-of-control than anything else. If it isn't out-and-out meanness, it's a minor, insistent torment staged in such a way that even I'm not sure whether it's intentional, or just the natural consequences of our discourse. If it be intentional, I must praise your skill at manipulating me, and if not, remain dumbstruck at your ability to surprise me. Which do you play at, devil, or angel; serpent or saint? Either way, every minute's a challenge. I'll get you yet, just you wait and see.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Playing Jeopardy
So, this whole "Black Friday" thing... I think I made it out intact, and without buying a bloody thing, and not just because I was flat fucking broke. For me, and for certain like-minded others, it was International "Buy Nothing Day," the best freaking holiday ever on the biggest shopping day here in these United States. I find that I've been in an activist/world-improving mood lately, and a decrease in consumer madness is a cause I can get behind. After all, we have the world we make, don't we?
I've given some thought lately to the way I interact with the world, in a number of ways. I do, after all, have a lot of time to think, since I'm hardly ever spending that time communicating my inner workings effectively. (Why am I simultaneously so strongly desiring to help the world and pick on myself?) Why do I no longer spend the time and effort using the online mediums which I'm more traditionally known for? I no longer post in my other online community sites or newsgroups (and haven't for some time), e-mail many of my friends, sign on to instant messengers frequently, or any of that. Am I so very disconnected from my past? Maybe I'm just sick of the act. Is it so obvious that I spend so much time playing the fool and hiding those parts of me that mean anything that no one's willing to spend the time to find them? Or is it that I play all too well, and it's gotten hard for me to express truth anywhere where I think somebody I know might stumble across it. Whatever the pathetic little story, I want to keep the loved ones that I have, but I want them to see me as something that I have no idea how to show them. And if I were to find a new group, I'd probably just fuck it up again. After all, how do you get people interested in you without putting on a show? And if you do draw them in, how do you keep from becoming the show in their eyes and in your own? Hell, what defines a person besides the fact that they are conscious? Don't we, as consciousnesses, have right to create definitions as we understand them? Can the parts of me that are hidden from others even be said to exist if no one else can see them, and I refuse to define them? Can something that doesn't exist, in the strictest sense of the word, hurt?
Ugh, too much thought for this early in the morning. Why can't I just be happy with the friends my shell's made? I used to take pride in my ability to seem interesting, why only now has it become important to me to be loved for something I actually am? And who cares what I want? Haven't I given up any right to demand anything out of my relationships by hurting others and being openly , or more often, just loosely dishonest? Hell, isn't my (relatively) careful anonymity a form of dishonesty? (Not that I'm arrogant enough to believe that anyone actually reads this whine-hole, but if anyone were to read it, would I be lying to them?) Who the hell wants honesty, anyway? The truth hurts more than the games we play, and I always lose at the game where we stop playing games. I can't lose and can't get hurt if you can't pin me firmly to anything, so what is it in me that wants the risk now? And who'd even want to be there to be the reward for that risk? Who could love something that has trouble pinning itself down long enough to be looked at, that's barely strong enough to stand up to the light of scrutiny, that's too shadowy at the the borders to be sure it's really there and not just a trick of the light?
I've been worried over recently, but with every questioning soul that expresses concern, I've known how to turn them aside, to at least tide them over until they get distracted by something more pressing or less indefinite. I want with everything in me to be strong enough to decide to be something because that's what I want to be, and not because I think it fits in with a persona I've generated or because it's what I think someone else wants of me, but because I'm happy with it. I'm better about that than ever, and it's an uphill battle, but I could win it, I swear. But more than that, I'd like to have something that others love about me that isn't mere physicality, or something I'd intended to show them, although being well aware that my charm isn't in my looks, having some part of them complimented is a rare treat. Ugh. Now I'm just being a bitch. The world is what it is, and it's hard to remember that there's nothing I can control about it but me, and to try to increase others' control over themselves rather than influence them to act in the way that I prefer.
*sigh* I think I've emoted enough for one morning. I should sleep. After all, I'm a being with responsibilities, right? Can't disappoint.
I've given some thought lately to the way I interact with the world, in a number of ways. I do, after all, have a lot of time to think, since I'm hardly ever spending that time communicating my inner workings effectively. (Why am I simultaneously so strongly desiring to help the world and pick on myself?) Why do I no longer spend the time and effort using the online mediums which I'm more traditionally known for? I no longer post in my other online community sites or newsgroups (and haven't for some time), e-mail many of my friends, sign on to instant messengers frequently, or any of that. Am I so very disconnected from my past? Maybe I'm just sick of the act. Is it so obvious that I spend so much time playing the fool and hiding those parts of me that mean anything that no one's willing to spend the time to find them? Or is it that I play all too well, and it's gotten hard for me to express truth anywhere where I think somebody I know might stumble across it. Whatever the pathetic little story, I want to keep the loved ones that I have, but I want them to see me as something that I have no idea how to show them. And if I were to find a new group, I'd probably just fuck it up again. After all, how do you get people interested in you without putting on a show? And if you do draw them in, how do you keep from becoming the show in their eyes and in your own? Hell, what defines a person besides the fact that they are conscious? Don't we, as consciousnesses, have right to create definitions as we understand them? Can the parts of me that are hidden from others even be said to exist if no one else can see them, and I refuse to define them? Can something that doesn't exist, in the strictest sense of the word, hurt?
Ugh, too much thought for this early in the morning. Why can't I just be happy with the friends my shell's made? I used to take pride in my ability to seem interesting, why only now has it become important to me to be loved for something I actually am? And who cares what I want? Haven't I given up any right to demand anything out of my relationships by hurting others and being openly , or more often, just loosely dishonest? Hell, isn't my (relatively) careful anonymity a form of dishonesty? (Not that I'm arrogant enough to believe that anyone actually reads this whine-hole, but if anyone were to read it, would I be lying to them?) Who the hell wants honesty, anyway? The truth hurts more than the games we play, and I always lose at the game where we stop playing games. I can't lose and can't get hurt if you can't pin me firmly to anything, so what is it in me that wants the risk now? And who'd even want to be there to be the reward for that risk? Who could love something that has trouble pinning itself down long enough to be looked at, that's barely strong enough to stand up to the light of scrutiny, that's too shadowy at the the borders to be sure it's really there and not just a trick of the light?
I've been worried over recently, but with every questioning soul that expresses concern, I've known how to turn them aside, to at least tide them over until they get distracted by something more pressing or less indefinite. I want with everything in me to be strong enough to decide to be something because that's what I want to be, and not because I think it fits in with a persona I've generated or because it's what I think someone else wants of me, but because I'm happy with it. I'm better about that than ever, and it's an uphill battle, but I could win it, I swear. But more than that, I'd like to have something that others love about me that isn't mere physicality, or something I'd intended to show them, although being well aware that my charm isn't in my looks, having some part of them complimented is a rare treat. Ugh. Now I'm just being a bitch. The world is what it is, and it's hard to remember that there's nothing I can control about it but me, and to try to increase others' control over themselves rather than influence them to act in the way that I prefer.
*sigh* I think I've emoted enough for one morning. I should sleep. After all, I'm a being with responsibilities, right? Can't disappoint.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
To live by..
I find in myself a need to get back to some kind of base, to re-define why it is I do all the crap I do, and just as I was beginning to worry that there was to be no method to my madness, I found a document on my computer with a list of life rules I pulled from some forum or something. I've long lost the name of whoever I got these from, and I definitely modified them a bit to fit within my worldview, but more interestingly, is a rules-based life what I want? I mean, I've always had ethical principals, and I modify them as I find necessary, but to what extent can even broad self-imposed mandates be right or wrong, even for me? And what does right or wrong even mean? There's definitely "right-" and "wrong-feeling," and there's the religious ethical code, and the sense of justice that laws are meant to defend. I suppose the best use for an ambiguous, lazy creature such as myself would be "right" as a square peg fits a square hole. So how do I know when I've found the most fitting way to be? Certain things that have felt like they might have fit in my life at one point have since proved to be quite incompatible with my often-contradictory nature. If I'm wrong about the fit of a guiding principal, what kind of chaos could I cause? At least I know that I'm not alone in my belief that the world does not have a guaranteed reward for anything. No matter what I do, I might never have any of the big things I want. But on the positive side, being "moral" is something I do for its own sake, since I can expect nothing from it. The smug satisfaction that I get from knowing that despite what I and most of close friends say, I'm a "good" person. Hear that, buddies? Not that anyone knows about this place. Maybe I'll eventually be comfortable enough with being/sharing myself to tell someone about it. That'll be the day. *shakes fist* You'll never get the chance to take me seriously! In the meantime, for the random people I don't know who might read them, here are those rules that have attracted my attention for the time being.
1. Happiness is at least as much a state of mind as it is a condition.
2. You are responsible for you. You are responsible for all of your action and hence for all of the foreseeable consequences of those actions. People make their own fate. Yes, there are victims, but most often, your own misfortunes are your own doing.
3. If you don't like they way things are going, the conditions of your life or something about yourself then change it. Don't whine about it and expect it to change itself.
4. Everyone has opinions. That doesn't mean everyone is right. However, don't give up on yours just because someone tells you that you are wrong.
5. If someone doesn't like who you are or something you do then fuck them. You don't have to answer to anyone and if push comes to shove, you don't need someone like that around. Always be true to yourself.
6. Know the people who love you and stand beside them. One day you are going to need them to stand by you.
7. If you are afraid to try, know this: if you give up you will almost certainly fail, and definitely have failed yourself. However, if you try you might win. Possible success' is a lot better odds than 'almost certain failure'.
8. Let the little things slide, because, seriously, who needs that kind of aggravation?
9. If you live only for the weekends, you're wasting an awful lot of time.
10. You are always worth it.Tuesday, October 24, 2006
A *moment* of weakness averted...
There are not words to describe my mood lately. My heart oscillates between fullness: with memories, with friends, with the legacy I desire to create, with her; and fearful emptiness as I tremor at the possible paths my life could take at this juncture. What would have happened had I been healthy; who will I be when I become so? Isn't it likely that I'll be lonely forever, since I'm unwilling to settle for less than amazing? Are my principles worth eternal/nearly impenetrable solitude? Who could possibly even care that I have more inside me than the goofball almost all of them see? The facts of life are far less terrifying than the questions unanswerable by simple facts.
Aw, listen to me being all emo. (So cute!)Far be it from me to censor myself in my own expression space, but all this worry doesn't suit my devil-may-care attitude. She'd laugh at me if she saw me like this. Hell, I'm almost laughing myself. I know what I need: hot noodle soup and a hug, not all this addictive self-pitying shit. Maybe a coffee. The world will be better when it's back on track, playing itself into the palm of my hands. Because megalomania is always healthier than depression. *smile*
Aw, listen to me being all emo. (So cute!)Far be it from me to censor myself in my own expression space, but all this worry doesn't suit my devil-may-care attitude. She'd laugh at me if she saw me like this. Hell, I'm almost laughing myself. I know what I need: hot noodle soup and a hug, not all this addictive self-pitying shit. Maybe a coffee. The world will be better when it's back on track, playing itself into the palm of my hands. Because megalomania is always healthier than depression. *smile*
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Harrumph
So, I have a Blog, now, eh? I suppose this is as good a time as any to start expressing myself again. I usually seem to wait for landmarks, things like new years and birthdays and other arbitrarily human milestones. Perhaps I'm addicted to new beginnings just a tad too much, to starting something without obvious ties to the past. But no matter how many times I re-invent myself and my relationship with the world, there's no keeping my history out of my memories or behavior patterns, or erasing others' perceptions of me to date. I guess I just want a video game reset button for my life, to be able to do it all again and be taken seriously this time around. Is that too much to ask for in a metaphysics? Also, Universe, while you're up, I'd like a set of good looks, world peace, and a pony, just to make all the eight year old girls who ask Santa for things jealous. Come on, don't tell me that Santa thing doesn't bug you, too.
So here I am again, with another all-too-cleverly named, self-congratulatory public bitching forum, probably on some level deluding myself into believing that this time will be different, that now, this page with its big orange-and-white B is somehow going to save me years and thousands of dollars in therapy over the big white goat over at Livejournal. How would that be for an ad campaign? "Come over to Blogspot, where our emo rants are a guaranteed 29% more therapeutic than our leading competitor." Ugh, the "real world" awaits.
So here I am again, with another all-too-cleverly named, self-congratulatory public bitching forum, probably on some level deluding myself into believing that this time will be different, that now, this page with its big orange-and-white B is somehow going to save me years and thousands of dollars in therapy over the big white goat over at Livejournal. How would that be for an ad campaign? "Come over to Blogspot, where our emo rants are a guaranteed 29% more therapeutic than our leading competitor." Ugh, the "real world" awaits.
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