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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.