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.