About two years ago, I cut ties with a few friends I had gone to school with. We'd been good friends for a number of years, or so we claimed. But, toward the end, I realized I couldn't really talk candidly with them, one of whom was supposed to be my best friend. I also had serious issues with who they were as people, what the represented; but somehow, I couldn't find the strength to confront them or take the necessary steps to get out.
It took me moving away, putting physical distance between us. On one hand, I thought that I shouldn't just trash these friendships that had - at one time - been quite important to me. We had shared so many good times...but our friendship lived on, at least in my mind, because of habit. And, if I felt that way, why stay? I had lost respect for them, and at that point, can anything of substance remain? I came to the conclusion that, no, it couldn't. So, I slowly drifted off, dropped below the radar. I didn't want things to get messy.
At some point, many months later, one of the girls emailed me to tell me that my ex-best friend was getting married and they needed my address for the invitation. I guess my subtle escape tactics didn't affect them in the way I had hoped. Or, they had chosen to ignore them. Either way I realized that if I didn't want to be friends with them anymore - and for such reasons - that I should be a great deal more explicit.
What occured after was difficult, probably one of the most challenging things I've ever had to do. In a few subsequent emails I told her how I really felt, let all the years of frustration and disgust come pouring out. Still, I tried to remain tactful. After all, I had two goals in mind with this revelation. First, I just wanted the peace of mind; I wanted to say all the things I went years without saying. But second, and perhaps more importantly, I wanted to phrase things in such a way that all the girls might take them to heart, to really internalize the things I wrote. It was so difficult because, with all of the animosity that I felt toward them, I didn't like knowing I would hurt them. I felt guilty as I typed feverishly away. Yet, it was liberating. I don't think I had ever been so brutally honest (and it was definitely brutal) with anyone before.
After all was said and done, I felt like I had done a good thing. That maybe, just maybe, they might be prompted to change - to become a little less selfish, a little less shallow. But as time went on, I realized that I had engaged in an exercise in futility. Because, they wouldn't change. They would just write me off as a bitch and go on living life the way they always had. Though I was saddened by this realization, I did garner something from the experience. I came to understand that I didn't need to write all of those things for their sake, it was for me. I needed to learn to be more true to myself, more expressive...in ways I was always too fearful to be.
That was a tremendous learning experience for me. I think that in knowing that I could be honest with myself and others, and that things would work out ok in the end has helped me to better navigate difficult personal situations. I still struggle with making myself heard. I can admit that I have a tendency to let people mistreat me and, instead of nipping things in the bud, I let them continue. In most cases, simply because I want to avoid drama. I hate fighting with people, but I am learning that it is necessary, and that I need to better assert myself if I am to have meaningful - truly honest - relationships.
I have thought of them rarely since. Lately, however, they have - for whatever reason - found their way into my thoughts and I can't help but wonder why. Perhaps a part of me is curious how they are, what they are doing know, and just who they have become.
Thursday, December 1, 2005
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Me, in a bathtub.
A list of things present in the bath with me the other night: A lavender-scented soy wax candle, an 800-plus page Tolstoy novel, my kooky $350 German eyeglasses, a bottle of middle-of-the-road Canadian beer – Kokanee, to be precise. A $4 bottle of shampoo that I followed with an application of $25 conditioner, a half-empty bottle of children’s bubble bath – tutti frutti-scented. What else? A bottle of $30 all-organic vitamin and mineral-infused face wash. And a half-used, scraggly lookin’ bar of ever-so-manly Irish Spring.
Not long after settling down into the fabulously fruity goodness of my bubble bath, I had an epiphany: This scene was as good an encapsulation of me as a person that I could stumble upon unawares. A scene full of humorous contradictions and seemingly implausible combinations, or at least, unlikely ones…
The soy wax candle? That’s the health- and environmentally-conscious consumer in me. The hippie that resides deep within me. And, it’s lavender: soothing, comforting. For the sensualist in me.
The Tolstoy? The intellectual book worm, of course. The part of me that likes to go for the gold, to challenge the limits of my mind.
The too-expensive European eyeglasses? The quirky, style-conscious fashionista – wordly, with expensive taste - that I can claim to be on my better days.
The Beer: The laid-back, girl-next-door. It’s no microbrew, nothing fancy…which suggests accessibility. But again, it’s foreign…so I’m still exercising a bit of discretion there. A pinch of beer elitism, that calls for the exclusion of domestic beer.
How about the shampoo and conditioner combo? Well, some might think it’s just about pointless to drop $25 bucks on conditioner when I’ll preface its use with some shitty drug store shampoo. Although I understand that sort of practical argument, I have to say: I liked the smell and list of ingredients in the shampoo. Pretty straight-forward. But, the other part of me really likes to care for my hair, to keep it healthy…hence the spendy creamed lube. So, what this means: I can be impractical and – some may deem – wasteful, but it works for me. And I smell good doing it.
The children’s bubble bath? Well, that was purchased at a dollar store. The easy part – it represents the fun-loving kid in me, a part of me that I always try to nurture. The dollar store bit? That accounts for the selectively thrifty shopper in me. And the bubble bath itself, well, that’s for the part of me that always feels a need to find time to unwind, to get back to myself; the earthy woman in me. I always look forward to relaxation and reflection amid a sea of fluffy, iridescent bubbles.
Ok, on the face wash. That’s the planner in me, the woman that is always looking to the future and trying to practice “preventative maintenance”. A woman who knows she doesn’t have the prettiest face, but needs to maintain what she’s got. (Protection of one’s assets, however meager.) I can justify the use of mediocre bar soap on my limbs and booty, but my face? Hell no, it needs to be pampered.
The bar soap? No luxurious bodywash here. I like the crisp, masculine scent of Irish Spring. That must be the tomboy in me. It’s a sort of checks and balances; I can never let myself become too feminine, to eschew my boyish roots. It’s the roughness that always accompanies the tender.
Once I took stock of this little enclave that I had (unconsciously) created for myself, I just laid back into the warmth and laughed. At myself. Because of what I thought each item represented, and then, again - at myself! – because, what kind of person would actually sit in her tub and think to explain her character vis-a-vis some smallish pile of random bath accoutrements?
Not long after settling down into the fabulously fruity goodness of my bubble bath, I had an epiphany: This scene was as good an encapsulation of me as a person that I could stumble upon unawares. A scene full of humorous contradictions and seemingly implausible combinations, or at least, unlikely ones…
The soy wax candle? That’s the health- and environmentally-conscious consumer in me. The hippie that resides deep within me. And, it’s lavender: soothing, comforting. For the sensualist in me.
The Tolstoy? The intellectual book worm, of course. The part of me that likes to go for the gold, to challenge the limits of my mind.
The too-expensive European eyeglasses? The quirky, style-conscious fashionista – wordly, with expensive taste - that I can claim to be on my better days.
The Beer: The laid-back, girl-next-door. It’s no microbrew, nothing fancy…which suggests accessibility. But again, it’s foreign…so I’m still exercising a bit of discretion there. A pinch of beer elitism, that calls for the exclusion of domestic beer.
How about the shampoo and conditioner combo? Well, some might think it’s just about pointless to drop $25 bucks on conditioner when I’ll preface its use with some shitty drug store shampoo. Although I understand that sort of practical argument, I have to say: I liked the smell and list of ingredients in the shampoo. Pretty straight-forward. But, the other part of me really likes to care for my hair, to keep it healthy…hence the spendy creamed lube. So, what this means: I can be impractical and – some may deem – wasteful, but it works for me. And I smell good doing it.
The children’s bubble bath? Well, that was purchased at a dollar store. The easy part – it represents the fun-loving kid in me, a part of me that I always try to nurture. The dollar store bit? That accounts for the selectively thrifty shopper in me. And the bubble bath itself, well, that’s for the part of me that always feels a need to find time to unwind, to get back to myself; the earthy woman in me. I always look forward to relaxation and reflection amid a sea of fluffy, iridescent bubbles.
Ok, on the face wash. That’s the planner in me, the woman that is always looking to the future and trying to practice “preventative maintenance”. A woman who knows she doesn’t have the prettiest face, but needs to maintain what she’s got. (Protection of one’s assets, however meager.) I can justify the use of mediocre bar soap on my limbs and booty, but my face? Hell no, it needs to be pampered.
The bar soap? No luxurious bodywash here. I like the crisp, masculine scent of Irish Spring. That must be the tomboy in me. It’s a sort of checks and balances; I can never let myself become too feminine, to eschew my boyish roots. It’s the roughness that always accompanies the tender.
Once I took stock of this little enclave that I had (unconsciously) created for myself, I just laid back into the warmth and laughed. At myself. Because of what I thought each item represented, and then, again - at myself! – because, what kind of person would actually sit in her tub and think to explain her character vis-a-vis some smallish pile of random bath accoutrements?
Friday, September 2, 2005
Just your average, OCD-ridden Molly Homemaker
I am allowing the doubt to creep in again, and it is - as always - wrecking havoc. It seems as though I go through these spells every couple of months, then something comes along to elevate me, to bring me back, so to speak. I continue to struggle with the idea that my life should be navigated in some way, and whether this idea is a beneficial one to cling to. I fear I will fight this demon my whole life. I fall prey to cynicism and uncertainty often…too often, in fact.
It has been a difficult few weeks. I’m feeling more and more displaced the longer I am here. Not only have I yet to find an apartment and begin to arrange some sort of “home” but, increasingly, I feel as though I am impinging on my boyfriend’s freedom and ease-of-movement. He’s been absolutely wonderful in allowing me to stay with him until I find an apartment, but I have stayed longer than both of us have planned and the cracks in this veneer are beginning to show…
I have often remarked in my writing about my need for environmental comfort. Even though this space is not officially “mine,” I will both consciously and unconsciously try to tweak it to make it more livable, more comfortable. It’s not, by any means, my right to do this, but I just can’t help it. I try to keep it to a minimum so as not to displease my boyfriend. There is also this, uh..shall we say, habit, that I have…I clean. I rearrange. I organize. Compulsively, at times. I can be a little over-particular when it comes to cleanliness and the idea of “order”, this much I can admit. I see a space and automatically I begin to visualize how it could be more efficiently arranged, or how adjusting a few things would add to the aesthetics of the place. Again – I can’t help it! It’s the creative, artsy-fartsy element at work in me. Add to the equation that I am on holiday from school and not working and you’ve got an anal, bored, clean freak just itching to polish the fuck out of the kitchen floor.
Now, I’m gonna really make this messy and admit that my “the woman’s place is in the home” upbringing still maintains some roots within my psyche – albeit shallow, somewhat deprived ones. Being with Kevin has planted (or perhaps revived?) the desire in me to want to maintain some sort of home, to cook for him, to bake the cookies and make the bed, and be there to kiss him when he comes home from work. It’s not a position I have ever been in, or particularly aspired to, but this little pre-game has proved enjoyable and rewarding. For the most part I think he appreciates what I try to do. I understand that he is short on time and honestly, doesn’t really care too much when it comes to regularly engaging in domestic duties. He doesn’t really cook, either – but I enjoy it. I just never had much opportunity to when I lived alone or with picky, bland, potato-and-beef-eating roommates.
What much of this fluff amounts to is that I genuinely want to make Kevin happy. I am excited to recognize this type of desire, because, in my only official “serious, committed” relationship before, I didn’t experience it naturally. The little things that once seemed annoyances to me, now seem like little opportunities to make my partner smile or to brighten his day. I’m forever thinking of small ways in which I can surprise him, or show him how much I love him.
Like I said, I’ve had a more-than-usual amount of time on my hands. All this time has made me feel like a slacker, and the absence of any kind of regimented schedule has left me scrambling for some alternative means of balance. All these little things I've trifled with have allowed me some sense of purpose, however inconsequential it may seem to some. Though my intentions are of the best sort, I do feel as though I am stifling my boyfriend a little. He’s never said this directly, of course – he’s far too agreeable in that sense – but some little queues, and my own paranoia, have illustrated as much.
Once the paranoia top is popped, I’m pretty much done for. With me, paranoia acts in a similar fashion to antivirus software. It begins to scan every crevice within me, searching the smallest grain of difficulty or insecurity, and it flings it to the forefront. All at once I am thrust into a pool of doubt and self-deprecation and, rather than gingerly paddling to the stairs and making a calm, dignified exit, I instead imbibe on the increase in cellulite on my ass (that is only magnified when looking down through the water), and all manner of personal shortcomings. (Yes, I realize this all seems very “left field”.) So, to an outsider this situation I am in may be one of purely domestic displacement, but I see it as some medium with which my unattractive features, and the less-than-hoped for features of our relationship are to be painfully exposed. Overly dramatic, perhaps? Shit, who am I to say? I’m not thinking clearly as it is, and all of the harsh cleaning agents I have used in my search for Molly Homemaker solace have further hindered me in the cognitive department.
Clearly, I am in a sorry state. This journal entry ought to be evidence of that. I am all over the damn place and in the back of my head I am thinking about how much more awful I’ll feel should I learn that some man in the general public has stumbled upon this site…because “obviously” it will only reaffirm the stereotype that we woman are irrational, inconsistent and altogether fucked in the head. And, I just don’t think I’d be able to live with myself knowing that I – an otherwise level-headed and sane woman – have somehow fed that beast.
Wait....
I just had a thought: What if I were to print out all of my writings and take them with me to a therapist. What would she or he have to say? Granted, we all have some bits in us that are off-kilter, but how badly out of balance would I be deemed? I am both interested and fearful to expose myself to a diagnosis. However, would I be a good “case study”? Because, let’s face it, I’m not really painting myself in the most gorgeous of lights here, so it can be argued that I am not seeking to hide unattractive qualities within myself. Surely, from a psychotherapist’s point of view, this is a good thing?
It has been a difficult few weeks. I’m feeling more and more displaced the longer I am here. Not only have I yet to find an apartment and begin to arrange some sort of “home” but, increasingly, I feel as though I am impinging on my boyfriend’s freedom and ease-of-movement. He’s been absolutely wonderful in allowing me to stay with him until I find an apartment, but I have stayed longer than both of us have planned and the cracks in this veneer are beginning to show…
I have often remarked in my writing about my need for environmental comfort. Even though this space is not officially “mine,” I will both consciously and unconsciously try to tweak it to make it more livable, more comfortable. It’s not, by any means, my right to do this, but I just can’t help it. I try to keep it to a minimum so as not to displease my boyfriend. There is also this, uh..shall we say, habit, that I have…I clean. I rearrange. I organize. Compulsively, at times. I can be a little over-particular when it comes to cleanliness and the idea of “order”, this much I can admit. I see a space and automatically I begin to visualize how it could be more efficiently arranged, or how adjusting a few things would add to the aesthetics of the place. Again – I can’t help it! It’s the creative, artsy-fartsy element at work in me. Add to the equation that I am on holiday from school and not working and you’ve got an anal, bored, clean freak just itching to polish the fuck out of the kitchen floor.
Now, I’m gonna really make this messy and admit that my “the woman’s place is in the home” upbringing still maintains some roots within my psyche – albeit shallow, somewhat deprived ones. Being with Kevin has planted (or perhaps revived?) the desire in me to want to maintain some sort of home, to cook for him, to bake the cookies and make the bed, and be there to kiss him when he comes home from work. It’s not a position I have ever been in, or particularly aspired to, but this little pre-game has proved enjoyable and rewarding. For the most part I think he appreciates what I try to do. I understand that he is short on time and honestly, doesn’t really care too much when it comes to regularly engaging in domestic duties. He doesn’t really cook, either – but I enjoy it. I just never had much opportunity to when I lived alone or with picky, bland, potato-and-beef-eating roommates.
What much of this fluff amounts to is that I genuinely want to make Kevin happy. I am excited to recognize this type of desire, because, in my only official “serious, committed” relationship before, I didn’t experience it naturally. The little things that once seemed annoyances to me, now seem like little opportunities to make my partner smile or to brighten his day. I’m forever thinking of small ways in which I can surprise him, or show him how much I love him.
Like I said, I’ve had a more-than-usual amount of time on my hands. All this time has made me feel like a slacker, and the absence of any kind of regimented schedule has left me scrambling for some alternative means of balance. All these little things I've trifled with have allowed me some sense of purpose, however inconsequential it may seem to some. Though my intentions are of the best sort, I do feel as though I am stifling my boyfriend a little. He’s never said this directly, of course – he’s far too agreeable in that sense – but some little queues, and my own paranoia, have illustrated as much.
Once the paranoia top is popped, I’m pretty much done for. With me, paranoia acts in a similar fashion to antivirus software. It begins to scan every crevice within me, searching the smallest grain of difficulty or insecurity, and it flings it to the forefront. All at once I am thrust into a pool of doubt and self-deprecation and, rather than gingerly paddling to the stairs and making a calm, dignified exit, I instead imbibe on the increase in cellulite on my ass (that is only magnified when looking down through the water), and all manner of personal shortcomings. (Yes, I realize this all seems very “left field”.) So, to an outsider this situation I am in may be one of purely domestic displacement, but I see it as some medium with which my unattractive features, and the less-than-hoped for features of our relationship are to be painfully exposed. Overly dramatic, perhaps? Shit, who am I to say? I’m not thinking clearly as it is, and all of the harsh cleaning agents I have used in my search for Molly Homemaker solace have further hindered me in the cognitive department.
Clearly, I am in a sorry state. This journal entry ought to be evidence of that. I am all over the damn place and in the back of my head I am thinking about how much more awful I’ll feel should I learn that some man in the general public has stumbled upon this site…because “obviously” it will only reaffirm the stereotype that we woman are irrational, inconsistent and altogether fucked in the head. And, I just don’t think I’d be able to live with myself knowing that I – an otherwise level-headed and sane woman – have somehow fed that beast.
Wait....
I just had a thought: What if I were to print out all of my writings and take them with me to a therapist. What would she or he have to say? Granted, we all have some bits in us that are off-kilter, but how badly out of balance would I be deemed? I am both interested and fearful to expose myself to a diagnosis. However, would I be a good “case study”? Because, let’s face it, I’m not really painting myself in the most gorgeous of lights here, so it can be argued that I am not seeking to hide unattractive qualities within myself. Surely, from a psychotherapist’s point of view, this is a good thing?
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
My Children Are Going to Be So Well-Adjusted!
The beauty of becoming an adult is coming to realize that a great deal of what you learned growing up was complete and utter crap. True, it’s a bit frightening when this folder of Life’s Expectations and Supposed Truths that you’ve eagerly built up over the years becomes worthless - the way paper slowly deteriorates as it becomes saturated with water – but it can also be a bit freeing. There is some sad pleasure in it, and it makes me want to laugh, but it’s the kind of laugh you laugh when you’re really torn up about something and you just cant think of anything else to do. And, if you laugh long enough, you just might forget what it was that made you laugh to begin with.
When you think about it, future generations of adults would be a lot less fucked up if they weren’t brought up with all these expectations of what adulthood would be like, don’t you think? They’d have a great deal more time to spend actually living, instead of feeling sorry for themselves when their lives didn’t become the stuff of fairy tales.
Note to self: when you have children, tell them to prepare for a life of mediocrity. That way, if things work out better than that (which they probably won’t), they’ll be pleasantly surprised. And you might even get a Thank You out of it.
When you think about it, future generations of adults would be a lot less fucked up if they weren’t brought up with all these expectations of what adulthood would be like, don’t you think? They’d have a great deal more time to spend actually living, instead of feeling sorry for themselves when their lives didn’t become the stuff of fairy tales.
Note to self: when you have children, tell them to prepare for a life of mediocrity. That way, if things work out better than that (which they probably won’t), they’ll be pleasantly surprised. And you might even get a Thank You out of it.
Monday, May 23, 2005
Lifestyle Polygamy
I’m not sure whether I believe in fate, or destiny, or whatever you want to call it. Sometimes, with the way things take shape, it’s difficult to believe that life is anything but predestined – like some complicated course our brain follows, unbeknownst to our consciousness. Still, though, there are always times that I’m made aware of how markedly different my life could have been had I made this particular decision or that.
And what about “callings?” Do I believe in those? That’s a tough one, too. I think that I grew up assuming I’d find mine, because it was always some highly idealized thing, almost an expectation that I should one day realize my purpose for being here. But, after awhile I began to think that that was a load of bullshit that the supposedly older, wiser population spewed forth because that’s what their parents did with them. We don’t really have callings, just like we don’t ever meet Prince Charming - who also happens to be ridiculously good-looking, wealthy, and all that – we don’t have the 2.5 kids and then reside oh-so-happily with them in the suburbs, yet we still hear these tales over and over again.
So, yeah, that’s what I came to think, after awhile. But, where am I now? I do feel as though I’m being pulled in a particular direction, though its vastly different than the one I thought five or six years ago I’d be headed. So is it that I’ve just come to realize my niche, or is it that this path will be a means to yet another end?
Perhaps more accurate is that we have multiple fates, just as we have multiple Prince Charmings. There is no one path we should take, no one career, no one perfect mate. There are likely several of each, and what we have to decide is what we’re willing to live with, to sacrifice, in order to make each one a reality in our lives. Right now, I see two vastly different lives stretching out before me and I have no fucking clue which one I’m going to opt for, because I want both.
In some ways, I wish I were obligated by destiny, because the element of choice would be removed and if things didn’t work out as I’d hoped, I’d have fate to blame instead of myself.
And what about “callings?” Do I believe in those? That’s a tough one, too. I think that I grew up assuming I’d find mine, because it was always some highly idealized thing, almost an expectation that I should one day realize my purpose for being here. But, after awhile I began to think that that was a load of bullshit that the supposedly older, wiser population spewed forth because that’s what their parents did with them. We don’t really have callings, just like we don’t ever meet Prince Charming - who also happens to be ridiculously good-looking, wealthy, and all that – we don’t have the 2.5 kids and then reside oh-so-happily with them in the suburbs, yet we still hear these tales over and over again.
So, yeah, that’s what I came to think, after awhile. But, where am I now? I do feel as though I’m being pulled in a particular direction, though its vastly different than the one I thought five or six years ago I’d be headed. So is it that I’ve just come to realize my niche, or is it that this path will be a means to yet another end?
Perhaps more accurate is that we have multiple fates, just as we have multiple Prince Charmings. There is no one path we should take, no one career, no one perfect mate. There are likely several of each, and what we have to decide is what we’re willing to live with, to sacrifice, in order to make each one a reality in our lives. Right now, I see two vastly different lives stretching out before me and I have no fucking clue which one I’m going to opt for, because I want both.
In some ways, I wish I were obligated by destiny, because the element of choice would be removed and if things didn’t work out as I’d hoped, I’d have fate to blame instead of myself.
Tuesday, May 3, 2005
Tongue-tied
Language is an incredible medium of expression. When in the proper hands it can be so powerful, so moving...and when I am faced with such expertly crafted prose or speech - though I am awed and flooded with emotion - I cannot but feel inadequate. For, I've not mastered this medium of communication - or any, to be fair - and it saddens me. I cannot be alone in this; there are worlds without number, existing only in the minds of their keepers, for our expression can never properly illustrate their depths. I long for the talent to describe in vivid and comprehensive terms the way my skin feels when I am walking through the city on a brisk morning, or the way the narrowness of european streets and the amazing variety of shops lining them, create such an intimate feel for those passing through.
These descriptions are somehow beyond me. I am dissatisfied with my own recollections, when it is that I write or speak of them. I notice it especially now, since I have been travelling. Seeing so many unbelievable things and trying to find some way to relay to my family and friends, but constantly falling short. I want them to be able to see what I have had the pleasure to see but the only way for them to cultivate some image is if I can somehow find the words...
These descriptions are somehow beyond me. I am dissatisfied with my own recollections, when it is that I write or speak of them. I notice it especially now, since I have been travelling. Seeing so many unbelievable things and trying to find some way to relay to my family and friends, but constantly falling short. I want them to be able to see what I have had the pleasure to see but the only way for them to cultivate some image is if I can somehow find the words...
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Tasty and Gray
The weather here is incredibly unpredictable. Bizarre swings occur throughout the day, to the point that one almost has to prepare for all manner of weather within a given twenty-four hours.
At the moment, and for the past couple of hours, it has been woolen gray. Rainy. The sky pisses in an unconcerned manner and I sit here, cozy and dry. I can’t help but marry these weather patterns with those of my moods since arriving here. It seems fitting that Mother Nature should be so moody; her demeanor is mine. For now, we are pensive.
Europe has been beckoning me for many years and I have often wondered why. In a strange way, it has felt as though a piece of my soul has been residing here - originated here perhaps - and has been waiting for some reunion. Is it that a resurrection is necessary before we’ll be able to see the world appropriately? I don’t know, for I have never been able to articulate the nature or power of this force. But it is such that I’ve been unable to turn my back on it - the desire has always been with me to varying strengths. Finally, I have made the journey and I am slowly beginning to understand the lure. I already feel a certain comfort in its embrace, an innate feeling that part of me will be forever bound here.
Though, I don’t feel that London is the heart of it all; she is only my vehicle to greater things. A trial of sorts...in a sense, the hard candy shell of things. I am still licking, tasting, and creeping toward the delicious center. And I don’t yet know what exactly it will contain, nor where I will be when I find it, though there is no doubt of its goodness.
For now, I’m just enjoying the candy. No need to rush…
She is a multitude of things, London; the city cannot be clearly defined. She is not black or white, but gray. There exists a charming and mysterious interplay of cultures, people, colors, smells, styles, textures. One must see this city with many eyes, just as one must prepare for her many moods. All rigidity must be forsaken, and it has been an almost effortless transition…I have easily taken to the ebb and flow.
At the moment, and for the past couple of hours, it has been woolen gray. Rainy. The sky pisses in an unconcerned manner and I sit here, cozy and dry. I can’t help but marry these weather patterns with those of my moods since arriving here. It seems fitting that Mother Nature should be so moody; her demeanor is mine. For now, we are pensive.
Europe has been beckoning me for many years and I have often wondered why. In a strange way, it has felt as though a piece of my soul has been residing here - originated here perhaps - and has been waiting for some reunion. Is it that a resurrection is necessary before we’ll be able to see the world appropriately? I don’t know, for I have never been able to articulate the nature or power of this force. But it is such that I’ve been unable to turn my back on it - the desire has always been with me to varying strengths. Finally, I have made the journey and I am slowly beginning to understand the lure. I already feel a certain comfort in its embrace, an innate feeling that part of me will be forever bound here.
Though, I don’t feel that London is the heart of it all; she is only my vehicle to greater things. A trial of sorts...in a sense, the hard candy shell of things. I am still licking, tasting, and creeping toward the delicious center. And I don’t yet know what exactly it will contain, nor where I will be when I find it, though there is no doubt of its goodness.
For now, I’m just enjoying the candy. No need to rush…
She is a multitude of things, London; the city cannot be clearly defined. She is not black or white, but gray. There exists a charming and mysterious interplay of cultures, people, colors, smells, styles, textures. One must see this city with many eyes, just as one must prepare for her many moods. All rigidity must be forsaken, and it has been an almost effortless transition…I have easily taken to the ebb and flow.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
We can share some air, but not a conversation.
London is a most peculiar place, and the way I see it, its only a model of what modern society has become.
Approximately 8 million people live in greater London and never have I been in a place where I have legitimately interacted with fewer people. Its quite amazing, really. The people of this city love their music - London is an epicenter for musical expression, so it makes sense. It is unbelievable the sheer number of individuals who walk about with earphones almost permanently attached to their persons. (I am guilty of this, I admit.) So, we walk down the streets, literally shoulder-to-shoulder, thousands commuting and there is no interaction. We climb into the subway cars, crammed as cattle, and still nothing. No speech, no laughter. Silence save for that emanating from our earphones...
Big cities are far lonelier places than they may seem. Though I am content with the arrangement, it saddens me on some level that this is what the world has become. Certainly this is not revolutionary thought - that technology and the near constant change of society has resulted in greater anomie. The things that ought to bring people together only serve to alienate.
We are more alone than ever before; six billion of us. Alone together. Once your attention is called to it, the fact becomes hard to ignore. And its only going to intensify, this lack of intimacy.
Approximately 8 million people live in greater London and never have I been in a place where I have legitimately interacted with fewer people. Its quite amazing, really. The people of this city love their music - London is an epicenter for musical expression, so it makes sense. It is unbelievable the sheer number of individuals who walk about with earphones almost permanently attached to their persons. (I am guilty of this, I admit.) So, we walk down the streets, literally shoulder-to-shoulder, thousands commuting and there is no interaction. We climb into the subway cars, crammed as cattle, and still nothing. No speech, no laughter. Silence save for that emanating from our earphones...
Big cities are far lonelier places than they may seem. Though I am content with the arrangement, it saddens me on some level that this is what the world has become. Certainly this is not revolutionary thought - that technology and the near constant change of society has resulted in greater anomie. The things that ought to bring people together only serve to alienate.
We are more alone than ever before; six billion of us. Alone together. Once your attention is called to it, the fact becomes hard to ignore. And its only going to intensify, this lack of intimacy.
Monday, April 25, 2005
It's not that I don't like you, it's that I like myself better.
At what point in our lives are we able to cease the justification of our behavior, our desires? Is there ever a time?
And is there ever a point when we as individuals can see others for the people they are, without some sort of character ethnocentrism? I operate and live my life according to my own doctrine – does that make me selfish? Unkind? Overly introverted? Cold?
I don’t know whether I am more evolved - in the sense that I have come to understand what is most fulfilling to me and so I live accordingly - or if I’m selfish and, for whatever reason, disinterested in becoming more acquainted with the souls that inhabit this place alongside me. There has always been, and likely will always be, an extremely fine line between insanity and genius. So, in what realm of the spectrum do I fit? I’m not suggesting either of the extremes, yet, surely there is some middle ground wherein I ought to naturally lay.
Were it not for others calling attention to the “abnormality” of my behaviors and opinions, I believe I’d go on living as I do, and cultivate a fulfilling life via the means I find worthwhile. However, I am always being forced to, or feeling some need, to justify why it is I do the things I do, or more of than not, why it is that I refrain from doing the things that many others of my age, gender, generation – whatever – are doing.
A few examples: Why is it that I generally feel the act of going out and getting drunk is pointless, uninteresting? Why don’t I want to take the time to get to know people that I go to school with? Why don’t I want to spend time with the other Americans that are studying in London with me? Why do I prefer to go places by myself? Why don’t I like to commit to participating in various activities that are proposed? Or, if I do consent, why is it that I’ll only go if only a few others are involved? Why am I not fearful of traveling alone? Why would I WANT to travel by myself? Why this? Why that?
Being questioned for my seemingly off-kilter behavior is nothing new – it has happened in some form or another for many years. But since I’ve been in London the questioning has intensified. I’ve tried to take it all in stride, and to answer in the most tactful yet honest ways. But, why is it that I’m the one that’s in the wrong? Why can’t it just be accepted that some things are not for me? Why must everything become so personal? Just because I want to be by myself doesn’t mean that I don’t think the other people around me are not decent people.
But this also begs the question, Why is it that we feel some obligation to get to know people that we’re thrown in a room with? Much of our interactions in life are fleeting…why not devote more energy to things of consequence and less on maintaining some social norms?
The truth of the matter is, I think there are far more fulfilling and important things in life than going out clubbing every night, or chatting to Sally in Lit class simply because she’s sitting next to me. I am generally content in the company of myself (and my newly acquired iPod!). I’d like to believe I’m forward-thinking, that I understand how precious this time is and I want to make the best use of it. I find there is beauty in the mundane, in the little, everyday things, if we but take the time to see. My days, my explorations, this place I’m so privileged to be in – I see all of these factors merely as vehicles to better understanding myself. There will never be enough time to sort it all out, but one thing I know for certain is that an awareness of the impossibility doesn’t diminish my desire to try. Most of us know that more than half of all marriages today end in divorce, but millions of people are still signing up and thinking they’re going to be an exception…aren’t they? This is no different. Me; my life; I am no different.
So, what does all of this drivel amount to? Am I amazingly selfish? Narcissistic? Or am I someone whom is unabashed in her determination to make her own way?
I question myself and the direction I assume because attention is always called to various aspects of my existence, my personality, my character. I don’t want to feel that kind of uncertainty, and what right have others to impose such things on me?
What comfort is there for people like myself in this world? Perhaps I should not speak of the world, for I have limited cultural experience, but, of what I know, I see little room for the independent-minded and solitarily-thinking individuals. There are special adjectives - with undesirable connotations - reserved for those that stray. And I think I've heard them all.
For whatever reason, I think I am doing what’s right for me…I only wish I were not compelled to spend so much time explaining it others who fail to see it’s value.
And is there ever a point when we as individuals can see others for the people they are, without some sort of character ethnocentrism? I operate and live my life according to my own doctrine – does that make me selfish? Unkind? Overly introverted? Cold?
I don’t know whether I am more evolved - in the sense that I have come to understand what is most fulfilling to me and so I live accordingly - or if I’m selfish and, for whatever reason, disinterested in becoming more acquainted with the souls that inhabit this place alongside me. There has always been, and likely will always be, an extremely fine line between insanity and genius. So, in what realm of the spectrum do I fit? I’m not suggesting either of the extremes, yet, surely there is some middle ground wherein I ought to naturally lay.
Were it not for others calling attention to the “abnormality” of my behaviors and opinions, I believe I’d go on living as I do, and cultivate a fulfilling life via the means I find worthwhile. However, I am always being forced to, or feeling some need, to justify why it is I do the things I do, or more of than not, why it is that I refrain from doing the things that many others of my age, gender, generation – whatever – are doing.
A few examples: Why is it that I generally feel the act of going out and getting drunk is pointless, uninteresting? Why don’t I want to take the time to get to know people that I go to school with? Why don’t I want to spend time with the other Americans that are studying in London with me? Why do I prefer to go places by myself? Why don’t I like to commit to participating in various activities that are proposed? Or, if I do consent, why is it that I’ll only go if only a few others are involved? Why am I not fearful of traveling alone? Why would I WANT to travel by myself? Why this? Why that?
Being questioned for my seemingly off-kilter behavior is nothing new – it has happened in some form or another for many years. But since I’ve been in London the questioning has intensified. I’ve tried to take it all in stride, and to answer in the most tactful yet honest ways. But, why is it that I’m the one that’s in the wrong? Why can’t it just be accepted that some things are not for me? Why must everything become so personal? Just because I want to be by myself doesn’t mean that I don’t think the other people around me are not decent people.
But this also begs the question, Why is it that we feel some obligation to get to know people that we’re thrown in a room with? Much of our interactions in life are fleeting…why not devote more energy to things of consequence and less on maintaining some social norms?
The truth of the matter is, I think there are far more fulfilling and important things in life than going out clubbing every night, or chatting to Sally in Lit class simply because she’s sitting next to me. I am generally content in the company of myself (and my newly acquired iPod!). I’d like to believe I’m forward-thinking, that I understand how precious this time is and I want to make the best use of it. I find there is beauty in the mundane, in the little, everyday things, if we but take the time to see. My days, my explorations, this place I’m so privileged to be in – I see all of these factors merely as vehicles to better understanding myself. There will never be enough time to sort it all out, but one thing I know for certain is that an awareness of the impossibility doesn’t diminish my desire to try. Most of us know that more than half of all marriages today end in divorce, but millions of people are still signing up and thinking they’re going to be an exception…aren’t they? This is no different. Me; my life; I am no different.
So, what does all of this drivel amount to? Am I amazingly selfish? Narcissistic? Or am I someone whom is unabashed in her determination to make her own way?
I question myself and the direction I assume because attention is always called to various aspects of my existence, my personality, my character. I don’t want to feel that kind of uncertainty, and what right have others to impose such things on me?
What comfort is there for people like myself in this world? Perhaps I should not speak of the world, for I have limited cultural experience, but, of what I know, I see little room for the independent-minded and solitarily-thinking individuals. There are special adjectives - with undesirable connotations - reserved for those that stray. And I think I've heard them all.
For whatever reason, I think I am doing what’s right for me…I only wish I were not compelled to spend so much time explaining it others who fail to see it’s value.
Friday, April 8, 2005
Look into its depths and you will see your future.
Brighton, England
(As written in my journal)
My hands are so cold I can scarcely write. I'm not dressed for the weather but I can't force myself inside. I'm sitting among millions of stones smoothed by the waters of the sea, on this beach - the edge of Britain. It is so gray, very windy, and the sea is magnificent. Unbelievably calm. It's been too long since I've sat in this way, gazing into the ocean. It never ceases to amaze me how incredibly edified I feel when I can smell of the salty air, watch the waves as they make their way inland. What poet said it, "My purest thoughts are born of the sea"?
This still seems a bit surreal. I can't believe I'm here and yet a part of me feels there is no other place I could possibly be. I'm feeling whole in a way I have not felt for quite some time. I am alone and I feel at peace. The sea reminds me of my place in the world, my smallness. I think that's a tremendous part of why I feel so attached to the water...why it is so much a part of me.
About an hour ago, I stood at the top of the hill that leads to the beach. When I first approached the oceanfront, I stood there, eyes closed; I took in a deep breath and allowed a smile to render itself on my face. (A huge smile, by my standards.) I couldn't resist -and when I opened my eyes, several were staring. I had to laugh a bit, I must have looked so silly. How often does one see another standing alone, surrounded by frigid air, grinning ear-to-ear?
To some, the water is dull and gray. Unremarkable. But, in its pallor I see life. To those bystanders, I looked foolish. Yet, I felt beautiful. Somehow fresh, new, childlike. It's all about relativity. A subtle paradigm shift and a new world makes its way to your feet.
(As written in my journal)
My hands are so cold I can scarcely write. I'm not dressed for the weather but I can't force myself inside. I'm sitting among millions of stones smoothed by the waters of the sea, on this beach - the edge of Britain. It is so gray, very windy, and the sea is magnificent. Unbelievably calm. It's been too long since I've sat in this way, gazing into the ocean. It never ceases to amaze me how incredibly edified I feel when I can smell of the salty air, watch the waves as they make their way inland. What poet said it, "My purest thoughts are born of the sea"?
This still seems a bit surreal. I can't believe I'm here and yet a part of me feels there is no other place I could possibly be. I'm feeling whole in a way I have not felt for quite some time. I am alone and I feel at peace. The sea reminds me of my place in the world, my smallness. I think that's a tremendous part of why I feel so attached to the water...why it is so much a part of me.
About an hour ago, I stood at the top of the hill that leads to the beach. When I first approached the oceanfront, I stood there, eyes closed; I took in a deep breath and allowed a smile to render itself on my face. (A huge smile, by my standards.) I couldn't resist -and when I opened my eyes, several were staring. I had to laugh a bit, I must have looked so silly. How often does one see another standing alone, surrounded by frigid air, grinning ear-to-ear?
To some, the water is dull and gray. Unremarkable. But, in its pallor I see life. To those bystanders, I looked foolish. Yet, I felt beautiful. Somehow fresh, new, childlike. It's all about relativity. A subtle paradigm shift and a new world makes its way to your feet.
Wednesday, April 6, 2005
London On A Rose-Infused High
The sidewalks are incredibly uneven here. I am constantly stumbling over myself as I walk about - I'm so smitten with everything, eyes constantly darting around. Everywhere I'm looking, except down. A hazard of the urban experience, I suppose.
The last two days have been cold and blustery - but I find the cold on my skin strangely refreshing. I'm feeling so alive, so stimulated. A high that couldn't possibly be reproduced. Even when I'm sitting in a coffee shop, doing homework (or whatever) I have some bizarre awareness of where I am and what I'm doing here. So far, things going on about town seem quite similar to that which I see back home, but the vibe is what strikes me. The architecture, all of the gardens scattered about, lend such a beautiful ambience. Certainly some exoticism. Aside from the proverbial Starbucks, I'm very pleased that the American goods are not completely overpowering the European...was a bit worried about that. Perhaps, it's too early. Maybe "we" are here with a stronger presence than I realize, and I'm just too busy seeing the good in this place.
The last two days have been cold and blustery - but I find the cold on my skin strangely refreshing. I'm feeling so alive, so stimulated. A high that couldn't possibly be reproduced. Even when I'm sitting in a coffee shop, doing homework (or whatever) I have some bizarre awareness of where I am and what I'm doing here. So far, things going on about town seem quite similar to that which I see back home, but the vibe is what strikes me. The architecture, all of the gardens scattered about, lend such a beautiful ambience. Certainly some exoticism. Aside from the proverbial Starbucks, I'm very pleased that the American goods are not completely overpowering the European...was a bit worried about that. Perhaps, it's too early. Maybe "we" are here with a stronger presence than I realize, and I'm just too busy seeing the good in this place.
Sunday, April 3, 2005
Alone Is Sometimes The Only Way To Be.
The only piece of “home” I have brought with me – aside from a few photos of loved ones, and some Circus Animal cookies (thank you, Kevin!) – is a photocopy of a smallish article printed in a skate magazine a few years back. A good friend who shares a similar outlook on life gave it to me, and I like to read it often. It’s part of a regular column by Scott Bourne, called “Black Box.” I feel its relevance, especially now, and I think it may be relevant to someone else out there.
The article reads:
It is when I am alone that I am peace with the world. There is no one to be judged and no one to judge me. Things and people are virtually non-existent without judgements. There is no code or file to define their place among men…and men are so eager to place themselves, to make their mark. Many men fight hard for fame, but few for greatness. To be alone with one’s self is truly great, just walking, thinking--being. When I am alone I can hear myself. The man I am, just is. He doesn’t feel some strange outside desire to express his feelings or beliefs to his peers, or to support his ideals in front of others. He just builds and destroys himself with thought. He does not lust for what he cannot see or cannot love--it is not on his mind. There is no room for things with no use, and the superficial part of myself that may wish to prove himself to the world falls sounds asleep under the spell of self-security. I am full of life, and at that moment not even death is a concern. If I were to die I would die with a man who is at peace, a man who knows himself as well as the beauty and splendor of the world, a man who sees life, even in its worst moments, as a gift. That man is myself.
There is no lonelier man than he who has lost himself, so much that he requires the company of others to assure him of his greatness and is forced to die with nothing and no one. That is what it means to know Hell—to be soulless—to die with a million men chanting your name and nobody holding your hand.
Here, when I am alone, it is my soul that keeps me company, it is the nature of man that becomes me. I know who I am, and I am unconcerned with proving that man to men who do not know themselves.
-October 24, 2002
Talouse, France
I believe we can recognize true love when another’s fears, their hopes, and their struggles are realized within us. We take those things upon ourselves, their realities slowly becoming our own. I understand how important it is to endure personal struggles because it is through those experiences that we make something uniquely our own out of life…however, I still find myself desiring to take his pains away, to want to solve his problems for him. Whatever he needs, I want to give him. I just want him to be happy, to feel complete again. I feel as though a part of me, knowing what I know, will feel a bit off until that happens.
I am out here because of some unconscious need for greater exploration, and it is my soul and my thoughts of him that keep me company. He, too, is on an exploration – to find himself – and I hope that in some small way I can do for him what he does me.
My greatest wish is that his efforts be met with solace…
The article reads:
It is when I am alone that I am peace with the world. There is no one to be judged and no one to judge me. Things and people are virtually non-existent without judgements. There is no code or file to define their place among men…and men are so eager to place themselves, to make their mark. Many men fight hard for fame, but few for greatness. To be alone with one’s self is truly great, just walking, thinking--being. When I am alone I can hear myself. The man I am, just is. He doesn’t feel some strange outside desire to express his feelings or beliefs to his peers, or to support his ideals in front of others. He just builds and destroys himself with thought. He does not lust for what he cannot see or cannot love--it is not on his mind. There is no room for things with no use, and the superficial part of myself that may wish to prove himself to the world falls sounds asleep under the spell of self-security. I am full of life, and at that moment not even death is a concern. If I were to die I would die with a man who is at peace, a man who knows himself as well as the beauty and splendor of the world, a man who sees life, even in its worst moments, as a gift. That man is myself.
There is no lonelier man than he who has lost himself, so much that he requires the company of others to assure him of his greatness and is forced to die with nothing and no one. That is what it means to know Hell—to be soulless—to die with a million men chanting your name and nobody holding your hand.
Here, when I am alone, it is my soul that keeps me company, it is the nature of man that becomes me. I know who I am, and I am unconcerned with proving that man to men who do not know themselves.
-October 24, 2002
Talouse, France
I believe we can recognize true love when another’s fears, their hopes, and their struggles are realized within us. We take those things upon ourselves, their realities slowly becoming our own. I understand how important it is to endure personal struggles because it is through those experiences that we make something uniquely our own out of life…however, I still find myself desiring to take his pains away, to want to solve his problems for him. Whatever he needs, I want to give him. I just want him to be happy, to feel complete again. I feel as though a part of me, knowing what I know, will feel a bit off until that happens.
I am out here because of some unconscious need for greater exploration, and it is my soul and my thoughts of him that keep me company. He, too, is on an exploration – to find himself – and I hope that in some small way I can do for him what he does me.
My greatest wish is that his efforts be met with solace…
Saturday, April 2, 2005
Who said anything about cold feet?
Today I had the opportunity to visit many of the top sights around Central London, and it was a lovely experience. My schoolmates and I were taken on a guided tour, led by a very cheeky, Scottish fellow - which seemed a bit hilarious to me. He was quite entertaining and knowledgeable, and though I’m not a big fan of the guided tour thing, it worked out OK. We weren’t allowed much time in any one spot as we had to visit many places in a short period of time, but I was able to get enough of a feel for things to decide which attractions I would like to go back to visit at greater length.
London is an absolutely gorgeous city. One almost feels sensory overload when walking about. The architecture is breathtaking and the many gardens and parks that pepper its landscape are quite beautiful. I wanted to snap photos at every turn but I tried to be discerning. This place is so rich in history, it makes me realize even more how young America truly is. It’s been quite amazing to wander the city, surrounded by people of all cultures, hearing dozens of languages spoken around me. I’m definitely not in Kansas anymore…
I have been here two days and already, I love it. London, I could tell instantly, is an eccentric city…perhaps therein lies its appeal. Though, there are some things that drive me mad, such as the fact that people litter more than in Portland, and the driving style is a bit manic. There is no rhyme or reason to its layout, and though its quite confusing for non-residents, I’m quite certain that there are many treasures hidden in all the various side streets and darkened corners…beyond all the Piccadillys and Trafalgar Squares…and though I have and will continue to enjoy those attractions, it is the hidden bits that most pique my interest. I look forward to further exploration of this vast metropolis.
To the discovery of treasures and through this journey, a bit of personal growth - a broadening of horizons…
I am finally excited.
London is an absolutely gorgeous city. One almost feels sensory overload when walking about. The architecture is breathtaking and the many gardens and parks that pepper its landscape are quite beautiful. I wanted to snap photos at every turn but I tried to be discerning. This place is so rich in history, it makes me realize even more how young America truly is. It’s been quite amazing to wander the city, surrounded by people of all cultures, hearing dozens of languages spoken around me. I’m definitely not in Kansas anymore…
I have been here two days and already, I love it. London, I could tell instantly, is an eccentric city…perhaps therein lies its appeal. Though, there are some things that drive me mad, such as the fact that people litter more than in Portland, and the driving style is a bit manic. There is no rhyme or reason to its layout, and though its quite confusing for non-residents, I’m quite certain that there are many treasures hidden in all the various side streets and darkened corners…beyond all the Piccadillys and Trafalgar Squares…and though I have and will continue to enjoy those attractions, it is the hidden bits that most pique my interest. I look forward to further exploration of this vast metropolis.
To the discovery of treasures and through this journey, a bit of personal growth - a broadening of horizons…
I am finally excited.
Friday, April 1, 2005
Crossing The Pond...
I’m supposed to be sleeping right now…that was the plan. But, It is being elusive as ever tonight. Or is it morning? I got little sleep last night, which is actually a good thing. I thought forgoing sleep then would help me now. It is 4 am London time, but my body still thinks it is 8 p.m.
I am on a plane, somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, I imagine, though I’m not really certain. I spent the first few hours of this flight attempting to sleep...but my head won’t let me rest completely. I glance out the window at blackness and it’s there I want to be. Pitch black…
The gravity of this situation is quickly descending on me.
After all, I made a rather large revelation today. (Or, I guess it’s yesterday now. This time thing is going to take some getting used to.) Something I haven’t said to anyone in quite a long time. Years, in fact. Many things led me to believe that I would end up in this place, but I have guarded those words so fiercely. I thought refraining from saying it would somehow make it untrue…like I would still be able to keep one foot out the door. An attempt at self-preservation.
See, things change when you tell someone you love them…there’s no real way around it. Either it’s well-received or you end up making an ass of yourself. I felt pretty certain of the latter in this case, but even so, I decided it would be alright. I had to take the risk, because I don’t know what designs life has on me, and if something were to prevent us from seeing each other again, I would wish that he knew without a doubt how I felt about him. I can’t expect that there will be “another time,” there are just too many variables to consider.
As good as it felt to utter those words, I am feeling naked. I have felt extraordinarily exposed of late, and I think a good deal of this feeling can be attributed to some unconscious feelings I had…like he already knew I loved him. So maybe my saying it is inconsequential; I don’t know. After all, he has said that I’m a bit transparent where my behavior and feelings toward him are concerned. Things I thought I was keeping under wraps so well were already apparent to him. Is he extremely intuitive or is my poker face severely lacking?
I wonder what these next several months will hold. I am headed to a foreign country to live, surrounded by the new and unfamiliar. And I’ve developed these feelings for a man that, for all intents and purposes, feel new and unfamiliar. How I love adventure and new experiences, and oh how I hate to leave what is comfortable. For the last two weeks, its as though my heart has been incapable of feeling much more than sadness and longing.
I am rambling…but, I truly hope that when I get off this flying ship, I will feel some awakening. I need it. And I need to take advantage of this incredible opportunity, despite all else. I need to be excited and I truly want to be. I know it’s in there, because I’ve been dreaming of this for so long.
This surreal, nebulous cloud I’ve been drifting in must dissipate.
I am on a plane, somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, I imagine, though I’m not really certain. I spent the first few hours of this flight attempting to sleep...but my head won’t let me rest completely. I glance out the window at blackness and it’s there I want to be. Pitch black…
The gravity of this situation is quickly descending on me.
After all, I made a rather large revelation today. (Or, I guess it’s yesterday now. This time thing is going to take some getting used to.) Something I haven’t said to anyone in quite a long time. Years, in fact. Many things led me to believe that I would end up in this place, but I have guarded those words so fiercely. I thought refraining from saying it would somehow make it untrue…like I would still be able to keep one foot out the door. An attempt at self-preservation.
See, things change when you tell someone you love them…there’s no real way around it. Either it’s well-received or you end up making an ass of yourself. I felt pretty certain of the latter in this case, but even so, I decided it would be alright. I had to take the risk, because I don’t know what designs life has on me, and if something were to prevent us from seeing each other again, I would wish that he knew without a doubt how I felt about him. I can’t expect that there will be “another time,” there are just too many variables to consider.
As good as it felt to utter those words, I am feeling naked. I have felt extraordinarily exposed of late, and I think a good deal of this feeling can be attributed to some unconscious feelings I had…like he already knew I loved him. So maybe my saying it is inconsequential; I don’t know. After all, he has said that I’m a bit transparent where my behavior and feelings toward him are concerned. Things I thought I was keeping under wraps so well were already apparent to him. Is he extremely intuitive or is my poker face severely lacking?
I wonder what these next several months will hold. I am headed to a foreign country to live, surrounded by the new and unfamiliar. And I’ve developed these feelings for a man that, for all intents and purposes, feel new and unfamiliar. How I love adventure and new experiences, and oh how I hate to leave what is comfortable. For the last two weeks, its as though my heart has been incapable of feeling much more than sadness and longing.
I am rambling…but, I truly hope that when I get off this flying ship, I will feel some awakening. I need it. And I need to take advantage of this incredible opportunity, despite all else. I need to be excited and I truly want to be. I know it’s in there, because I’ve been dreaming of this for so long.
This surreal, nebulous cloud I’ve been drifting in must dissipate.
Monday, March 28, 2005
Put Yer Hiking Shoes On
I want desperately to want to write about something other than what I've been writing about recently. But, the somber tones seem to find their way into my writing of their own accord.
I want to write about something other than my tortured emotional state, but at the same time I don't want to force anything...a journal shouldn't be about creating some facade.
The thing is, I can easily identify with and dwell on the melancholy in life...is this a good thing or bad? I recently looked back on some of the things I wrote several months ago, to ponder the general flow of my writing and the tone each entry has taken. It's interesting the way the collection flows over a time period, and I can easily recall those feelings, re-identify with them, though I'm now far removed from those experiences. It makes me glad that I found this place, that I've been keeping this journal.
It feels, in a way, like a fingerprint that slowly develops intricacy over time. This is me, and though I've been apprehensive (many times!) to write what's really going on inside this head of mine, I think I've grown in some small way as a result of putting my thoughts on paper, so to speak.
I have grown up to feel most comfortable sheltering my emotions, my soft underbelly. Its a paradox of sorts that I'm incredibly emotional and intense - I just rarely allow others to see that side of me. I want to feel more comfortable with my intensity and I don't want to fear revealing myself because I'm worried about scaring others away. It has already taken so much work, I have to make a conscious effort to expose myself, though my instincts fight fiercely to reign it all in.
I understand that this process will be painful but when I'm doubting this mission I'm on, I think about how painful life would be like were I to someday look back on things and realize that I never let anyone know me. Which is worse? The latter, I think...and so that fear is my motivation for fighting this fear I feel now. Fight fire with fire, right?
I firmly believe the way to growth is a rocky and torturous path...and my tenacity won't allow me to give up, falter though I may.
I want to write about something other than my tortured emotional state, but at the same time I don't want to force anything...a journal shouldn't be about creating some facade.
The thing is, I can easily identify with and dwell on the melancholy in life...is this a good thing or bad? I recently looked back on some of the things I wrote several months ago, to ponder the general flow of my writing and the tone each entry has taken. It's interesting the way the collection flows over a time period, and I can easily recall those feelings, re-identify with them, though I'm now far removed from those experiences. It makes me glad that I found this place, that I've been keeping this journal.
It feels, in a way, like a fingerprint that slowly develops intricacy over time. This is me, and though I've been apprehensive (many times!) to write what's really going on inside this head of mine, I think I've grown in some small way as a result of putting my thoughts on paper, so to speak.
I have grown up to feel most comfortable sheltering my emotions, my soft underbelly. Its a paradox of sorts that I'm incredibly emotional and intense - I just rarely allow others to see that side of me. I want to feel more comfortable with my intensity and I don't want to fear revealing myself because I'm worried about scaring others away. It has already taken so much work, I have to make a conscious effort to expose myself, though my instincts fight fiercely to reign it all in.
I understand that this process will be painful but when I'm doubting this mission I'm on, I think about how painful life would be like were I to someday look back on things and realize that I never let anyone know me. Which is worse? The latter, I think...and so that fear is my motivation for fighting this fear I feel now. Fight fire with fire, right?
I firmly believe the way to growth is a rocky and torturous path...and my tenacity won't allow me to give up, falter though I may.
Sunday, March 27, 2005
My Exotic Getaway
My heart is hurting and I don't see refuge in sight...
I am days away from embarking on an incredible experience and I can't muster much excitement...the kind that might be expected when one is in such a place. Instead, my grey matter is preoccupied with feelings of loss and longing, feeling for some missed opportunity...another incredible experience, though of a very different vein, just a plane ride away.
It comes down to love vs. life. Though, in some ways, love is life, in this case choosing one means losing a bit of the other.
I dread my "final departure" because I think about how long it will be before I see his face again... those, deep and mysterious eyes, that smile. The way he holds me, how he can make me laugh with my entire body, and with little effort on his part. His smell and his childlike heart. So many things to contemplate...almost instantly, I want to cry. He is intense and so my recollections, my feelings, my associations regarding him are intense as well.
Conflicting emotions have been the predominate theme in recent months, and since I've left him, they are only intensifying. I so thoroughly enjoy feeling enveloped by emotions when involved with someone, especially one that rocks my world in such a way...yet, part of me just wishes it would all go away. I am so guarded with my heart, but once I cross the point-of-no-return, my heart is almost totally exposed. So...the hurt, its going to get much worse, I know it. And if I'm struggling so much now, what then? And then there's the fact that we're in different places emotionally...that makes it hard to fully embrace what I'm feeling because I know he's not there.
What have you done to me, Vino?
I can liken it to going on holiday to an exotic and beautiful destination. When you arrive, you're overwhelmed by what it has to offer, and each hour, each day you are there, you feel so grateful, so rewarded. At some point, your impending departure darkens the mood and you realize you must soak up as much of the environment before you go home. Your quests, your days, they become longer...you don't know when it is you'll be back to this place, and who knows if it will even be the same as you left it? So it becomes imperative to enjoy the experience to the fullest, and at the expense of sleep, or money, or whatever.
That is what I've tried to do in this relationship...he has been my Fiji, my Paris...those places I constantly dream of exploring but have not yet been able to find my way to. They are the type of places I know I want to go back to, before I've even visited them once. They are expensive to get to, time-consuming to fully appreciate, their appeal is both visible and cryptic...but it is always worth the sacrifice.
I am days away from embarking on an incredible experience and I can't muster much excitement...the kind that might be expected when one is in such a place. Instead, my grey matter is preoccupied with feelings of loss and longing, feeling for some missed opportunity...another incredible experience, though of a very different vein, just a plane ride away.
It comes down to love vs. life. Though, in some ways, love is life, in this case choosing one means losing a bit of the other.
I dread my "final departure" because I think about how long it will be before I see his face again... those, deep and mysterious eyes, that smile. The way he holds me, how he can make me laugh with my entire body, and with little effort on his part. His smell and his childlike heart. So many things to contemplate...almost instantly, I want to cry. He is intense and so my recollections, my feelings, my associations regarding him are intense as well.
Conflicting emotions have been the predominate theme in recent months, and since I've left him, they are only intensifying. I so thoroughly enjoy feeling enveloped by emotions when involved with someone, especially one that rocks my world in such a way...yet, part of me just wishes it would all go away. I am so guarded with my heart, but once I cross the point-of-no-return, my heart is almost totally exposed. So...the hurt, its going to get much worse, I know it. And if I'm struggling so much now, what then? And then there's the fact that we're in different places emotionally...that makes it hard to fully embrace what I'm feeling because I know he's not there.
What have you done to me, Vino?
I can liken it to going on holiday to an exotic and beautiful destination. When you arrive, you're overwhelmed by what it has to offer, and each hour, each day you are there, you feel so grateful, so rewarded. At some point, your impending departure darkens the mood and you realize you must soak up as much of the environment before you go home. Your quests, your days, they become longer...you don't know when it is you'll be back to this place, and who knows if it will even be the same as you left it? So it becomes imperative to enjoy the experience to the fullest, and at the expense of sleep, or money, or whatever.
That is what I've tried to do in this relationship...he has been my Fiji, my Paris...those places I constantly dream of exploring but have not yet been able to find my way to. They are the type of places I know I want to go back to, before I've even visited them once. They are expensive to get to, time-consuming to fully appreciate, their appeal is both visible and cryptic...but it is always worth the sacrifice.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
A Juxtaposition Cocktail with Bitters
I've slowly come to the realization that my life is one of extreme juxtaposition.
I have long known that I am a person of great contradiction, though it has taken some time to become accepting of this fate. Now though, I am presented with the reality of a real-world existence that will mirror the one I lead internally.
I've said time and again that I am aware of the delicate dance life's mysteries participate in, though I've never quite recognized a pattern with which they couple themselves. It's just kind of hit me...this thing.
I must live through something beautiful and fulfilling while in another arena of my life encounter some of the ugly vicissitudes of human existence. And they are always at such extremes: not just MILDY beautiful or MILDLY ugly, but preceded by an adjective suggesting notability. Yet, there is an even distribution, not only in the contexts of the experiences, but the magnitude with which they affect me is somehow balanced.
Granted, there are long stretches of time when the color of my world's sky seems all but gray, but I can generally will-out a bit of sunlight. The converse is true in times of extended summers. And so it is when I speak of these bizarre juxtapositions, I am referring to life's "big" things.
Now is a time when all I really want to see is an expansive desert sky, like those I so fondly recollect from my youth: The wonderous way in which, at dusk, the jagged, blackened profile of the mountains become blanketed with brilliant hues of magenta and orange. I long to close my eyes and bask in the warmth of the setting sun's rays, smelling of that sweet floral musk that I've never quite been able place. It is a thing of rare beauty, and my mind keeps creeping toward that vision...
The reality, however, is that my Arizona sky is an oasis. (Though it exists somewhere, this place I'm in now is just not magnificent desert-ready.) Because, just as quickly as I begin to explore its nuances, the illusion fades, forcing me to recede into the clutches of a far less spectacular materiality.
It's funny...I have this tendency to seek out the wizard behind the curtains, but as of late I've been trying to master the art of repression. I've been striving for unabashed idealism, just to see what it's like to go about life with such an outlook. Ironically - and of its own accord - the truth has found its way back to me. The realist has resurfaced.
What I surmise from all of these elements: I can't resist the natural flow, the energy that is inherent in my existence. So, I will not feign naïveté any longer...it just ain't my style.
I have long known that I am a person of great contradiction, though it has taken some time to become accepting of this fate. Now though, I am presented with the reality of a real-world existence that will mirror the one I lead internally.
I've said time and again that I am aware of the delicate dance life's mysteries participate in, though I've never quite recognized a pattern with which they couple themselves. It's just kind of hit me...this thing.
I must live through something beautiful and fulfilling while in another arena of my life encounter some of the ugly vicissitudes of human existence. And they are always at such extremes: not just MILDY beautiful or MILDLY ugly, but preceded by an adjective suggesting notability. Yet, there is an even distribution, not only in the contexts of the experiences, but the magnitude with which they affect me is somehow balanced.
Granted, there are long stretches of time when the color of my world's sky seems all but gray, but I can generally will-out a bit of sunlight. The converse is true in times of extended summers. And so it is when I speak of these bizarre juxtapositions, I am referring to life's "big" things.
Now is a time when all I really want to see is an expansive desert sky, like those I so fondly recollect from my youth: The wonderous way in which, at dusk, the jagged, blackened profile of the mountains become blanketed with brilliant hues of magenta and orange. I long to close my eyes and bask in the warmth of the setting sun's rays, smelling of that sweet floral musk that I've never quite been able place. It is a thing of rare beauty, and my mind keeps creeping toward that vision...
The reality, however, is that my Arizona sky is an oasis. (Though it exists somewhere, this place I'm in now is just not magnificent desert-ready.) Because, just as quickly as I begin to explore its nuances, the illusion fades, forcing me to recede into the clutches of a far less spectacular materiality.
It's funny...I have this tendency to seek out the wizard behind the curtains, but as of late I've been trying to master the art of repression. I've been striving for unabashed idealism, just to see what it's like to go about life with such an outlook. Ironically - and of its own accord - the truth has found its way back to me. The realist has resurfaced.
What I surmise from all of these elements: I can't resist the natural flow, the energy that is inherent in my existence. So, I will not feign naïveté any longer...it just ain't my style.
Wednesday, March 2, 2005
Er...
I am the Ice Queen.
Or so I've been deemed by a coworker, and probably various others who haven't the heart to admit it to me directly. She did, though. And over lunch no less.
It's not as bad as it sounds. She was telling me that that's the impression she got when she first met me. She was hired as a seasonal employee to assist me and others in my department. Apparently, when she introduced herself and in a few subsequent conversations, I came off as cold and a bit displeased with her presence.
Now, she says, she's aware that I'm just reserved and that it takes me a bit of time to warm up to people.
I didn't take offense to what she said; I always like to know what impressions I give others, good or bad. But, it got me thinking about how many others I've made feel the same way or similarly. While I can't apologize for my natural demeanor, I do know from past conversations and intuition that my tendencies can throw others off or rub them the wrong way.
Or so I've been deemed by a coworker, and probably various others who haven't the heart to admit it to me directly. She did, though. And over lunch no less.
It's not as bad as it sounds. She was telling me that that's the impression she got when she first met me. She was hired as a seasonal employee to assist me and others in my department. Apparently, when she introduced herself and in a few subsequent conversations, I came off as cold and a bit displeased with her presence.
Now, she says, she's aware that I'm just reserved and that it takes me a bit of time to warm up to people.
I didn't take offense to what she said; I always like to know what impressions I give others, good or bad. But, it got me thinking about how many others I've made feel the same way or similarly. While I can't apologize for my natural demeanor, I do know from past conversations and intuition that my tendencies can throw others off or rub them the wrong way.
Saturday, February 26, 2005
It's Come 'Round.
I suppose I deserve this...
Last time, it was me doing the forgetting. Now, they're the ones forgetting me.
But, I'm not even gone yet. That's the hardest part to come to grips with. It's understandable to lose sight of someone when distance separates you, but how is it so easily done when there's no geographical excuse?
I'm feeling a bit hyper-sensitive these days; that must account (at least partially) for these bizarre, juvenile feelings of abandonment. I feel unimportant in the eyes of some of my friends, in a time when I most need to feel supported. I am never very needy when it comes to my friendships - a downfall of mine is that I don't show a lot of emotion and I'm too prideful (a lot of the time) to ask for help or to appear weak. Perhaps, then, some of this is my doing; I've not given my friends any indication that I am struggling or in need of reassurance. They just expect me to be strong and unflinching. Yet, on the other hand, I feel that friends ought to be able to sense certain needs, without the other having to articulate them.
Are my expectations too high, and so regardless of the outcome here, I'll feel somehow slighted? Or, am I making excuses for people in lieu of some greater accountability to me and our relationship?
I think one of the great mysteries of life is the way in which character is revealed in unspectacular circumstances. I generally learn the most about others (and myself) through the trivialities of my day-to-day existence, and as a result, these trivialities cease to be so. They come to possess the truths about our idiosyncrasies, in some way a key to the hidden depths (or lack thereof) of our character.
Regardless of whether I am too difficult to please, or I'm allowing myself to make excuses for my friends, this period of time will come to be seen as tell-tale.
I'll just take my newfound impressions and go quietly...karma has dictated as much.
Last time, it was me doing the forgetting. Now, they're the ones forgetting me.
But, I'm not even gone yet. That's the hardest part to come to grips with. It's understandable to lose sight of someone when distance separates you, but how is it so easily done when there's no geographical excuse?
I'm feeling a bit hyper-sensitive these days; that must account (at least partially) for these bizarre, juvenile feelings of abandonment. I feel unimportant in the eyes of some of my friends, in a time when I most need to feel supported. I am never very needy when it comes to my friendships - a downfall of mine is that I don't show a lot of emotion and I'm too prideful (a lot of the time) to ask for help or to appear weak. Perhaps, then, some of this is my doing; I've not given my friends any indication that I am struggling or in need of reassurance. They just expect me to be strong and unflinching. Yet, on the other hand, I feel that friends ought to be able to sense certain needs, without the other having to articulate them.
Are my expectations too high, and so regardless of the outcome here, I'll feel somehow slighted? Or, am I making excuses for people in lieu of some greater accountability to me and our relationship?
I think one of the great mysteries of life is the way in which character is revealed in unspectacular circumstances. I generally learn the most about others (and myself) through the trivialities of my day-to-day existence, and as a result, these trivialities cease to be so. They come to possess the truths about our idiosyncrasies, in some way a key to the hidden depths (or lack thereof) of our character.
Regardless of whether I am too difficult to please, or I'm allowing myself to make excuses for my friends, this period of time will come to be seen as tell-tale.
I'll just take my newfound impressions and go quietly...karma has dictated as much.
Friday, February 25, 2005
The first rule of Fight Club is: You never talk about Fight Club.
We're all laughing at you.
Why don't you see it?
You have become so ugly, a grand façade with little substance to support it. One day you will crumble - so miserably - and I won't be here to witness the undoing.
I envision your future, and I've been tempted to reveal it to you. To coax you over the edge then allow you to fall into a bitter realization of the destiny you've created for yourself.
Like a muscle that may only grow stronger after being repeatedly torn down, you shall never evolve without experiencing great pain. Pain like that you've mercilessly inflicted on others. But, THIS kind, you're just to cowardly to feel. I fear you'll never quite be able to endure it.
You see, pain is some physical manifestation of honesty. It is the voice of your soul; that is why you abhor it so. There is little truth left in this life you've cultivated.
Where, my girl, have you gone?
And why is it that not one of us will deign to beg for your return? Someone's stolen your form and we're all too frightened or too inconvenienced to confront her. To force her out, or at the very least, demand some explanation for her presence here.
She's your Tyler Durden.
No one's saying it. But, we all know. We've some innate sense of what's really going on - an understanding. You, however, are hopelessly unaware. That, or you've done a spectacular job of appearing so.
So, my girl, get your gun. Because there's only one way out of this mess.
Why don't you see it?
You have become so ugly, a grand façade with little substance to support it. One day you will crumble - so miserably - and I won't be here to witness the undoing.
I envision your future, and I've been tempted to reveal it to you. To coax you over the edge then allow you to fall into a bitter realization of the destiny you've created for yourself.
Like a muscle that may only grow stronger after being repeatedly torn down, you shall never evolve without experiencing great pain. Pain like that you've mercilessly inflicted on others. But, THIS kind, you're just to cowardly to feel. I fear you'll never quite be able to endure it.
You see, pain is some physical manifestation of honesty. It is the voice of your soul; that is why you abhor it so. There is little truth left in this life you've cultivated.
Where, my girl, have you gone?
And why is it that not one of us will deign to beg for your return? Someone's stolen your form and we're all too frightened or too inconvenienced to confront her. To force her out, or at the very least, demand some explanation for her presence here.
She's your Tyler Durden.
No one's saying it. But, we all know. We've some innate sense of what's really going on - an understanding. You, however, are hopelessly unaware. That, or you've done a spectacular job of appearing so.
So, my girl, get your gun. Because there's only one way out of this mess.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
You Must Be At Least THIS Crazy To Ride This Ride
My feet are cold.
I'm on a roller coaster, alone.
Racing toward uncertainty. Up ahead, a long rise in the metal tracks. Excitement. The abrupt drop beyond? Anxiety. A lighting-fast corkscrew takes me through Fear, followed by a lethargic ascent to Anticipation. A breath-taking view. Next, Sadness. Courage. Loneliness. Joy.
When, exactly, will this ride come to an end? My stomach says what my head won't admit.
I'm second-guessing myself. My mind was clear, my gaze firmly focused on the goal. Now, my vision's gone blurry. I'm back to convincing myself that I'm doing the right thing. Before, I knew.
How much can one revisit a decision before all conviction has been depleted? Is this normal? Healthy?
My feet haven't felt warm for weeks...
It's not the kind of cold I'm used to.
I'm on a roller coaster, alone.
Racing toward uncertainty. Up ahead, a long rise in the metal tracks. Excitement. The abrupt drop beyond? Anxiety. A lighting-fast corkscrew takes me through Fear, followed by a lethargic ascent to Anticipation. A breath-taking view. Next, Sadness. Courage. Loneliness. Joy.
When, exactly, will this ride come to an end? My stomach says what my head won't admit.
I'm second-guessing myself. My mind was clear, my gaze firmly focused on the goal. Now, my vision's gone blurry. I'm back to convincing myself that I'm doing the right thing. Before, I knew.
How much can one revisit a decision before all conviction has been depleted? Is this normal? Healthy?
My feet haven't felt warm for weeks...
It's not the kind of cold I'm used to.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Numbers To Dial When My Number Is Up
You'll know how important you are to me based on whether you find your name on the list.
The list of "People To Contact In The Event Of Severe Injury Or Death."
There exist four copies of this list: My mother has one, another can be found in my apartment, filed with other important documents, the third I keep in my wallet, and the fourth is still waiting for a home.
I've kept some form of "the list" for the past four years. Some think it's morbid that I've compiled such a thing; I prefer to think of it as smart. You know, Boy Scout-caliber preparedness.
I don't recall what specific event prompted me to make the list, but I distinctly remember feeling a bit irresponsible - foolish, even - for not having gathered the information sooner.
I was living with a roommate at the time and it occurred to me that if I got into a serious car accident, for example, he'd have no way to get a hold of my family. This scared me for two reasons: One, were I in a situation in which I was clinging to life, I'd prefer a loved one by my side. Two, I wouldn't want to die and have my mother find out two weeks later, after she'd been beside herself with worry at not getting a hold of me (she can rarely go more than a few days without calling me). Then, I thought of my friends that may live out of state, those that have no ties to other of my friends or my family. Were I to die, they'd be none the wiser.
So, that's the reasoning behind it. Like I said, it seemed a natural document to keep. It wasn't until I started getting bizarre reactions from others that I began to question my mental health.
Some were scared: They thought I was PLANNING to go somewhere. This, of course, led to continual reassurance on my part that I wasn't going to be committing suicide. A few people, my mother included, saw my behavior as a bit off. They thought me paranoid. Others...they just laughed. Those are the ones that know me well enough to understand that sometimes, it's impossible to understand me.
Once I realized what a stir my list could cause, I became motivated to use it as a conversation piece - a springboard to discussions about mortality.
Because, the thing is, we are too frightened of Death.
Why is talk of death so consistently avoided? Why is one assumed to be depressed or suicidal if they openly express thoughts on dying?
Death is so taboo.
Yet, it's a normal part of life. We'll all face it. Why not embrace the fact and go in, eyes open? (Figuratively speaking.)
This little list, born of a desire for some connectedness, and - I'll admit - a bit of an obsessiveness regarding detail, has led to a completed restructuring of my views on life and death. It has made me question the "truths" given me by society - a society that teaches me to live in fear.
I don't want to die. Not now, anyway. And not in the next 50 or so years, if I'm honest. I can't pretend that I feel no fear of death; I'm not so highly evolved. Rather, my fear has diminished and therein made room for a bit of well-deserved respect.
We'll soon be old friends, Mr. Black and I.
The list of "People To Contact In The Event Of Severe Injury Or Death."
There exist four copies of this list: My mother has one, another can be found in my apartment, filed with other important documents, the third I keep in my wallet, and the fourth is still waiting for a home.
I've kept some form of "the list" for the past four years. Some think it's morbid that I've compiled such a thing; I prefer to think of it as smart. You know, Boy Scout-caliber preparedness.
I don't recall what specific event prompted me to make the list, but I distinctly remember feeling a bit irresponsible - foolish, even - for not having gathered the information sooner.
I was living with a roommate at the time and it occurred to me that if I got into a serious car accident, for example, he'd have no way to get a hold of my family. This scared me for two reasons: One, were I in a situation in which I was clinging to life, I'd prefer a loved one by my side. Two, I wouldn't want to die and have my mother find out two weeks later, after she'd been beside herself with worry at not getting a hold of me (she can rarely go more than a few days without calling me). Then, I thought of my friends that may live out of state, those that have no ties to other of my friends or my family. Were I to die, they'd be none the wiser.
So, that's the reasoning behind it. Like I said, it seemed a natural document to keep. It wasn't until I started getting bizarre reactions from others that I began to question my mental health.
Some were scared: They thought I was PLANNING to go somewhere. This, of course, led to continual reassurance on my part that I wasn't going to be committing suicide. A few people, my mother included, saw my behavior as a bit off. They thought me paranoid. Others...they just laughed. Those are the ones that know me well enough to understand that sometimes, it's impossible to understand me.
Once I realized what a stir my list could cause, I became motivated to use it as a conversation piece - a springboard to discussions about mortality.
Because, the thing is, we are too frightened of Death.
Why is talk of death so consistently avoided? Why is one assumed to be depressed or suicidal if they openly express thoughts on dying?
Death is so taboo.
Yet, it's a normal part of life. We'll all face it. Why not embrace the fact and go in, eyes open? (Figuratively speaking.)
This little list, born of a desire for some connectedness, and - I'll admit - a bit of an obsessiveness regarding detail, has led to a completed restructuring of my views on life and death. It has made me question the "truths" given me by society - a society that teaches me to live in fear.
I don't want to die. Not now, anyway. And not in the next 50 or so years, if I'm honest. I can't pretend that I feel no fear of death; I'm not so highly evolved. Rather, my fear has diminished and therein made room for a bit of well-deserved respect.
We'll soon be old friends, Mr. Black and I.
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Friendships: High Mortality Rate
Every so often I make a mental list of all my "friends." It's never a huge list.
I'll go through each name, take the temperature of our relationship, then formulate some hypothesis about the life expectancy of the friendship.
It's not generally a conscious thing, more of a compulsive activity.
Several years ago I read something - lyrics galvanized in time by some mid-century folk band, I believe - which effectively captured the nature of relationships. Something along the lines of: Some people come into your life for a reason, some for a season, and others for a lifetime.
The idea struck me then, and I've found it applicable to my life over the years. In a way, it has become a personal mantra. It has made the saying of goodbyes somewhat easier, the acceptance of absolution less challenging.
I believe that each of life's interactions account for a small piece of the puzzle, together comprising a work that explains our existence. Each is a clue to explaining where we've been, and certainly, the people we've become in the process.
For that reason, I feel no regret for the things that have transpired between myself and my friends, my acquaintances, my lovers. Each relationship has served some purpose beyond the obvious social arrangement. In every case, I have learned from the other and I hope, have somehow enabled the other's growth.
My perspective does not in any way suggest that there is no loss involved. Determining what category a relationship falls into - reason, season, lifetime - is seldom easy. Knowing if and when to sever ties can become an exhausting pursuit, but the periodic evaluation, and therefore, self-reflection is paramount if I am to maximize my time here.
There's little sense in remaining a part of something whose costs greatly outweigh its benefits, and on the other hand, no sense in forgoing some greater happiness for the sake of short-term ease of movement.
The idea of the relational relvolving door can, if one is not mindful, become an excuse for isolation; my greatest challenge has been using the theory as a means of achieving personal evolution and long-term satisfaction.
I'll go through each name, take the temperature of our relationship, then formulate some hypothesis about the life expectancy of the friendship.
It's not generally a conscious thing, more of a compulsive activity.
Several years ago I read something - lyrics galvanized in time by some mid-century folk band, I believe - which effectively captured the nature of relationships. Something along the lines of: Some people come into your life for a reason, some for a season, and others for a lifetime.
The idea struck me then, and I've found it applicable to my life over the years. In a way, it has become a personal mantra. It has made the saying of goodbyes somewhat easier, the acceptance of absolution less challenging.
I believe that each of life's interactions account for a small piece of the puzzle, together comprising a work that explains our existence. Each is a clue to explaining where we've been, and certainly, the people we've become in the process.
For that reason, I feel no regret for the things that have transpired between myself and my friends, my acquaintances, my lovers. Each relationship has served some purpose beyond the obvious social arrangement. In every case, I have learned from the other and I hope, have somehow enabled the other's growth.
My perspective does not in any way suggest that there is no loss involved. Determining what category a relationship falls into - reason, season, lifetime - is seldom easy. Knowing if and when to sever ties can become an exhausting pursuit, but the periodic evaluation, and therefore, self-reflection is paramount if I am to maximize my time here.
There's little sense in remaining a part of something whose costs greatly outweigh its benefits, and on the other hand, no sense in forgoing some greater happiness for the sake of short-term ease of movement.
The idea of the relational relvolving door can, if one is not mindful, become an excuse for isolation; my greatest challenge has been using the theory as a means of achieving personal evolution and long-term satisfaction.
Monday, February 7, 2005
She's a bitch, and her name is Timing.
Timing is everything. Or so they say.
I say, Timing can be a real bitch.
I am feeling so ridiculously attracted to a certain man and I happen to be moving out of state in less than six weeks.
Just so you know, I may feign surprise, but truthfully, there is none here. Not with me; I've come to expect such things.
Back in early December, I was really jonesin' to ask this guy out. I met him at school and had been oh-so-subtly keeping my eye on him. He intrigued me and THAT was enough to prevent me from asking him out. (Kind of backasswards, I know.) See, I knew that if I went out with him, I'd begin to like him and I just didn't want to travel that road, knowing full well I'd be leaving in March. Call me crazy, but I seek to avoid torturing myself if at all possible.
But, how did I know I'd fancy him, you ask?
There was just something about him: Intangible. Sexy. Captivating.
Any time I use three adjectives like those to describe a man, I pretty much understand what I'm in for. Because, that special kind of three-adjective man has only shown his face in my world once before, and for simplicity's sake, I'll just say, it wasn't pretty.
But, I digress. The next logical question is: If you had effectively made up your mind about the situation in December, why are we here?
Wellll...
The term at school ended and I went on holiday to Phoenix. I didn't see the 3-Ad School Boy for a few weeks. Yet, I'm fairly certain I thought of him - and consequently, my reluctance - every damn day during that period. Apparently, I wasn't going to let myself off the hook so easily.
I began to envision the regret that would accumulate if I didn't give in to my urges, and so I came to the conclusion that I'd rather deal with feelings of attraction and intense emotion, than try to cope with those of regret. I resolved my cognitive dissonance by telling myself I would be an idiot if I let the opportunity pass. Simple, eh?
That calmness of spirit lasted until about halfway though our first date...at which point I began to silently curse myself.
F&@k! Sh%t! What do you think you're doing? Do you realize how SCREWED you are?! You've gotten a taste, now it's all over. You dumbass. F*#K.
So yeah...that was Date #1. Since the idea of avoiding torture has effectively gone out the window, I won't bother telling you the things I'm saying to myself now.
I say, Timing can be a real bitch.
I am feeling so ridiculously attracted to a certain man and I happen to be moving out of state in less than six weeks.
Just so you know, I may feign surprise, but truthfully, there is none here. Not with me; I've come to expect such things.
Back in early December, I was really jonesin' to ask this guy out. I met him at school and had been oh-so-subtly keeping my eye on him. He intrigued me and THAT was enough to prevent me from asking him out. (Kind of backasswards, I know.) See, I knew that if I went out with him, I'd begin to like him and I just didn't want to travel that road, knowing full well I'd be leaving in March. Call me crazy, but I seek to avoid torturing myself if at all possible.
But, how did I know I'd fancy him, you ask?
There was just something about him: Intangible. Sexy. Captivating.
Any time I use three adjectives like those to describe a man, I pretty much understand what I'm in for. Because, that special kind of three-adjective man has only shown his face in my world once before, and for simplicity's sake, I'll just say, it wasn't pretty.
But, I digress. The next logical question is: If you had effectively made up your mind about the situation in December, why are we here?
Wellll...
The term at school ended and I went on holiday to Phoenix. I didn't see the 3-Ad School Boy for a few weeks. Yet, I'm fairly certain I thought of him - and consequently, my reluctance - every damn day during that period. Apparently, I wasn't going to let myself off the hook so easily.
I began to envision the regret that would accumulate if I didn't give in to my urges, and so I came to the conclusion that I'd rather deal with feelings of attraction and intense emotion, than try to cope with those of regret. I resolved my cognitive dissonance by telling myself I would be an idiot if I let the opportunity pass. Simple, eh?
That calmness of spirit lasted until about halfway though our first date...at which point I began to silently curse myself.
F&@k! Sh%t! What do you think you're doing? Do you realize how SCREWED you are?! You've gotten a taste, now it's all over. You dumbass. F*#K.
So yeah...that was Date #1. Since the idea of avoiding torture has effectively gone out the window, I won't bother telling you the things I'm saying to myself now.
Thursday, February 3, 2005
He's Just Not That Into You
F-in A.
On Saturday, a girlfriend of mine gave me a book to read. Ever so nonchalantly, I accepted. She knows I love to read; I guessed she thought it especially funny or whatever. I had seen the book many times at the bookstore and each time, the title had caught my eye: He's Just Not That Into You.
Only, I thought it was just some cheesy, chick novel. I realized about one minute into actually reading it, however, it certainly was NOT a novel. It's, uh, pretty much the proverbial single woman's nightmare, delicately wrapped in a glossy pink cover.
(Bastards rope you in and hold on tight. I hate when that happens.)
Reading the book made me feel such a plethora of emotions, many simultaneously. I felt the need to vomit while at the same time desiring to kick some guy's face in. Any guy would do. I'd teeter between the need to laugh and the urge to cry my pathetic eyes out. Shout obscenities at the wall in my apartment, if only for the release of energy.
This type of subject matter makes me go all funny. I detest being at the mercy of emotions in such a way, specifically when I haven't seen the situation coming.
I had prepared myself for a light read, something to relax with on a Sunday night while I soaked in the tub. What I got instead, was the equivalent of a fist fight was a man named All The Things You Think You Know About Relationships. He won; I lay bloody and battered on the ground, reeling from shock at a situation that I never had the opportunity to get my bearings in. He was just too fast, too powerful.
And the worst part was, he didn't even have to try that hard. He was ready for Round Three, only the slightest condensation having gathered at his temples.
On Saturday, a girlfriend of mine gave me a book to read. Ever so nonchalantly, I accepted. She knows I love to read; I guessed she thought it especially funny or whatever. I had seen the book many times at the bookstore and each time, the title had caught my eye: He's Just Not That Into You.
Only, I thought it was just some cheesy, chick novel. I realized about one minute into actually reading it, however, it certainly was NOT a novel. It's, uh, pretty much the proverbial single woman's nightmare, delicately wrapped in a glossy pink cover.
(Bastards rope you in and hold on tight. I hate when that happens.)
Reading the book made me feel such a plethora of emotions, many simultaneously. I felt the need to vomit while at the same time desiring to kick some guy's face in. Any guy would do. I'd teeter between the need to laugh and the urge to cry my pathetic eyes out. Shout obscenities at the wall in my apartment, if only for the release of energy.
This type of subject matter makes me go all funny. I detest being at the mercy of emotions in such a way, specifically when I haven't seen the situation coming.
I had prepared myself for a light read, something to relax with on a Sunday night while I soaked in the tub. What I got instead, was the equivalent of a fist fight was a man named All The Things You Think You Know About Relationships. He won; I lay bloody and battered on the ground, reeling from shock at a situation that I never had the opportunity to get my bearings in. He was just too fast, too powerful.
And the worst part was, he didn't even have to try that hard. He was ready for Round Three, only the slightest condensation having gathered at his temples.
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