I think it's weird how I try to distill myself into a few large chunks and then realize that not only are those chunks not appealing, how limiting in scope I've become. Frequent gaming has attuned me too maximize my gains and minimize my losses. In turn I have shown people all the things I'm interested in and good at, and indirectly told them all the things I don't care about and suck at.
Why am I so black & white?
Monday, December 15, 2008
Still not asleep
One of those nights, I guess.
Funny how this blog looks like the one I did seven years ago.
Funny how this blog looks like the one I did seven years ago.
It's 1:46 AM and I'll be asleep soon.
It's comforting to know your ex is with a decent person and not a faceless monstrosity.
I explained to Monica my dating history which really reads like a short resume of the life of a serial dater.
I never pegged myself to be someone who must always be in a relationship, but given that choice and my distinct bent of being an asshole when I'm single, I gladly accept that almost needy title.
There is a two month countdown for me to be battle-ready and physically enable others to do so. I'm training for it now.
While I am trying to think of my last girlfriend as a friend with whom I don't speak, it's hard for me to do that since:
A. I frequently speak to my friends, and
B. In my present-tense, classify-everything way of living, somebody has to be that "villain"
And "villain" is the worse word for me to use as it is both antithetical in its intent and reality, but as in the third paragraph, admitting another word opens up a can of worms I'm not ready to cover right now. If the opportunity for a dialogue ever happens I will take it--or just listen, a lot.
I'm a better boyfriend now than I ever was. Still need to improve.
Is being a kick-ass boyfriend a worthwhile goal? I know being an equivalent mother or father is, and girlfriends are awesome, but being an okay boyfriend is all that's expected. As an individual pursuit, is it something that a guy can pursue and find personal joy from, or is it an incidental achievement? Is being a kick-ass boyfriend just being a kick-ass human being? Shouldn't being an awesome boyfriend be assumption in addition to accomplishing other things? If companionship is all I exceed at am I less of a person?
Oh man, I didn't see this post going where it went.
I should have slept sooner.
I explained to Monica my dating history which really reads like a short resume of the life of a serial dater.
I never pegged myself to be someone who must always be in a relationship, but given that choice and my distinct bent of being an asshole when I'm single, I gladly accept that almost needy title.
There is a two month countdown for me to be battle-ready and physically enable others to do so. I'm training for it now.
While I am trying to think of my last girlfriend as a friend with whom I don't speak, it's hard for me to do that since:
A. I frequently speak to my friends, and
B. In my present-tense, classify-everything way of living, somebody has to be that "villain"
And "villain" is the worse word for me to use as it is both antithetical in its intent and reality, but as in the third paragraph, admitting another word opens up a can of worms I'm not ready to cover right now. If the opportunity for a dialogue ever happens I will take it--or just listen, a lot.
I'm a better boyfriend now than I ever was. Still need to improve.
Is being a kick-ass boyfriend a worthwhile goal? I know being an equivalent mother or father is, and girlfriends are awesome, but being an okay boyfriend is all that's expected. As an individual pursuit, is it something that a guy can pursue and find personal joy from, or is it an incidental achievement? Is being a kick-ass boyfriend just being a kick-ass human being? Shouldn't being an awesome boyfriend be assumption in addition to accomplishing other things? If companionship is all I exceed at am I less of a person?
Oh man, I didn't see this post going where it went.
I should have slept sooner.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Borders // CHILDREN'S-PSYCHOLOGY-BARGAINS
BORDERS
Welcome to the urban jungle where the displays are meant to impress but no one
takes time to take in anything but the surface, where nothing is taken seriously
except for oneself.
This bookstore is here because a bookstore has to be here. Just like a cafe has
to serve sandwiches and cookies and non-dairy alternatives. Where the latest
movies have a life equal to your attention span and the bargain bins are filled
with yesterdays news.
Here we have options that no one wants to take but just like knowing that they have
them. Here is unrealized opportunity--people with unexcercised power and atrophied
realities.
Here in this "cafe" is a ring of laptops opened to privacy. Dressed to be on display,
no one wants to take center stage.
I wonder about the regulars. Who chooses to be here? This "cafe," this kiosk that
serves a coffee named 10 sizes too big, serves the eldest brothers and sisters of
NWA's caucasian fanbase. Armchair adventurers and advocates, politicos and
PTA's with words bulging from their gapes, they that want that sanitized coffee shop
feel without the lingering feeling.
The feeling of making contact.
The feeling when change happens.
The feeling of knowing you will see this person again and they will remember this
conversation.
What about the books in this shop? The trophies, the conversation starters, the
impulse buys and room decorations? The ones we love are worn, not on the
showroom floor. The ones valued here are new or valued by others, or valued
because of their lack of value: it's popularity by inflation and depreciation.
I'm not talking aloud. I'm not talking to or from or even mumbling passive-agressives.
I'm unengaging, silently dissenting, and enabling, making no mention of my dismay.
I want to think of myself as a silent advocate, but that's not any different than someone
without a voice. I'm the other side of the same dissembled coin.
So why are we here? Why do we come if we never talk, or want to touch or meet?
Do we want to be seen? Why are we so picky about whom we are approached?
These books, these clothes, these electronic devices lure unsuspecting "friends."
We are fisher men and women holed up on tabletop shores, willing to wait all day
for a bite. We are trappers camoflaged in the woodwork, waiting for prey even we
haven't suspected.
Sometimes I feel like an aggressive golfer simultaneously holding up a flag and
wanting to put a hole in one.
I haven't answered the question, but I may have proved a point: that no one here
knows what they're doing here but maybe if they stay long enough they will figure
it out. Or someone else will--but they have to be there to know it. Or be told about
it. This is the least a person can do: being here. A person can't win until they commit
the coins: life is a gamble that no one wants to lose. It's not always clear what's at stake
but no one wants to miss out.
I wish everyone here knew they were on the same team.
* * *
CHILDREN'S-PSYCHOLOGY-BARGAINS
This is a giant mall. A Mall the size of a city block. Every where I see are visually
correct standards for advertising: symmetry, groups of threes, ALL CAPS,
small caps, bolds and italics. Here the standards are high. It's like everyone is
special--so no one is.
Welcome to the urban jungle where the displays are meant to impress but no one
takes time to take in anything but the surface, where nothing is taken seriously
except for oneself.
This bookstore is here because a bookstore has to be here. Just like a cafe has
to serve sandwiches and cookies and non-dairy alternatives. Where the latest
movies have a life equal to your attention span and the bargain bins are filled
with yesterdays news.
Here we have options that no one wants to take but just like knowing that they have
them. Here is unrealized opportunity--people with unexcercised power and atrophied
realities.
Here in this "cafe" is a ring of laptops opened to privacy. Dressed to be on display,
no one wants to take center stage.
I wonder about the regulars. Who chooses to be here? This "cafe," this kiosk that
serves a coffee named 10 sizes too big, serves the eldest brothers and sisters of
NWA's caucasian fanbase. Armchair adventurers and advocates, politicos and
PTA's with words bulging from their gapes, they that want that sanitized coffee shop
feel without the lingering feeling.
The feeling of making contact.
The feeling when change happens.
The feeling of knowing you will see this person again and they will remember this
conversation.
What about the books in this shop? The trophies, the conversation starters, the
impulse buys and room decorations? The ones we love are worn, not on the
showroom floor. The ones valued here are new or valued by others, or valued
because of their lack of value: it's popularity by inflation and depreciation.
I'm not talking aloud. I'm not talking to or from or even mumbling passive-agressives.
I'm unengaging, silently dissenting, and enabling, making no mention of my dismay.
I want to think of myself as a silent advocate, but that's not any different than someone
without a voice. I'm the other side of the same dissembled coin.
So why are we here? Why do we come if we never talk, or want to touch or meet?
Do we want to be seen? Why are we so picky about whom we are approached?
These books, these clothes, these electronic devices lure unsuspecting "friends."
We are fisher men and women holed up on tabletop shores, willing to wait all day
for a bite. We are trappers camoflaged in the woodwork, waiting for prey even we
haven't suspected.
Sometimes I feel like an aggressive golfer simultaneously holding up a flag and
wanting to put a hole in one.
I haven't answered the question, but I may have proved a point: that no one here
knows what they're doing here but maybe if they stay long enough they will figure
it out. Or someone else will--but they have to be there to know it. Or be told about
it. This is the least a person can do: being here. A person can't win until they commit
the coins: life is a gamble that no one wants to lose. It's not always clear what's at stake
but no one wants to miss out.
I wish everyone here knew they were on the same team.
* * *
CHILDREN'S-PSYCHOLOGY-BARGAINS
This is a giant mall. A Mall the size of a city block. Every where I see are visually
correct standards for advertising: symmetry, groups of threes, ALL CAPS,
small caps, bolds and italics. Here the standards are high. It's like everyone is
special--so no one is.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Just Because
Alyssa, the introverted captor of men attentions, tells me I should write. She says that its a good habit to develop, to purposely train myself to put on tablet what I'm thinking. She doesn't say much more except that she never shares her writing. Her words are for her alone. I respect that.
I can see where she's going. Habits are motions with inertia, and it would be good for me to want to log my thoughts. It would make my other writing adventures, especially the ones work-related, much easier to begin and finish. Not everything has to be a deep thought but very often it is important to just get the words out. At its base, it releases the words into the ether like a free agent athlete ready to be snatched up by the team that wants him the most.
Cheers to good habits. Thanks, Alyssa.
I can see where she's going. Habits are motions with inertia, and it would be good for me to want to log my thoughts. It would make my other writing adventures, especially the ones work-related, much easier to begin and finish. Not everything has to be a deep thought but very often it is important to just get the words out. At its base, it releases the words into the ether like a free agent athlete ready to be snatched up by the team that wants him the most.
Cheers to good habits. Thanks, Alyssa.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Why would you use two hands to make one note? / #360 Switched At Birth
Being alone makes me depressed. Maybe it was alright when I was kid and didn't know what I wanted, or maybe it was alright because I wasn't actively looking, just observing. But now I have developed needs for myself. I have a need to belong. I have a need to feel noticed and to have my contributions acknowledged. I feel like less of a kid. This is not because of my age but because of the weight of responsibility laid upon me. I have less chances of screwing up, more expectations of me, and wants from me.
I started a load of whites. There's blacks and a mixed pile of coloreds. Weeks run together. I've been using a car freshener as a calender.
This morning I was able to muster some will and rationale to divvy up my dirties. I had an empty hamper on the same day I aligned the the bottom part of the tree with "Week 1." There are now four large-sized loads on the floor, and the tree that was so diligently tugged every week is now out of the bag.
I need a new a tree. For the hamper.
The legacy of my parents can't keep on. I can't live my life like a sidebar in a magazine. I can't just be a novelty that grabs everyone's attention. I want meat and potatoes. I want to be the articles that warrant a subscription. Management has expanded me into an adult I never imagined myself to be: working twelve hour days without gripe, doing whatever I need to do and shutting the hell up about about it. Not that I believe stoicism is a necessity or that work takes precedence over expressing emotion, but trudging along without constant gratitude or praise is a skill that before this year was unknown to me. How ever talented I may feel about something, or subjectively superior, I have to recognize that praise is a rarity and doing good work is just a part of the job. Having a life means not just living your own but allowing others to participate in it. I've done an excellent job of taking life on my own terms, but I still need to improve on sharing it with others who mean a lot to me. Maybe this will prevent another college level debaucle or having another family member fade into obscurity.
Where's my girlfriend? She needs to come over.
I started a load of whites. There's blacks and a mixed pile of coloreds. Weeks run together. I've been using a car freshener as a calender.
This morning I was able to muster some will and rationale to divvy up my dirties. I had an empty hamper on the same day I aligned the the bottom part of the tree with "Week 1." There are now four large-sized loads on the floor, and the tree that was so diligently tugged every week is now out of the bag.I need a new a tree. For the hamper.
The legacy of my parents can't keep on. I can't live my life like a sidebar in a magazine. I can't just be a novelty that grabs everyone's attention. I want meat and potatoes. I want to be the articles that warrant a subscription. Management has expanded me into an adult I never imagined myself to be: working twelve hour days without gripe, doing whatever I need to do and shutting the hell up about about it. Not that I believe stoicism is a necessity or that work takes precedence over expressing emotion, but trudging along without constant gratitude or praise is a skill that before this year was unknown to me. How ever talented I may feel about something, or subjectively superior, I have to recognize that praise is a rarity and doing good work is just a part of the job. Having a life means not just living your own but allowing others to participate in it. I've done an excellent job of taking life on my own terms, but I still need to improve on sharing it with others who mean a lot to me. Maybe this will prevent another college level debaucle or having another family member fade into obscurity.
Where's my girlfriend? She needs to come over.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
31: When You Talk About Music / Never Is A Promise / Across The Universe
It's out. It's finally out, and it's taken two birthdays, a year and a half of Britain, 30 hours of being awake, and 16 days straight of work. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I'm sitting on my bed in the same spot as I always do when I'm writing these proselytizers. It's literally a basement with a single light. This bullet head lamp from an ex cranes above me like an oncoming train crashing through the dark and playing chicken with me. This basement is also home to red-hued daddy arachnids who jump, drop and bite, and this is where I spend my life.
On the "air" is an episode of This American Life from 1996. It has no preamble, it just gets into it: "[Dael Orlandersmith], [an African-American woman], transforms herself in this story into a loudmouthed Italian guy. At a wedding, this character meets a woman who reminds him of who he was before he got married and had kids: a guy who loved jazz, a different guy than he is now." Between the hours of 4 am and 6 am this morning, I remembered what I did in that last year and a half of school.
Our stories paralleled. He was unsatisfied. He watched the denouement as it happened--like a car crashing at four months per hour. And when he severed it, he put on his parachute and landed in another bed. Friends didn't cheer at his survival; they jeered at how fast he received mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
And this is how the story diverges. "He" could be Josh or Chris, or even the girl that came between them. Who you are and whom you hear the story from changes the shade of villainy... I still don't know how I'm seen. There's light on me, but not enough mirrors.
We talked about how we didn't talk. There was a moment when we kinda knew, or guessed at what we knew, but neither of us spat it out. Our friendship took less and less breaths, until it passed out. He went to England and I threw myself into work. In the interim year I erroneously placed blame on the heads of blonds and championed the witch hunt to displace the onus from myself. In that same year I kept potential lovers at bay because I didn't trust myself with anyone's heart.
(to be continued...)
* * *
I'm more like my parents every day. Today's lesson is how to distance yourself and make an exalted persona for yourself.
My parents are the favorite aunt and uncle of a lot of my cousins. They never throw parties, only occasionally go to them. They monetarily and emotionally support friends and loved ones to the point of being "rescuers," but they never ask or hint at for help in return. They take separate vacations. They want to know that the other is safe and constantly tell the other is loved, but it's hard to believe its more than just words.
My mom blatantly told me that she and and my dad were very different, but they loved each other. "We know each others faults and strengths, and we complement each other very well." She's right, in a way. I only see them stir a little bit, live kinda-lives. Two half-people must complement very well.
But that's unfair. I don't know their views, or their likes or interests anymore because I don't ask. I'm never around. At the same time, they don't advertise. I'm pretty darn sure that I have the same mentality as them. My parents and I are opposing goalies who will join the fight once the other does.
I don't have enough people in my life. I participate in other lives, but rarely invite others into mine.
(to be continued...)
I'm sitting on my bed in the same spot as I always do when I'm writing these proselytizers. It's literally a basement with a single light. This bullet head lamp from an ex cranes above me like an oncoming train crashing through the dark and playing chicken with me. This basement is also home to red-hued daddy arachnids who jump, drop and bite, and this is where I spend my life.
On the "air" is an episode of This American Life from 1996. It has no preamble, it just gets into it: "[Dael Orlandersmith], [an African-American woman], transforms herself in this story into a loudmouthed Italian guy. At a wedding, this character meets a woman who reminds him of who he was before he got married and had kids: a guy who loved jazz, a different guy than he is now." Between the hours of 4 am and 6 am this morning, I remembered what I did in that last year and a half of school.
Our stories paralleled. He was unsatisfied. He watched the denouement as it happened--like a car crashing at four months per hour. And when he severed it, he put on his parachute and landed in another bed. Friends didn't cheer at his survival; they jeered at how fast he received mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
And this is how the story diverges. "He" could be Josh or Chris, or even the girl that came between them. Who you are and whom you hear the story from changes the shade of villainy... I still don't know how I'm seen. There's light on me, but not enough mirrors.
We talked about how we didn't talk. There was a moment when we kinda knew, or guessed at what we knew, but neither of us spat it out. Our friendship took less and less breaths, until it passed out. He went to England and I threw myself into work. In the interim year I erroneously placed blame on the heads of blonds and championed the witch hunt to displace the onus from myself. In that same year I kept potential lovers at bay because I didn't trust myself with anyone's heart.
(to be continued...)
* * *
I'm more like my parents every day. Today's lesson is how to distance yourself and make an exalted persona for yourself.
My parents are the favorite aunt and uncle of a lot of my cousins. They never throw parties, only occasionally go to them. They monetarily and emotionally support friends and loved ones to the point of being "rescuers," but they never ask or hint at for help in return. They take separate vacations. They want to know that the other is safe and constantly tell the other is loved, but it's hard to believe its more than just words.
My mom blatantly told me that she and and my dad were very different, but they loved each other. "We know each others faults and strengths, and we complement each other very well." She's right, in a way. I only see them stir a little bit, live kinda-lives. Two half-people must complement very well.
But that's unfair. I don't know their views, or their likes or interests anymore because I don't ask. I'm never around. At the same time, they don't advertise. I'm pretty darn sure that I have the same mentality as them. My parents and I are opposing goalies who will join the fight once the other does.
I don't have enough people in my life. I participate in other lives, but rarely invite others into mine.
(to be continued...)
Monday, October 27, 2008
Not Good Enough
The dream took place in a classroom. Dr. Owren (who went by Ms. Chambers), was running movies and answering questions for singer, musical theater, and general actor 20-year old's. The board listed the performance, Cathedral of Faith 7-10 PM, the one we were collectively killing time to see. Melissa Tom was there critiquing Meloskovo Buskeweitz (aka Paul) and his wife's last performance. I saw some lady from Elementary school.
This dream is a nutshell of my past that I've forgotten. Maybe on purpose. I received a Myspace message from a girl I used to call a best friend, but forgot why we stopped being friends. That happens a lot, that forgetfullness. I'm quick to blame myself--I know how much of a dick, how quick I was to burn a bridge. I stopped friendship with people who embodied too many of my bad qualities, to whom I offended but didn't know how to apologize. I stopped being friends with people when the drama was like an inbox jammed with unread messages. I was overwhelmed and wanted to start over.
The dream is also full of things I don't do anymore that once I might have pursued. Dr. Owren directed a choir that began to explore my voice, but I couldn't see where it would eventually lead to, so I stopped. Ms Chambers was my Freshmen Honors English teacher; I read my first Shakespeare and Euripides in that class, but haven't explored either author much more since. I don't have a desire to act on a stage, sing on a stage or even go to school. It sounds awful, but my life is lived thusly: "I'm going to keep doing something until something better comes along."
Is that any different than what everybody else does? Don't we continue to live until the need to reinvent, rejuvenate, refresh, or remove ourselves from a life? That message I received is a reminder of antics that I totally forgot about. If you asked me about high school, I would have told you "that unlike other people, my experience was awesome." For the most part, I agree. High School was like four years of probation: everybody expects you to fuck up, so you try things mainly for the sake of trying them. Mostly it sucks, but you learn that it sucks, first hand, so you acquire a sense of knowing that far exceeds anything learned from even the most reliable second-hand information.
I believe that the past catches up with you. I believe in cycles, and things left undone will be done. People you left behind, people who have things left unsaid. That message is one of those things.
This isn't independent of will. People may reappear, like second chances, by the choice to fully reintroduce them into your life is a wholly different matter. Did I read the message? Yes. Will I "friend" them? I don't know. I'm way optimistic about life, and think that people can change--I have.
But... friend them?
Sorry--I just spent 20 minutes looking at this person's page. There's a part of me thats thinking "if I don't friend him I'm being a hypocrite about 'change' misjudging and prejudging another person's ability to improve himself. The basic question I have to ask is one of magnitude: does this person have a positive influence on my life?" I don't know the answer to that question. Judging from past experiences the answer is no. I don't want to make a quick dismissal, but I also don't want to be swayed into casual "friending." People often take advantage of situations because of an underlying fear of loss--lost opportunities, money, connections. What underlies all of my actions is comfort. Do I feel comfortable having this person in life again, however minute or trite? The answer is a decided no.
Forget it. DENY.
This dream is a nutshell of my past that I've forgotten. Maybe on purpose. I received a Myspace message from a girl I used to call a best friend, but forgot why we stopped being friends. That happens a lot, that forgetfullness. I'm quick to blame myself--I know how much of a dick, how quick I was to burn a bridge. I stopped friendship with people who embodied too many of my bad qualities, to whom I offended but didn't know how to apologize. I stopped being friends with people when the drama was like an inbox jammed with unread messages. I was overwhelmed and wanted to start over.
The dream is also full of things I don't do anymore that once I might have pursued. Dr. Owren directed a choir that began to explore my voice, but I couldn't see where it would eventually lead to, so I stopped. Ms Chambers was my Freshmen Honors English teacher; I read my first Shakespeare and Euripides in that class, but haven't explored either author much more since. I don't have a desire to act on a stage, sing on a stage or even go to school. It sounds awful, but my life is lived thusly: "I'm going to keep doing something until something better comes along."
Is that any different than what everybody else does? Don't we continue to live until the need to reinvent, rejuvenate, refresh, or remove ourselves from a life? That message I received is a reminder of antics that I totally forgot about. If you asked me about high school, I would have told you "that unlike other people, my experience was awesome." For the most part, I agree. High School was like four years of probation: everybody expects you to fuck up, so you try things mainly for the sake of trying them. Mostly it sucks, but you learn that it sucks, first hand, so you acquire a sense of knowing that far exceeds anything learned from even the most reliable second-hand information.
I believe that the past catches up with you. I believe in cycles, and things left undone will be done. People you left behind, people who have things left unsaid. That message is one of those things.
This isn't independent of will. People may reappear, like second chances, by the choice to fully reintroduce them into your life is a wholly different matter. Did I read the message? Yes. Will I "friend" them? I don't know. I'm way optimistic about life, and think that people can change--I have.
But... friend them?
Sorry--I just spent 20 minutes looking at this person's page. There's a part of me thats thinking "if I don't friend him I'm being a hypocrite about 'change' misjudging and prejudging another person's ability to improve himself. The basic question I have to ask is one of magnitude: does this person have a positive influence on my life?" I don't know the answer to that question. Judging from past experiences the answer is no. I don't want to make a quick dismissal, but I also don't want to be swayed into casual "friending." People often take advantage of situations because of an underlying fear of loss--lost opportunities, money, connections. What underlies all of my actions is comfort. Do I feel comfortable having this person in life again, however minute or trite? The answer is a decided no.
Forget it. DENY.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Aw geez
I'm sitting in the parking lot of my favorite chicken place in a
stupor. I'm glad my this phone autocorrects because my finger is a
blur. Imseaying from 16 oz of dpju that I decidedto down solo. The
lady of the house was visibly apprehensive of serving me a kettle to
myself, but business and regularity kept mefrom being dry.
stupor. I'm glad my this phone autocorrects because my finger is a
blur. Imseaying from 16 oz of dpju that I decidedto down solo. The
lady of the house was visibly apprehensive of serving me a kettle to
myself, but business and regularity kept mefrom being dry.
I wonder if dependancies run in my family. My dad used to be defined
by his escapist vices, and male relatives have freely lived by the
whims of their death wishes and passions. Pill poppers, exhaust
suckers and fish bowl drinkers are common. I've reached for rhebottle
too many times in the past.
Tomorrow I bust Lola. I know I'm going to cry. I want to see how
cognizant she is. If she's not, then I'll have to knowingly cry for
the two of us.
These Don't All Have to be Tearjerkers -- or references to This American Life
Been taking a lot of Helga-style pictures with my phone. I'm not a photographer, but if mood's all that matters, and if photography could be likened to coffee, then I've been brewing some really good freeze-dried shots.
I've been dying to get a long idea out, but all I can muster are observations: my last three girlfriends came from broken homes. The last two have parents who came out. All my girlfriends think I'm a sweetheart at best and at worst am downright mean. My biggest motivation for getting through the early parts of my relationships has always been physical desire, but mellows out into love. Conversely, I'm usually very attracted to my female strictly-friends friends, but never pursued anything more because I feared losing their friendship. I didn't have that fear when I went for the gold with my as-yet-unrealized girlfriends, and I wonder if that stems from bravery or a lack of respect.
I mentioned to my mom that I have a girlfriend. I not only praised her, but really felt that she was worth praising. It was a first for me. Have been receiving a lot of praise from customers on bar. Not directly, but very audible remarks to each other like, "What did I tell ya? 'The Man's" on bar." Frou frou drinks morph into serious drinks and I'm treated like the veteran in the pro shop and not just a shot jock.
Here's a good place to stop.
I've been dying to get a long idea out, but all I can muster are observations: my last three girlfriends came from broken homes. The last two have parents who came out. All my girlfriends think I'm a sweetheart at best and at worst am downright mean. My biggest motivation for getting through the early parts of my relationships has always been physical desire, but mellows out into love. Conversely, I'm usually very attracted to my female strictly-friends friends, but never pursued anything more because I feared losing their friendship. I didn't have that fear when I went for the gold with my as-yet-unrealized girlfriends, and I wonder if that stems from bravery or a lack of respect.
I mentioned to my mom that I have a girlfriend. I not only praised her, but really felt that she was worth praising. It was a first for me. Have been receiving a lot of praise from customers on bar. Not directly, but very audible remarks to each other like, "What did I tell ya? 'The Man's" on bar." Frou frou drinks morph into serious drinks and I'm treated like the veteran in the pro shop and not just a shot jock.
Here's a good place to stop.
Friday, October 3, 2008
A/V
Oh man. I've been home all day. My days off come whenever I get them. They're not so much planned as they just happen--eff knows I go visibly nuts as my tolerance wears down. Except for one 0.2 mile stroll to get some food and air, I have been online reading wiki's and watching videos. I did not know about the line up changes in Marilyn Manson or nine inch nails, PeTA, or the back story on nin's label change; Russian ideas of latte art or Asian Burger King commercials; a kick ass Battlestar Galactica board game; the myriad of YouTube comedy groups who spoofs and apology video blogs.
A sampling:
And of course.
I love This American Life.
A sampling:
And of course.
I love This American Life.
Dauntingly Unsolvable / This American Life #364: Going Big
I woke this morning from an emotional dream. I was writing a response to someone from the dream and then got distracted. The response, the dream, they are gone. Few things recur in my life, and the ones they do are not "strong." They are not needs like air that strive to have themselves fulfilled. Those recurring interests in my life are closer to bright colors that no matter what I am or what I'm doing will pull my attention. A car crash is a car crash, and it is an amazing sight that will make you rubberneck where ever you are.
I feel silly admitting how much fighting and gaming take up my attention. Whenever I clean house the first things I move are my stacks of combat manuals and boxes of RPG books. Those books outnumber (and outweigh) the cumulative sum of every theatre and coffee book I've ever seen. I told a teacher about the things I'm into, my to-be voice acting lesson, coping with the stress of management, fencing. We talked more, or rather, I kept talking and realized she was flashing an analytical gaze at me.
"What's with the fighting?" She pegged me as an "8." I had her explain the preceding "7," and the "9" that followed. She had a psychology degree of some kind. She was also a teacher, so she's used to Terminator-style mechanical dissection of people, clothed in a warm gaze of interest and guided by a sense of improvement. I can't remember much about "8's" except that I didn't agree with the assessment. A combination of 7 and 9 is what I identified with (and no, it's not 8). She pressed the "fighting" question, and I held my tongue. It's been some days since my feigned ignorance; admittedly I didn't know what it was exactly, and I wasn't ready to talk it out to her. Who knows what the hell I would have said.
Gaming, as I know it, is an excapist activity for me. It's every possibility that isn't possible for me. It's every Action, Sci-Fi, Fantasy Novel, Comic Book-adaptation presented as something that I, or at least the character I'm portraying, could do. The games are the plays in which I always get cast, in the roles I want without any political or psychological compromise. Fighting, that's a different beat.
I've got a lot of packrat in me. That harmless, cute vermin whose mindset is, "what if I will need this later?" The ultimate conclusion of being a packrat is becoming rich and owning two of everything so I will never run out, or if something bad happens to a primary I will always have a second. Well I'm not rich, so it's more like, "I should hold onto this because not only might I need it later, I might not have the chance to have it again." Fighting is an extension of that packrat instinct.
It's not a survival instinct. My survival instinct is running. Gasping for air is a survival instinct. Fighting is my way to retain my druthers, my ground, my work terms, my girlfriend, my place in a grocery line. Fighting is my assertition. It's my way to keep what I have because... I have it now and I might not have it again. Yeah, I have some ways to turn fighting into a gainful profession, but all I want is what I got.
Escaping and Fighting. Ignoring the now, or nuking it into unrecognition. Those are options that I keep on my plate. Goodamn packrat.
I feel silly admitting how much fighting and gaming take up my attention. Whenever I clean house the first things I move are my stacks of combat manuals and boxes of RPG books. Those books outnumber (and outweigh) the cumulative sum of every theatre and coffee book I've ever seen. I told a teacher about the things I'm into, my to-be voice acting lesson, coping with the stress of management, fencing. We talked more, or rather, I kept talking and realized she was flashing an analytical gaze at me.
"What's with the fighting?" She pegged me as an "8." I had her explain the preceding "7," and the "9" that followed. She had a psychology degree of some kind. She was also a teacher, so she's used to Terminator-style mechanical dissection of people, clothed in a warm gaze of interest and guided by a sense of improvement. I can't remember much about "8's" except that I didn't agree with the assessment. A combination of 7 and 9 is what I identified with (and no, it's not 8). She pressed the "fighting" question, and I held my tongue. It's been some days since my feigned ignorance; admittedly I didn't know what it was exactly, and I wasn't ready to talk it out to her. Who knows what the hell I would have said.
Gaming, as I know it, is an excapist activity for me. It's every possibility that isn't possible for me. It's every Action, Sci-Fi, Fantasy Novel, Comic Book-adaptation presented as something that I, or at least the character I'm portraying, could do. The games are the plays in which I always get cast, in the roles I want without any political or psychological compromise. Fighting, that's a different beat.
I've got a lot of packrat in me. That harmless, cute vermin whose mindset is, "what if I will need this later?" The ultimate conclusion of being a packrat is becoming rich and owning two of everything so I will never run out, or if something bad happens to a primary I will always have a second. Well I'm not rich, so it's more like, "I should hold onto this because not only might I need it later, I might not have the chance to have it again." Fighting is an extension of that packrat instinct.
It's not a survival instinct. My survival instinct is running. Gasping for air is a survival instinct. Fighting is my way to retain my druthers, my ground, my work terms, my girlfriend, my place in a grocery line. Fighting is my assertition. It's my way to keep what I have because... I have it now and I might not have it again. Yeah, I have some ways to turn fighting into a gainful profession, but all I want is what I got.
Escaping and Fighting. Ignoring the now, or nuking it into unrecognition. Those are options that I keep on my plate. Goodamn packrat.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Stream of Conscious in Supposed Preparation or Practice of Nanowrimo
Ahem.
In another window is a Pixies video of them playing Wave of Mutilation, live, and sometime current. I clicked on a link to get here, from another live vid of them in 1988. The singer sounds real, like a guy who made it out of his garage. I've backspaced twice and skipped over thoughts that happen but weren't typed. The goal is to only move forward, no edits, no correction. We're seeking volume not quality. I've already stopped four times to backspace, replug in an outlet, and investigate my iTunes podcast situation. Self-editing and monitering is natural to me.
Jesus I haven't talked about anything at all. Maybe this is a mission for someone else.
In another window is a Pixies video of them playing Wave of Mutilation, live, and sometime current. I clicked on a link to get here, from another live vid of them in 1988. The singer sounds real, like a guy who made it out of his garage. I've backspaced twice and skipped over thoughts that happen but weren't typed. The goal is to only move forward, no edits, no correction. We're seeking volume not quality. I've already stopped four times to backspace, replug in an outlet, and investigate my iTunes podcast situation. Self-editing and monitering is natural to me.
Jesus I haven't talked about anything at all. Maybe this is a mission for someone else.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
"Short Term" Defined
Small cycles, short stories--sometimes it feels like my life is that one episode you catch of a show that you don't watch, but still manage to see that one episode.
My grandmother was back in the hospital, and despite the optimistic estimation of the doc, she's not going to live three to six months, it's going to be those numbers in days. I still can't see her; I'm sick, and I can run the risk of catching or transmitting anything with her. Her "Pancreatic Infection" is her wish manifested--to be back with her husband and not living a life she's not enjoying. Maybe... two days. I give myself two days. I'm not trying to delay visiting her. I'm not afraid of her death--in fact I'm pretty settled that she's gone on to something better.
It's a lot like the hand dealt to me yesterday. I've worked 10-14 hours days all this week, but it hasn't been enough. My job requires 50+ hours of non-cafe shift duties and I haven't had a chance to do any of it. Either I'm sick, or someone else is sick, or someone quits and then I'm working again in the cafe or doing my best to do nothing else but rest. I can't "delegate" because most of the tasks I want to spread take as much time explaining as they do doing. It takes as much time writing e-mails as it does to do the tasks I say I'm going to do in them. And everyone needs to know--which isn't the problem, because I think everyone should know--but FUCK, between smiling all the time and running myself ragged, I get texts from friends who want to rub in the fact that I don't text back and Damn it, why am I such a shitty friend? I've fought the idea of a 9-to-5 job because I thought it would be to confining--or rather, DEFINING. I didn't want to be defined by my job. But, as Aristotle points out, "We are what we frequently do." I know I'm not the Joker, but I've been walking like him. If I keep it up, it'll stick as my walk. So, if I spend my waking eight as a self-styled unappreciated manager then by-golly, I AM that unappreciated manager, and all my actions will read as that. Or, I can take up the offer and take a step back and be... well, what would I become?
"It's not who I am underneath, but what I do that defines me." - Batman, The Dark Knight
Take two sums. The first is the difference in pay between manager and not-manager. The second sum is the value I place on my happiness (it's intangible, but play along).
If the first sum, A, is greater than the second sum, B, then I should stay on as manager. It would be "worth it." But! if the the second sum is greater than the first sum, well hell, I should willingly step aside and be un-manager.
My happiness is worth much more than $200.00.
Make no mistake: I willingly took on the job... two months ago, and this sequence of events, after the initial shock, isn't totally surprising. I haven't fulfilled all of my Must-Do's; from an outside prospective, especially one from the owners stand point, I would have tried to give the current manager (i.e., me) more support rather than change horses midstream. Not only is it surprising, it shows a lack of faith on their part, an unwillingness to "stick out through the rough spots," and only serves to perpetuate the company's reputation for discontinuity.
Whatever. I will train my replacement. I will have my strengths utilized.
* * *
I've been urged to do NaNoWriMo this year. I've been told to "do the things I wouldn't normally write about." I guess Barista Jones' Diary is out of the question, yeh?
My grandmother was back in the hospital, and despite the optimistic estimation of the doc, she's not going to live three to six months, it's going to be those numbers in days. I still can't see her; I'm sick, and I can run the risk of catching or transmitting anything with her. Her "Pancreatic Infection" is her wish manifested--to be back with her husband and not living a life she's not enjoying. Maybe... two days. I give myself two days. I'm not trying to delay visiting her. I'm not afraid of her death--in fact I'm pretty settled that she's gone on to something better.
It's a lot like the hand dealt to me yesterday. I've worked 10-14 hours days all this week, but it hasn't been enough. My job requires 50+ hours of non-cafe shift duties and I haven't had a chance to do any of it. Either I'm sick, or someone else is sick, or someone quits and then I'm working again in the cafe or doing my best to do nothing else but rest. I can't "delegate" because most of the tasks I want to spread take as much time explaining as they do doing. It takes as much time writing e-mails as it does to do the tasks I say I'm going to do in them. And everyone needs to know--which isn't the problem, because I think everyone should know--but FUCK, between smiling all the time and running myself ragged, I get texts from friends who want to rub in the fact that I don't text back and Damn it, why am I such a shitty friend? I've fought the idea of a 9-to-5 job because I thought it would be to confining--or rather, DEFINING. I didn't want to be defined by my job. But, as Aristotle points out, "We are what we frequently do." I know I'm not the Joker, but I've been walking like him. If I keep it up, it'll stick as my walk. So, if I spend my waking eight as a self-styled unappreciated manager then by-golly, I AM that unappreciated manager, and all my actions will read as that. Or, I can take up the offer and take a step back and be... well, what would I become?
"It's not who I am underneath, but what I do that defines me." - Batman, The Dark Knight
Take two sums. The first is the difference in pay between manager and not-manager. The second sum is the value I place on my happiness (it's intangible, but play along).
If the first sum, A, is greater than the second sum, B, then I should stay on as manager. It would be "worth it." But! if the the second sum is greater than the first sum, well hell, I should willingly step aside and be un-manager.
My happiness is worth much more than $200.00.
Make no mistake: I willingly took on the job... two months ago, and this sequence of events, after the initial shock, isn't totally surprising. I haven't fulfilled all of my Must-Do's; from an outside prospective, especially one from the owners stand point, I would have tried to give the current manager (i.e., me) more support rather than change horses midstream. Not only is it surprising, it shows a lack of faith on their part, an unwillingness to "stick out through the rough spots," and only serves to perpetuate the company's reputation for discontinuity.
Whatever. I will train my replacement. I will have my strengths utilized.
* * *
I've been urged to do NaNoWriMo this year. I've been told to "do the things I wouldn't normally write about." I guess Barista Jones' Diary is out of the question, yeh?
Monday, September 22, 2008
Excuse The Distance / Settling the Score
I've had 36+ hours of work packed into the last three days and I'm pooped. Tomorrow's the Big Day, and I know I should be doing something but I'm so drained, just looking at the 10 e-mail messages that arrived today makes my brain groan. I was listening to Death Cab just now. I don't remember how I got onto that track, but
...OK, I think I remember.
I was reading the Vertigo Encyclopedia, a DK book featuring the work of the publisher of Y: The Last Man. Vertigo, as I'm quickly realizing, is my favorite comic publisher. Every graphic novel that I've casually passed in the last two years that has gripped my attention has had Vertigo stamped on it. The entry on Y made me particularly sad: it was a limited run series, sixty issues, that I followed to like issue... 48. Well, that's a guess. I read the graphic novels, the collected form of the comic, with my Ex. It was our series, our in-joke, the thing that we got that no one else we knew got. So I--we--read it, and near the end of the series, the time between the graphics stretched. It stretched, but not far enough: The relationship ended before I finished the series. It's hard not to get too hung up on my short attention span or my tendency to not finish things in regard to this story, but the ending is the same: no comic, no relationship, no happy ending.
Having read the entry today was sort of an ending. It wasn't happy, but at least now I know. I know what Yorick saw in his vision, I know what happens in issue 60(-ish). I know what I miss.
Vertigo published four issues of American Splendor, the Harvey Pekar, gonzo comic. His intensely unnecessary dissection of his observations and reflections. (Like this blog is to me.) I watched the movie American Splendor around the time I read Y, and I listened to Death Cab around that time, so... there. I'm amazed at how packaged my memories are, how my eyes, ears, and tastes can be segregated by years. My life is lived in era's--large bites, that's for sure, but bites I can remember.
The Anniversary is tomorrow and I am going into it as a virgin. In every era of my life I've walked the line between disinterest and escapist. I'm usually the escapist--but definitely, I cannot be disinterested tomorrow. It's not going to be casual because the the thing we're celebrating is one of the few things that continues to bring me joy.
So there. Tomorrow's gonna be a party, and hopefully one of the relationships in my life that can count as long term.
Here's to the long-run.
...OK, I think I remember.
I was reading the Vertigo Encyclopedia, a DK book featuring the work of the publisher of Y: The Last Man. Vertigo, as I'm quickly realizing, is my favorite comic publisher. Every graphic novel that I've casually passed in the last two years that has gripped my attention has had Vertigo stamped on it. The entry on Y made me particularly sad: it was a limited run series, sixty issues, that I followed to like issue... 48. Well, that's a guess. I read the graphic novels, the collected form of the comic, with my Ex. It was our series, our in-joke, the thing that we got that no one else we knew got. So I--we--read it, and near the end of the series, the time between the graphics stretched. It stretched, but not far enough: The relationship ended before I finished the series. It's hard not to get too hung up on my short attention span or my tendency to not finish things in regard to this story, but the ending is the same: no comic, no relationship, no happy ending.
Having read the entry today was sort of an ending. It wasn't happy, but at least now I know. I know what Yorick saw in his vision, I know what happens in issue 60(-ish). I know what I miss.
Vertigo published four issues of American Splendor, the Harvey Pekar, gonzo comic. His intensely unnecessary dissection of his observations and reflections. (Like this blog is to me.) I watched the movie American Splendor around the time I read Y, and I listened to Death Cab around that time, so... there. I'm amazed at how packaged my memories are, how my eyes, ears, and tastes can be segregated by years. My life is lived in era's--large bites, that's for sure, but bites I can remember.
The Anniversary is tomorrow and I am going into it as a virgin. In every era of my life I've walked the line between disinterest and escapist. I'm usually the escapist--but definitely, I cannot be disinterested tomorrow. It's not going to be casual because the the thing we're celebrating is one of the few things that continues to bring me joy.
So there. Tomorrow's gonna be a party, and hopefully one of the relationships in my life that can count as long term.
Here's to the long-run.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
I'm Tired
It's hard to convey fact without emotion. Every person is biased, beginning with what they choose to speak about. Speaking is an action dictated by choice, and those choices act as natural filters for the things that don't interest us.
I want you to know that I've been very productive, that nearly all of my energy in the past two days have had decided, positive results. I have managed; I have been present, delegating, handling, and greasing the gears of my shop.
I want you to know that it's taken its toll. I want you to know that I want you to know--so you'll know. So you'll put my sluggishness that is present now, into context. That its not lethargy or indifference. So you understand.
But I understand that there's a part of me that's looking for a valid excuse to be unproductive, at least for part of the time. Perhaps to gain a little sympathy. That's why I'm telling you. Maybe I'm looking to earn brownie points. Maybe you'll think better of me and give me the benefit of the doubt when I'm acting in a fashion that's not exceptional.
Or maybe you'll just let me sleep already.
I want you to know that I've been very productive, that nearly all of my energy in the past two days have had decided, positive results. I have managed; I have been present, delegating, handling, and greasing the gears of my shop.
I want you to know that it's taken its toll. I want you to know that I want you to know--so you'll know. So you'll put my sluggishness that is present now, into context. That its not lethargy or indifference. So you understand.
But I understand that there's a part of me that's looking for a valid excuse to be unproductive, at least for part of the time. Perhaps to gain a little sympathy. That's why I'm telling you. Maybe I'm looking to earn brownie points. Maybe you'll think better of me and give me the benefit of the doubt when I'm acting in a fashion that's not exceptional.
Or maybe you'll just let me sleep already.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Real Life Should Be An Actionable Item -- The Promise
This school sticks out at me like a e-mail I've read but can't delete. I can't bring myself to remove it from my life because I don't know if I'll need it later. I just keep coming back to it, referencing it, reading it aloud and thinking I'll know what to do with it... later.
Getting Things Done has taught me to make things into "Actionable Items" -- things-to-do, basically. A topic, a job, a short story that has a plot and an ending. Re-reading this school is needlessly extending my brain power. I'm now thinking about resolving it, it just occupies my mind. It's a detail that I did not have to remember. It's extraneous.
It doesn't have a clear reason for being in my life. I don't know why it's on my plate.
This novella has to end, soon. There are thousands of Items around me, vying for my attention, and here this school stands like an elephant in a broom closet. Being in its proximity doesn't mean it has to be on my radar.
I'm going to make a deadline for myself. This is Barefoot's time--its year, really--and my relationship to the Foot dictates that it has my attention. I told myself that right now is not the time for school, and I very much believe it. Others have told me that the Foot will never run at 100%, that something will always be off, and that I can't keep pushing back school. I very, very much believe that.
So in one year, Fall 2009, I will go back to school. I will finish it. It will be off my plate, outta my head, and I will have something to show for it besides outstanding holds. Expensive receipt, here I come.
Getting Things Done has taught me to make things into "Actionable Items" -- things-to-do, basically. A topic, a job, a short story that has a plot and an ending. Re-reading this school is needlessly extending my brain power. I'm now thinking about resolving it, it just occupies my mind. It's a detail that I did not have to remember. It's extraneous.
It doesn't have a clear reason for being in my life. I don't know why it's on my plate.
This novella has to end, soon. There are thousands of Items around me, vying for my attention, and here this school stands like an elephant in a broom closet. Being in its proximity doesn't mean it has to be on my radar.
I'm going to make a deadline for myself. This is Barefoot's time--its year, really--and my relationship to the Foot dictates that it has my attention. I told myself that right now is not the time for school, and I very much believe it. Others have told me that the Foot will never run at 100%, that something will always be off, and that I can't keep pushing back school. I very, very much believe that.
So in one year, Fall 2009, I will go back to school. I will finish it. It will be off my plate, outta my head, and I will have something to show for it besides outstanding holds. Expensive receipt, here I come.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
What is this thing?
I just turned on episode 247 of This American Life. I'm passively listening through the first 37 minutes. The last ten features Sarah Vowell telling us of an American love story, the one between Johnny Cash & June Carter.
I fell for Cash because he was simultaneously admired and pitied. He had great music and a waned career, and he found love but didn't know how to maintain it. This was two years ago and I, too, was starting to nail down the path I wanted to walk in life. I fessed up to my parents how I wanted to pursue theatre in any capacity and that school would take me another as-yet undetermined amount of years to finish. I had just met then-girlfriend, and after overcoming a huge hurdle (I lost my voice!), we got together. I had high hopes for that time of my life.
I learned more about Cash. I watched the movie and compared it to my own. I became envious of the bad parts of Cash's life, the drinking, the womanizing, the lack of control. As a theatre kid, I started thinking that my own life lacked weight, that it didn't matter as much because I hadn't overcome anything. I didn't have Obstacles. My Objectives were easy to achieve.* I didn't need Tactics. Life was easy.
And I think that's what caused the last year and a half of college to become a meaningless blur.
It sounds antithetical to the way life should be lived. Being happy, that's all I ever wanted out of life. But at that time ego got in the way and I think I started causing trouble in my personal life, both to shake it up and to give me something to overcome. It reminds me a lot of middle-class Caucasian teens in the early 90's who listened to NWA and envied the black struggle. The admiration sounds misguided, warped in its envy, unsure of the emotion that's derived in the triumph.
I wasn't sure what I was doing. My eyes wandered. I drank a lot, went to parties, purposely put myself in situations that threatened the integrity of my relationship, and for what? To push buttons? To challenge my loyalty? I think I was setting myself up for failure. Truth is, I wasn't ready for my life at that point. I didn't know what in theatre I wanted to do, or what about relationships was so great. I wrapped the college life to fit the only life I knew: school. A set schedule that I had to make work, person that needed an "x" amount of my time.
In my life's current incarnation I'm finding myself more lost than ever. I'm looking to work to give my life structure, to measure its success. I still get overwhelmed and tired and dizzy from figuring out if its turning out "right." I get mad at myself for copping out on friends who supposedly "bug me" at work, who only tap my shoulder because they miss me, not because they want to see me fail. And I give my girlfriend a hard time because at any given moment I'm unsure of whether we're working or having a relationship.
Where I am now is where I used to relish being: in the gray area.
Oh good. "Act Three: A Love Story" I'll have to listen to it again in a second.
What I'm learning to do is forge my own path. What I have to keep in my mind is that I am not alone. Where I trod and how I do it affects others. As Manager, it's not my vision but my execution. As a friend, when I'm alone it makes my friends lonely.
I am:
Lover > Fighter
Observer > Doer
How this is gonna work out is anybody's guess.
Here I go listening to Sarah Vowell again.
I fell for Cash because he was simultaneously admired and pitied. He had great music and a waned career, and he found love but didn't know how to maintain it. This was two years ago and I, too, was starting to nail down the path I wanted to walk in life. I fessed up to my parents how I wanted to pursue theatre in any capacity and that school would take me another as-yet undetermined amount of years to finish. I had just met then-girlfriend, and after overcoming a huge hurdle (I lost my voice!), we got together. I had high hopes for that time of my life.
I learned more about Cash. I watched the movie and compared it to my own. I became envious of the bad parts of Cash's life, the drinking, the womanizing, the lack of control. As a theatre kid, I started thinking that my own life lacked weight, that it didn't matter as much because I hadn't overcome anything. I didn't have Obstacles. My Objectives were easy to achieve.* I didn't need Tactics. Life was easy.
And I think that's what caused the last year and a half of college to become a meaningless blur.
It sounds antithetical to the way life should be lived. Being happy, that's all I ever wanted out of life. But at that time ego got in the way and I think I started causing trouble in my personal life, both to shake it up and to give me something to overcome. It reminds me a lot of middle-class Caucasian teens in the early 90's who listened to NWA and envied the black struggle. The admiration sounds misguided, warped in its envy, unsure of the emotion that's derived in the triumph.
I wasn't sure what I was doing. My eyes wandered. I drank a lot, went to parties, purposely put myself in situations that threatened the integrity of my relationship, and for what? To push buttons? To challenge my loyalty? I think I was setting myself up for failure. Truth is, I wasn't ready for my life at that point. I didn't know what in theatre I wanted to do, or what about relationships was so great. I wrapped the college life to fit the only life I knew: school. A set schedule that I had to make work, person that needed an "x" amount of my time.
In my life's current incarnation I'm finding myself more lost than ever. I'm looking to work to give my life structure, to measure its success. I still get overwhelmed and tired and dizzy from figuring out if its turning out "right." I get mad at myself for copping out on friends who supposedly "bug me" at work, who only tap my shoulder because they miss me, not because they want to see me fail. And I give my girlfriend a hard time because at any given moment I'm unsure of whether we're working or having a relationship.
Where I am now is where I used to relish being: in the gray area.
Oh good. "Act Three: A Love Story" I'll have to listen to it again in a second.
What I'm learning to do is forge my own path. What I have to keep in my mind is that I am not alone. Where I trod and how I do it affects others. As Manager, it's not my vision but my execution. As a friend, when I'm alone it makes my friends lonely.
I am:
Lover > Fighter
Observer > Doer
How this is gonna work out is anybody's guess.
Here I go listening to Sarah Vowell again.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Tabla Rasa
All the e-mail from my various accounts now forward to my Gmail.
I'm deleting everything I haven't read in six months, or have read and the matters are finished.
I also deleted the one e-mail from this time last year that I kept because... well, I'm not sure why.
Maybe to remind myself that I was still a part of someone's life.
But I'm not now, and relations are amiable, so no reason to cling.
My life is everything on my plate, and today I've switched to bite-sized portions.
I'm deleting everything I haven't read in six months, or have read and the matters are finished.
I also deleted the one e-mail from this time last year that I kept because... well, I'm not sure why.
Maybe to remind myself that I was still a part of someone's life.
But I'm not now, and relations are amiable, so no reason to cling.
My life is everything on my plate, and today I've switched to bite-sized portions.
Friday, August 15, 2008
CurrentReading List
1. http://www.43folders.com/43-folders-series-inbox-zero
2. http://www.43folders.com/2004/09/08/getting-started-with-getting-things-done
I have the following as an uncomplicated, simple .jpeg on my desktop:
GETTING THINGS DONE
2. http://www.43folders.com/2004/09/08/getting-started-with-getting-things-done
I have the following as an uncomplicated, simple .jpeg on my desktop:
GETTING THINGS DONE
- identify all the stuff in your life that isn’t in the right place (close all open loops)
- get rid of the stuff that isn’t yours or you don’t need right now
- create a right place that you trust and that supports your working style and values
- put your stuff in the right place, consistently
- do your stuff in a way that honors your time, your energy, and the context of any given moment
- iterate and refactor mercilessly
So, basically:
A. Make your stuff into real, actionable items or things you can just get rid of.
B. Everything you keep has a clear reason for being in your life at any given moment—
both now and well into the future.
This gives you an amazing kind of confidence that
i. nothing gets lost
ii. you always understand what’s on or off your plate.
Chris Is
I've done a whole lot of nothing in the past days. Well, there's always something, and it's hard for me to think of the things I do for myself as productive. Those things I do that are deemed necessary will get done because they have to, otherwise I fail in my objective.
Clarify: CHRIS is an essay, that must include a thesis, supporting paragraphs, and a summed-up, why-didn't-I-just-read-the-ending? paragraph. As Manager, his supporting paragraphs are a must, otherwise he automatically fails the minimum criteria. As a Human Being, those things that sustain him--air, food, water, downtime--are his grammar, punctuations, his structure. The content won't make sense without the form. Neither makes sense without the other, and only together can we achieve a cohesive whole.
The Content is constantly changing. CHRIS is more a collection of short stories than he is an essay; as a singular work, he is annotated, ripe with the author's commentary of could have been and what he was thinking at the time.
Clarify: CHRIS is an essay, that must include a thesis, supporting paragraphs, and a summed-up, why-didn't-I-just-read-the-ending? paragraph. As Manager, his supporting paragraphs are a must, otherwise he automatically fails the minimum criteria. As a Human Being, those things that sustain him--air, food, water, downtime--are his grammar, punctuations, his structure. The content won't make sense without the form. Neither makes sense without the other, and only together can we achieve a cohesive whole.
The Content is constantly changing. CHRIS is more a collection of short stories than he is an essay; as a singular work, he is annotated, ripe with the author's commentary of could have been and what he was thinking at the time.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Revelation
All these late nights that despite my thinking better of it, they are addictions. It's not just a need to unwind, but when my day revolves around a very loving girlfriend, an attention hoarding day job, and a night job that is constantly at its unfunnest point, I realize that I am experiencing all of the things that I want.
The jobs, girlfriend, I have very realistic expectations of their time commitments, and still I commit myself to them. What I am doing in the middle of the night on Wikipedia, on YouTube, is looking for something to amuse me. I'm looking for novelty.
I surround myself and purposely make decisions to set my life in a certain way and then I agonize and loose sleep trying to break the mold.
I told myself and many others that I wanted to start running a game at my house: again, molding my life to have time commitments in addition to other already established commitments. I don't know if this is self-destructive or if this is something everyone does.
To top it off, I irregularly have a recurring dream of a time in my life that I thought I didn't regret, and accepted as had happened, but the resulting feeling of this dream, as I wake up, IS regret.
I don't know. I know it's a good thing that I understand why I stay up so late all the time. I could consider holding myself to so many relationships. Maybe be more open. I do what I want anyway, and I still uphold Quality Sleep as a worthwhile goal--but I also know you can't ever "make up" for lost sleep. "Lost Sleep" cuts into my time to enjoy things in the future. I don't actually gain back anything, I just loose out on future endeavors.
Why would any one do that to him or herself?
The jobs, girlfriend, I have very realistic expectations of their time commitments, and still I commit myself to them. What I am doing in the middle of the night on Wikipedia, on YouTube, is looking for something to amuse me. I'm looking for novelty.
I surround myself and purposely make decisions to set my life in a certain way and then I agonize and loose sleep trying to break the mold.
I told myself and many others that I wanted to start running a game at my house: again, molding my life to have time commitments in addition to other already established commitments. I don't know if this is self-destructive or if this is something everyone does.
To top it off, I irregularly have a recurring dream of a time in my life that I thought I didn't regret, and accepted as had happened, but the resulting feeling of this dream, as I wake up, IS regret.
I don't know. I know it's a good thing that I understand why I stay up so late all the time. I could consider holding myself to so many relationships. Maybe be more open. I do what I want anyway, and I still uphold Quality Sleep as a worthwhile goal--but I also know you can't ever "make up" for lost sleep. "Lost Sleep" cuts into my time to enjoy things in the future. I don't actually gain back anything, I just loose out on future endeavors.
Why would any one do that to him or herself?
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Bizarro World
2:37 AM.
4 = The number of Day Jobs I have + The Number of Night Jobs I have
Julie won sexiest voice.
Drunk dial from my girlfriend telling me I don't know what love is.
2:40 AM.
This is taking too long.
I own a refrigerator. I own a $500 piece of art. I own a Starbucks Barista grinder. These are my first major purchases.
2:42 AM.
A guy hollered at me on the street, telling me he was from Tampa, FL and that he was glad to be here.
She prioritized her love for me as physical first, then emotional, then intellectual. My love life as an RPG PC.
2:44 AM.
I must have slow thoughts.
The night is old. Must go to sleep.
4 = The number of Day Jobs I have + The Number of Night Jobs I have
Julie won sexiest voice.
Drunk dial from my girlfriend telling me I don't know what love is.
2:40 AM.
This is taking too long.
I own a refrigerator. I own a $500 piece of art. I own a Starbucks Barista grinder. These are my first major purchases.
2:42 AM.
A guy hollered at me on the street, telling me he was from Tampa, FL and that he was glad to be here.
She prioritized her love for me as physical first, then emotional, then intellectual. My love life as an RPG PC.
2:44 AM.
I must have slow thoughts.
The night is old. Must go to sleep.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
There's No Place Like Home
Not for me.
I haven't said a word aloud in the past twelve hours. There's no reason to, no other person here. Scratch that--there's a cat, whom I've been petting and occasionally been calling "...baby..." but other than that, it's thoughts barely thought before being tapped out of a keyword. These moments are my most truthful, like word associations--but to actions and thoughts, not necessarily other words.
These are the moments I've missed, couldn't account for or witness in friends. Of course I couldn't; how can I experience living alone when I'm with others? How do I experience stasis, the feeling of "now what?" I'm such a joiner--all my favorite things involve other people. I gave up on life--it became so hopeless for ten minutes when everybody I wanted to hang with was either occupied or weird with me.
It has to be present in my mind that no matter how much tension I garner or accrue from and with other people, those same somebodies are my happiness, my ports in the storms I seem to run across everyday. It's the same people who grate on me who think I'm great. Biggest supporters are easily the biggest enemies. Caring, being "in to it" is the hardest quality to invoke in someone, and often those feelings don't die, just transform and express themselves in different ways. The enmity I may feel for Ex's used to be love, and may still be love, only I'm not allowed to explicitly love that person so I have to find another way to show them attention--and enmity is social norm.
I can't make this. I can't make a room into a home. I never learned, and I don't know if I will. I feel like I'm being forced into writing with my other hand. I hate how Monica made me feel pitiful--I've felt it before, being told I lacked a personal quality that I didn't know was important to have, let alone know was important. Homebuilding, I have no idea where to start, even though I think it, like parenting or being a good friend should be intuitive. You either have it or not.
But that is defeatist. That is an absolute mindset, purposely giving myself no options. I don't want to look it up in a book because that's admitting the truth: I don't know what to do. I only how to cover my own ass, and in that, I only do it half as well. I think for my life to continue forward I have learn to live right with my left hand, to be well-versed in the reverse of what I've been living. I have to be open to building a home with someone else and not shell up and find refuge in ignorance. I can't be afraid to be the guy whose afraid.
Maybe... I'll get a cat.
I haven't said a word aloud in the past twelve hours. There's no reason to, no other person here. Scratch that--there's a cat, whom I've been petting and occasionally been calling "...baby..." but other than that, it's thoughts barely thought before being tapped out of a keyword. These moments are my most truthful, like word associations--but to actions and thoughts, not necessarily other words.
These are the moments I've missed, couldn't account for or witness in friends. Of course I couldn't; how can I experience living alone when I'm with others? How do I experience stasis, the feeling of "now what?" I'm such a joiner--all my favorite things involve other people. I gave up on life--it became so hopeless for ten minutes when everybody I wanted to hang with was either occupied or weird with me.
It has to be present in my mind that no matter how much tension I garner or accrue from and with other people, those same somebodies are my happiness, my ports in the storms I seem to run across everyday. It's the same people who grate on me who think I'm great. Biggest supporters are easily the biggest enemies. Caring, being "in to it" is the hardest quality to invoke in someone, and often those feelings don't die, just transform and express themselves in different ways. The enmity I may feel for Ex's used to be love, and may still be love, only I'm not allowed to explicitly love that person so I have to find another way to show them attention--and enmity is social norm.
I can't make this. I can't make a room into a home. I never learned, and I don't know if I will. I feel like I'm being forced into writing with my other hand. I hate how Monica made me feel pitiful--I've felt it before, being told I lacked a personal quality that I didn't know was important to have, let alone know was important. Homebuilding, I have no idea where to start, even though I think it, like parenting or being a good friend should be intuitive. You either have it or not.
But that is defeatist. That is an absolute mindset, purposely giving myself no options. I don't want to look it up in a book because that's admitting the truth: I don't know what to do. I only how to cover my own ass, and in that, I only do it half as well. I think for my life to continue forward I have learn to live right with my left hand, to be well-versed in the reverse of what I've been living. I have to be open to building a home with someone else and not shell up and find refuge in ignorance. I can't be afraid to be the guy whose afraid.
Maybe... I'll get a cat.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
So This Is It, Right?
I'm cat-sitting again. This rented out, full bath, kitchenette, no pet studio-bedroom. This could all be mine.
I think at this point I'm supposed to consider the name of my blog and how it relates to my choice in domiciles. Do I really want to move out? Do I have to? Is it self-imposed?
I Googled "wanting what you got" and found lots of links AC/DC and Christian Q & A sites. The balance that I'm seeking, the answer that is, is whether I've done enough searching--for now, anyway--have I found enough for my current life to enjoy, to not be restless. It's always good to wonder, but at some point a person has to appreciate the friendships, accolades, and opportunities that he or she has worked thus far to achieve.
Searching without seeing is like driving while eating.
The room that I've earned--and I do say earned, even though I didn't build it or seek it out--is larger than this in downtown San Jose. I don't look for handouts, and I think everything happens for a reason. It might be too early to tell, but I think this'll be a good thing. I'm not smiling yet (it's too early) but I've worked for this break. It's a small concession, so I'll keep working hard, and maybe more breaks, or concessions, will come my way.
Time to earn more karma.
I think at this point I'm supposed to consider the name of my blog and how it relates to my choice in domiciles. Do I really want to move out? Do I have to? Is it self-imposed?
I Googled "wanting what you got" and found lots of links AC/DC and Christian Q & A sites. The balance that I'm seeking, the answer that is, is whether I've done enough searching--for now, anyway--have I found enough for my current life to enjoy, to not be restless. It's always good to wonder, but at some point a person has to appreciate the friendships, accolades, and opportunities that he or she has worked thus far to achieve.
Searching without seeing is like driving while eating.
The room that I've earned--and I do say earned, even though I didn't build it or seek it out--is larger than this in downtown San Jose. I don't look for handouts, and I think everything happens for a reason. It might be too early to tell, but I think this'll be a good thing. I'm not smiling yet (it's too early) but I've worked for this break. It's a small concession, so I'll keep working hard, and maybe more breaks, or concessions, will come my way.
Time to earn more karma.
Freaks & Geeks, It's Not
It takes a promo and maybe 15 minutes for me to see all I need to see of Swingtown. Of all the retro shows, it is so classily done. Not just an homage or a comedic review, Swingtown hits its zeitgeist spot on because its home network caters almost exclusively to that demographic: 50 year old and up middle-Americans. I love how the show I love the most on the network I connect with the least is about a show about loving, being open; liberals. I love the shows the network promotes during the break: Flashpoint, a drama showcasing a city's law enforcement "heroes" -- it's SWAT team/snipers. The other show, Eleventh Hour is a horror (terror) scifi mash-up.
All of the shows CBS wants you to watch late at night are the shows that par on other networks. Whatever CBS, you're not fooling anybody. Act your age.
All of the shows CBS wants you to watch late at night are the shows that par on other networks. Whatever CBS, you're not fooling anybody. Act your age.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
You're Happy and You Know It
Today's attitude is solitude, and I'm finding it in the crowd. I look like a cross between Koresh and Jerusalem, bald-headed, dog-tagged, and Adama-rimmed, tapping away on a machine that'll go dead 60 seconds after my last tap. At a wedding the best way to blend in is to stand out; the same is true for DMV's and here, the public library.
No one trusts a smiling face, not a young one. The smile I reserve for customers isn't welcome here. It's a smile kids are taught to distrust, to automatically assume is a trick. I'm not looking for my cat or directions, I just want to say "hi" and keep you at ease... but I guess my actions are counterintuitive. To make everyone else feel normal I have to be distant. I have to not care. I have to want my own privacy, lay out my books and bag like I'm claiming territory. I'm supposed to log on and tune out. I have check MySpace and YouTube, and maybe if I'm unlucky enough, be the careless public pervert you want me to be--because that's familiar. That's the cliche.
I'm not allowed to smile for its own sake, or because I'm happy and can't help it. No, psychology, theatre, law, they all tell you that I want something. Can it be because I want you to smile too? Is that too pedestrian? Too predictable? Not interesting? Choices don't have to be interesting or extreme to be true.
Now these lips are parallel to the floor, my eyes question, and every action I take looks suspicion. Is that better?
No one trusts a smiling face, not a young one. The smile I reserve for customers isn't welcome here. It's a smile kids are taught to distrust, to automatically assume is a trick. I'm not looking for my cat or directions, I just want to say "hi" and keep you at ease... but I guess my actions are counterintuitive. To make everyone else feel normal I have to be distant. I have to not care. I have to want my own privacy, lay out my books and bag like I'm claiming territory. I'm supposed to log on and tune out. I have check MySpace and YouTube, and maybe if I'm unlucky enough, be the careless public pervert you want me to be--because that's familiar. That's the cliche.
I'm not allowed to smile for its own sake, or because I'm happy and can't help it. No, psychology, theatre, law, they all tell you that I want something. Can it be because I want you to smile too? Is that too pedestrian? Too predictable? Not interesting? Choices don't have to be interesting or extreme to be true.
Now these lips are parallel to the floor, my eyes question, and every action I take looks suspicion. Is that better?
Friday, June 13, 2008
The Sky Looks Under the Weather
"It looks like tornado weather." I've never seen a tornado, but I hear that it looks like what the sky looks like now. Green and pink, it reminds me of a Bubble Yum package stretched out into transparency, making our sun look like one of the suns on Tatooine. It portends bad times, which is befitting since today is a Friday the 13th.
The second week of Shady's tablework is done. Good. Many Shady regulars are SJSU alums, so it's hard not to associate one organization with the other. I'm reminded how I am not an alum, and how long it took me just to get to State. It's been a long road; sometimes I liken my life to crossing a street. Instead of going across I went around the block, the REALLY long way. Pluses, minuses? I think it's easy for someone to have a goal and fulfill it. Maybe not the fulfilling part, but the direction part is easy. I like that sense of direction, but I don't think I've ever had it. I can keep an eye on what's in front of me, but the other one can only kind of make out the rest of the scenery. My life's been like driving without my glasses: all I see is color, size, and how fast it's coming at me. It sounds like rationalized justification, but my life has been one great excuse after another to see the world. Add my attraction all things "shiny" and I'm looking more like Mr. Magoo.
It's wonderful to know that there's other stuff going on in the world besides what I'm doing. It's really easy to become a self-absorbed, microcosm'd person. Funny how we can have resources to touch the world without ever leaving our front door, and how we can master what we expose ourselves to but just not clocking links. I love surprises, and man, I'd never know what was around the corner (let alone know that would enjoy it!) if I didn't fail at the thing that I thought I was good or wanted to be good at.
I've been running into people from high school with increased frequency. I'm approaching my 10 year reunion, and I can't help but think I'm going to be reminded of stuff that I purposely forgot. I've traveled a long way to get to where I am now--I think it's appropriate to revisit what I figuratively count as the beginning.
The second week of Shady's tablework is done. Good. Many Shady regulars are SJSU alums, so it's hard not to associate one organization with the other. I'm reminded how I am not an alum, and how long it took me just to get to State. It's been a long road; sometimes I liken my life to crossing a street. Instead of going across I went around the block, the REALLY long way. Pluses, minuses? I think it's easy for someone to have a goal and fulfill it. Maybe not the fulfilling part, but the direction part is easy. I like that sense of direction, but I don't think I've ever had it. I can keep an eye on what's in front of me, but the other one can only kind of make out the rest of the scenery. My life's been like driving without my glasses: all I see is color, size, and how fast it's coming at me. It sounds like rationalized justification, but my life has been one great excuse after another to see the world. Add my attraction all things "shiny" and I'm looking more like Mr. Magoo.
It's wonderful to know that there's other stuff going on in the world besides what I'm doing. It's really easy to become a self-absorbed, microcosm'd person. Funny how we can have resources to touch the world without ever leaving our front door, and how we can master what we expose ourselves to but just not clocking links. I love surprises, and man, I'd never know what was around the corner (let alone know that would enjoy it!) if I didn't fail at the thing that I thought I was good or wanted to be good at.
I've been running into people from high school with increased frequency. I'm approaching my 10 year reunion, and I can't help but think I'm going to be reminded of stuff that I purposely forgot. I've traveled a long way to get to where I am now--I think it's appropriate to revisit what I figuratively count as the beginning.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
The New Place and Suck to Come
The place I'm looking at is 34' by 9.5'. It's wide, or if you turn 90 degrees, it's kind of long. From the three steps you take down through the private entrance, you're met by a basement room that's pleasantly cooler or warmer than the rest of the house. The farthest 20' by 9.5' is the bedroom. It's curtained off, has a bed, desk, and in-room closet. Soft diffused light amber light emanates from the wall. The foyer is 14' by 9.5', perfect for a parking your bike and slipping off your shoes. The tile flooring chills your soles, so I'd like to spread the small, tacky 80's art deco area rugs to cushion the feet, maybe ask around for some carpet samples, too. I'm looking to make the most of my space, so instead of furniture I want to have general purpose cubes. Made from milk crates, they could be used as seats or small tables.
There's a 9' by 9' bonus room that branches off the foyer. It's mostly going to be a kitchette--did I mention there's a mini fridge, microwave and hot plate? Sorry, no sink, counter, stove or oven. I wouldn't have much left over anyway since the room is half how much I make in a month. But there is a price for privacy. Given the frequency of horror stories (almost 1:1 with success stories) I'll live knowing that I'm paying to have the room all to myself.
It's the small things, though, that I hear I'll miss. One time purchases like a pot or silverware. One-off emergencies like needing a pair of dress slacks or changing a bulb. The staple bills: rent, utilities, food, and gas, those don't leave a lot of room for allotting to emergencies--and even if I do, it'll probably never be as close to reality as I'll need. 10% of my paycheck isn't enough of a safety net.
That's what my girlfriend says will make me depressed. Not having conveniences like being able to buy anything when I want to. I'll be a slave to my paycheck. Maybe I have some money saved up for a rainy day, but when the budget's tight, rainy days will probably come more often. I'll be under the same pressure of sticking to a routine as keeping a weekends-only relationship fresh.
Still, I want to stay true to my word: if you learn to deal with things the hard way, then everything else is easy. If I can manage to not scream my brains out in the first three months (assuming I get this place), then I think I'll be OK. Incidentally, the next three months involve me taking on another large chunk of work responsibilities and directing the fights for Shady Shakespeare. So yes, any night where I don't cry myself to sleep and curse my choices, that day will be considered good. But I don't like settling, so here's to great days.
There's a 9' by 9' bonus room that branches off the foyer. It's mostly going to be a kitchette--did I mention there's a mini fridge, microwave and hot plate? Sorry, no sink, counter, stove or oven. I wouldn't have much left over anyway since the room is half how much I make in a month. But there is a price for privacy. Given the frequency of horror stories (almost 1:1 with success stories) I'll live knowing that I'm paying to have the room all to myself.
It's the small things, though, that I hear I'll miss. One time purchases like a pot or silverware. One-off emergencies like needing a pair of dress slacks or changing a bulb. The staple bills: rent, utilities, food, and gas, those don't leave a lot of room for allotting to emergencies--and even if I do, it'll probably never be as close to reality as I'll need. 10% of my paycheck isn't enough of a safety net.
That's what my girlfriend says will make me depressed. Not having conveniences like being able to buy anything when I want to. I'll be a slave to my paycheck. Maybe I have some money saved up for a rainy day, but when the budget's tight, rainy days will probably come more often. I'll be under the same pressure of sticking to a routine as keeping a weekends-only relationship fresh.
Still, I want to stay true to my word: if you learn to deal with things the hard way, then everything else is easy. If I can manage to not scream my brains out in the first three months (assuming I get this place), then I think I'll be OK. Incidentally, the next three months involve me taking on another large chunk of work responsibilities and directing the fights for Shady Shakespeare. So yes, any night where I don't cry myself to sleep and curse my choices, that day will be considered good. But I don't like settling, so here's to great days.
Instructables Come Together
I was never a fan of DIY. Actually, I've always been a fan of DIY ("Do-It-Yourself"), but I never wanted to be caught reading or asking about it. It was always a fear of looking like I didn't know, that I was trying too hard to be somthing I wasn't, that prevented me from actually doing anything. (Fear, as you'll learn, is one of my defining features.) But we can't be something until we become it, and you can't know how to do something until you learn how.
It can become a little dangerous, though. I'm a recovering packrat, so what may start as one interweb bookmark on how to make my own laptop hoodie sleeve becomes a hoard of unsorted links that are filed as "someday." A person can be a packrat online with virtual stuff as much as in real life with tangible stuff. Just think of that friend with a thousand messages in his or her inbox, and you'll understand what I mean.
I've let go of certain things to make vacancy for stuff I want... or stuff I didn't know I wanted. A recurring theme in my life is the desire to be surprised. If my life played out the way I answered when I was eight, I would be a 26 year old lawyer or a doctor with no other goal in life than to make lots of money, be married, and support my parents. When I was 12 I wanted to be a plastic surgeon for all of the same reasons, except it was more lucrative.
Since last week I've given away a third of all my clothes and books. The clothes that made the cut were the stuff I looked good in, felt right, and that I've worn in the past six months. There isn't much of a difference between the seasons here, so I didn't have to set aside clothes I "might need." As for books, the six month rule still applied as well as another caveat: "Will I read it again? Do I want to read it again?" No more books on esoteric subjects, no one-offs recommended to me by half-interesting people, no books on the shelf for show. Everything is functional--or else, why else do I have it?
Other stuff I got rid of: all things Dungeons & Dragons. All holiday cards from family (I don't sit down and read them more than once) and pictures of people with whom I'm not currently friends. All in all, my life is laid out for all to see, which is the point of this here blog: bridging the gap between the various social groups I'm currently apart of, and make them all a part of me, and allow them to see each other. Hi mom hi dad, these are my work friends. Friends, meet my girlfriend. Girlfriend, meet my nice ex-girlfriend.
It can become a little dangerous, though. I'm a recovering packrat, so what may start as one interweb bookmark on how to make my own laptop hoodie sleeve becomes a hoard of unsorted links that are filed as "someday." A person can be a packrat online with virtual stuff as much as in real life with tangible stuff. Just think of that friend with a thousand messages in his or her inbox, and you'll understand what I mean.
I've let go of certain things to make vacancy for stuff I want... or stuff I didn't know I wanted. A recurring theme in my life is the desire to be surprised. If my life played out the way I answered when I was eight, I would be a 26 year old lawyer or a doctor with no other goal in life than to make lots of money, be married, and support my parents. When I was 12 I wanted to be a plastic surgeon for all of the same reasons, except it was more lucrative.
Since last week I've given away a third of all my clothes and books. The clothes that made the cut were the stuff I looked good in, felt right, and that I've worn in the past six months. There isn't much of a difference between the seasons here, so I didn't have to set aside clothes I "might need." As for books, the six month rule still applied as well as another caveat: "Will I read it again? Do I want to read it again?" No more books on esoteric subjects, no one-offs recommended to me by half-interesting people, no books on the shelf for show. Everything is functional--or else, why else do I have it?
Other stuff I got rid of: all things Dungeons & Dragons. All holiday cards from family (I don't sit down and read them more than once) and pictures of people with whom I'm not currently friends. All in all, my life is laid out for all to see, which is the point of this here blog: bridging the gap between the various social groups I'm currently apart of, and make them all a part of me, and allow them to see each other. Hi mom hi dad, these are my work friends. Friends, meet my girlfriend. Girlfriend, meet my nice ex-girlfriend.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Let's begin at negative one.
I am:
•Adaptation.
•When Harry Met Sally
•Lost in Translation
•Annie Hall
•Die Hard
•Kill Bill
•Pulp Fiction
•Groundhog Day
•The Shawshank Redemption
•Eternal Sunshine
of the Spotless Mind
Well, I was, unto today. I don't have anything to amend that list with except to say "there I was." What you have in front of you is a map with a line that stretches out, and squeezes within itself like an earthworm on the move. "There I was" refers to the canyon leading to the spot of where I am now. There's an etched, hand-drawn line moving away from me. It's labeled "where I will be." The lines are light--tentative. It's just a guess.
I'm optimistic. I was raised to prepare for the worst and hope for the best. Now I just do my best and let the of rest of it run its coarse. I don't like optimism. There's a wary, lack of confidence, lazy quality to that attribute that I've never enjoyed. When I do my best I do as much as I can and forgot the rest; if I can't affect it I won't worry about it. Worry is the opposite of progress.
I don't know what I am just now, not totally. I sense a culmination of various pasts and parallel presents, but beyond that is ... chance.
This is what I want: one place to find me. Not "school me" or "work me," just ME. My identity has been divided into too many disparate parts, and all I want is that canyon to become canon and for "where I will be" to be thick with no apologies or fears. If there's anything I wish for my future, it's for it to continually surprise me.
I'm just too ignorant to be omniscient.
•Adaptation.
•When Harry Met Sally
•Lost in Translation
•Annie Hall
•Die Hard
•Kill Bill
•Pulp Fiction
•Groundhog Day
•The Shawshank Redemption
•Eternal Sunshine
of the Spotless Mind
Well, I was, unto today. I don't have anything to amend that list with except to say "there I was." What you have in front of you is a map with a line that stretches out, and squeezes within itself like an earthworm on the move. "There I was" refers to the canyon leading to the spot of where I am now. There's an etched, hand-drawn line moving away from me. It's labeled "where I will be." The lines are light--tentative. It's just a guess.
I don't know what I am just now, not totally. I sense a culmination of various pasts and parallel presents, but beyond that is ... chance.
This is what I want: one place to find me. Not "school me" or "work me," just ME. My identity has been divided into too many disparate parts, and all I want is that canyon to become canon and for "where I will be" to be thick with no apologies or fears. If there's anything I wish for my future, it's for it to continually surprise me.
I'm just too ignorant to be omniscient.
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Let's do this.
Exactly. Thanks, Elaine.