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.

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...)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.