Soap Opera's Never Held My Attention

I'm not made for this life I've born. Too much flesh and too many tears; I've lost my bearings and my sense of time in this place.

What element of my personality makes me act the way I do?Am I just dramatizing my life? Making meaning where there is only lack? Significance where there is only shallow consumption? I know these questions are asked by other people. Thought those other people always appear to be skilled artists, questioning the worth of their creations.

What have I created? What have I done? I'm 23 without an occupation, title, moniker or accomplishment. It's an easy life this one. With nothing to do but be myself. I've long been a pundit for the countercamp to external validation, so why now the sudden grip of fear? I'm ONLY 23, right? Isn't that supposed to be the new twenty? Or does it work in reverse?

I don't have any application for my talents, whatever those may be. With a track record like mine, it'd appear my skill set is deception, beautiful illusions and fleeting, ephemeral moments. I create stories, in my hobbies and my relationships. On Sunday I realize my thoughts throughout the week; transcribed into the body of a game. What's different about my relationships?

I wrote a paper about the process of identity construction a few semesters ago. The paper compared the process of character creation with that of identity construction. Both, I maintained, are willful acts of definition. They are parallel in their methods; the one seemingly shallow and minor, the other significant and permanent. What I noticed is that the method of determination was the same in both. How we build our morals is the same as choosing an alignment, except we believe one to be permanent.

For a long time I looked at relationships as art. They were my canvas, my area of expression. What could I create with this new surface, I asked? Invariably I grew tired of what I was making, because people aren't inanimate surfaces, they have needs, demands and emotions. Where I saw myself reflected in the eyes of my partner, they saw something living and breathing.

In that way I've been abusive and indifferent. In much the same way you can shelve a piece of writing or an unfinished artwork...to be completed later... I shelved people, women mostly, to be completed later. An afterthought, to be addressed when my mind got around to it. I can't shelve people any longer, because I'm not an artist and they're skin isn't canvas.

Though I still can't tell what the appropriate level of remorse is. As though I can choose a level. What if I don't have any remorse? I'm aware of what I've done, aware I need a change. Though not out of moral obligation, but because I'm not satisfied. If a change isn't motivated by benevolence and instead merely self interest, what is the judgment of it?

Liminal Beast

More so than any other year, 2009 has been rife with emotional turmoil and upheavals. I suppose this is to be expected given the way I choose to live my life; but of interesting note is that this year has also seen a serious amount of emotional emancipation. Past relationships have peeled away like so many layers, Alex, Alice and now Melanie.

More than just left to their own devices, all of THE ex's...ones which have suffered at my hands or caused suffering themselves...have been ejected or sentence to self-styled purgatory. It took a few days, post Melanie weirdness, to realize this significant event. I was thinking of holding a celebratory event, but then I caught the flu. Regardless, the fact remains that the only 'ex' left in my immediate environment is Jenny.

However, she's exempt from that status in my mind for a variety of reasons, the first being that whatever we have seems to transcend (not in a holistic or sanctimonious way) and resist whatever attempts we make at defining it. That being said, we're in a different space now than we've been before. It's not always easy but we're both working at it, and in my mind it's something worth working or.

It's a rare thing for me to see another person as a worthwhile investment, a worthwhile sacrifice...but Jenny is my friend and I care about her...so that's a sacrifice I'm fully prepared to make.

On other fronts though, these are the clearest horizons I've seen in a long time. There is little in my immediate future that holds either a muddling or miring promise. I suppose a sensation of lightness would be an appropriate description. School is coming to a close, none too soon if you ask me, and I'm now faced with the task of dismantling and rebuilding for next semester and next year.

There is a fluidity here where there hasn't been before. Perhaps I can carry this torch forward to the new year. Here's hoping. Cheers to realized impulses.

The Universe's Sense Of Irony...

Mere hours after writing the previous post, my phone bleeped with a message. At 2 am? On a Saturday night? No one texts me at that time, everyone knows I'm sleeping.

It's my ex-girlfriend from highschool, somewhat implausibly, asking to meet me for coffee in New Westminster. She's drunk, clearly, and looking to meet up for what I can only imagine. A flurry of text messages and concerned back and forths and she's outside my door and it's pouring rain. Cue the tears, cue the drama and cue the passive aggressive self loathing attempts at self immolation.

She has every right to hold the opinion of me that she does; I lied, cheated and betrayed her. That aside though, she maintains this illusion that we're always supposed to be friends. She's a teacher now, a successful career. A boyfriend, that she claims she loves, and I believe her.

A boyfriend, who, if he knew she as at my house would probably punch first and ask questions later. A fact, I'll note, that she makes me aware of AFTER showing up at my place. So, what to do? I can hardly turn her out into the cold and she seems in a state of distress.

Regardless of what instinct is rooted in the past between us, as a human being I'd make the same gestures. Either way, she wanted to "chat" about what happened between us. However, her sense of anger at herself for being at my place in the first place prevented her from accurately describing what she was going through.

What I gleaned is that she's in love with her boyfriend, a relationship that may or may not be abusive or unfulfilling; perhaps she can't tell. Coupled with a sense of impending finality, she's touching base to compare notes to where we went wrong.

She asked about the cheating, the lying. I explained that it all went wrong when I started to lie about the little things. No women involved, just easier to contain and compartmentalize information than to live with the completeness of life. The honesty. She's worried about an instance of lying with her boyfriend and if it's analogous to what I did.

I told her that I acted poorly and that I wasn't sorry for what I did, because I made those choices, but that I was sorry that I had put her through that. The only advice I had to give was that she needed to have a frank discussion with him and hash it all out. It flashes through my mind, as I'm sitting here in my own space, that this person is an alien. A trespasser.

She doesn't belong in this space or in this time. Her opinions of me are outmoded and outdated. 'King of Cheaters' is a timely quote from last night, lost amongst a dozen others. The crying and the confusion coupled with the acerbic assaults on my person made for a befuddling mixture.

What I learned from it all though, is that I am not the same person I was before. My clothes, my music, my smells, my space weren't "the same" anymore. Off handed criticism, which I chalk up to her being nervous, about the fact that I have too many plants...

At the end of it all...though...I'm burned out. I wrote what I wrote honestly. I don't have any interest in this machinations. I told her to tell her boyfriend that she had been at my place, a fact that she said she simply COULDN'T do. I pointed out that she'd be doing the same thing she was concerned about if she didn't.

I can't tell if she wanted me to be a bad person when she got here. Was I too accommodating? Was I too generous? Was I supposed to make a move? Shift into predator mode so that she could run back to her boyfriend? Confident that she was making the right choice, that I was the things she thought I was. It was weird, to have this person who tried to force a personality on me that simply didn't fit anymore. I'm not the person she remembers me being any longer.

This'll settle for now...but it was certainly weird at the time.

Thin Ice

Faaaaaaack.

S'all I have to say. I play Magic: The Gathering...and Dungeons & Dragons. I'm a total diehard nerd and I have an active imagination. Lately though, I've been feeling restless and disconnected. I want to DO things...make stuff...to create. And though these hobbies would appear to be the perfect outlet for this particular brand of anxious energy, you'd be surprised.

I used to find the strangest outlets.

The problem was that these outlets invariably started crying. You're not supposed to let water near outlets...electricity has a nasty habit of cauterizing wounds and bursting capillaries.

I'm tired of writing history and explaining away the past. I'm tired of tears, tired of anguish, anxiety and pain. Too much checkered past and not enough entertaining present.

Shake it off.

Verboten Prose

Death Cab For Cutie - Bixby Canyon Bridge

I devoured a novel yesterday. All 300 pages...in a single day. I'd forgotten what literature tasted like. I've been so wrapped up in this semester of science, logic and numbers that I'd almost let my more artistic side stagnate.

Well now I'm firing on all cylinders. The front of my house looks like a warzone, the sewer line had a leak and they've had to dig up trenches all along the side of the house. I wake up every morning to cold, wet drizzle and gap toothed dudes with leathery skin working the soil to either side of my porch.

In many ways my external environment is mirroring the discord felt on the inside. There is nothing turbulent about my state of being at the moment, merely a settling...a grand rebalancing of the scales. Putting the pieces back where they belong so as to remedy the ailment. It is like breathing, this existence, a constant contraction and expansion.

With each new breath I feel new emotions, and experience new thoughts. However, I have to apply the same stability I demand in my hobbies to my everyday life. I have to start expecting more out of my hours and my minutes and my seconds. I don't squeeze life, the way I feel I should.

I know when I do. I know when I extract every last drop out of life, but those moments are few and hard to maintain. Perhaps the exercise routine I should be going through should parallel this desire.

I need words, I need this expression...this emotion and these thoughts. I have to find a way to be a thing I am proud of, on terms I define. Existence, for the sake of existing. I've been to defined by the relationships I've been involved in. Too determined by other people's idea of who I am.

I have to break loose from this saddening circuit. Thrust. Rattle my bones, eat well and take care of myself. I've got too much love to give.

Bob Dylan - Ballad Of A Thin Man

...*mutters*

...*turns*

Wait, what?

Oh...s'nothing, I was just sayin'...

Well, I mean...what're we going to do?

We're going to fix it. Can't you see that? Going to make everything better.

Better how? Doesn't that make it sound like things were good at some point?

Things were good, for a while...that one time?

What one time? When is this time you speak of so often?

There were times! They were good...weren't they?

I don't know, I can't remember any. Maybe you have a better memory than I do.

It's possible, I hear my kind are better at that. But, this thing...we're gonna do it right?

I guess so. I mean...don't you think we've been down this road before?

Which road?

This road! The slow burn to grand sweeping crescendo. That road.

Oh...that road. Well yeah, but this time is kind of different.

Different how?

I don't know, it just FEELS different.

That doesn't even make sense.

It doesn't have to make sense, it's a feeling...emotions are allowed to be nonsensical.

Says who?

Me.

You?

Yeah...me.

And when did you become an authority on emotions?

Well I was born with 'em, I just kind of assume I'm a natural. Or, as the french say, au natural.

I don't think the French say that.

Sure they do.

No they don't.

Are you French?

...no.

Then how would you know?

How would YOU know! You're not French either.

Am too. 1/4, on my mother's side.

Your mother was English.

Yes, but also a little bit French.

What? How?

She spoke French.

That doesn't make her French.

Sure it does.

*sighs* We're getting over topic.

Yes we are. Where we were?

The road.

Right, the road. Being on it, and such.

So, what do you think?

About the road? I think it's a good idea, we haven't been down it in a long time. Maybe it's changed.

I don't think the road changes so much. It's sort of like 'THE ROAD', you know?

No, I don't know...that's why we're going down it. To know.

Fair enough. Well...will this time be different?

It has to be, I'm doing that trip again. It sucked.

It had it's high points.

If by high points you mean times when it sucked less...than yes, it had many high points.

...true.

So...when do we start?

I think we already started.

When?

About four blocks back.

Oh...well...look at us then.

Limited Prospects

Jose Gonzalez - Cycling Trivialities

*rubs beard*

Right...

So...

I am making changes. I don't want to be alone, or scared or angry any longer. I've been harbouring this anger towards things lately, which is really just translated anger towards myself; a lack of ability and a muddled sense of self.

I see the beauty of things, I see love in the things I do...but I also see fractures, disunity and discord. I feel, sometimes, like I'm vibrating so hard I'm going to cease to exist...moving too fast to get anything done. The things around me are whipping by so fast that I can hardly get my bearings. Money spent on frivolities, time spent on trivialities and emotions spent on inconsequential moments.

I need some space to put my forehead down and let my thoughts rest for a while. For a long time writing about my thoughts, my emotions, has been a catharsis, a release. Until now, that catharsis has always been good enough. I think, maybe, that it's not cutting it any longer. I need to start cooking meals for myself. My space has become discordant and...full...

Too much furniture, too many corners, too many empty boxes and useless odds and ends. I need to streamline the finer points of my life. Smooth it down and fix the part, so it makes a little more sense.

To those who I just picked up, sorry...I have to put you down for a bit, don't have much space to put you where you'd like to be.

To those who I put down, sorry...you'll have to make strides alongside me. Move laterally and we'll advance together, just not in lock step.

To those who I left behind, sorry...you're not forgotten, you just don't fit any longer.

Keep with it, I'm not lost, I just don't have a destination. I'm going to hang my head for a bit, let the thoughts lean forward and pour out of the space between my brow and my chin. If I can slough it far enough to the front...just give it a little push.

Simply Put

The Black Keys - Just A Little Heat

Right, so...Not to create a false dichotomy or to suggest that these are the only two options available, but I feel as though I've pinpointed the "thing" that frustrates me about my interactions with people.

Misinterpretation and a dedication to definition. People seem, from my experience at least, to be hellbent on adhering to the notion that people can 'know' things about people. Now, I'll be honest, I'm the first to say that you'll learn most of what you need to know about a person in the first five minutes of meeting them, but that's mostly because people rely on habit and consistency to form friendships and relationships.

This is the problem that I'm encountering. There's a dearth of understanding when it comes to alternate systems. The response, inevitably, is that my stance is akin to theirs...an unwillingness to accept a tactic that is not my own. The counter then becomes, "but my tactic isn't exclusive". Which is to say, that my stance allows for alternate stances, just not exclusive ones. Since exclusive interaction and relationship building tactics discourage communication and encourage emotionally deteriorating systems.

If we allow for inappropriateness, rudeness or aggression in our everyday interactions, under the auspices of 'politeness' or 'fluidity of conversation' than it becomes commonplace to act inappropriately or poorly because there is no punitive ramifications.

I'll be the first to admit my failings, but contrary to remorse or regret for my failings, I merely acknowledge them. I don't expect people to flog themselves for their inadequacies, since we all them, and in turn I refuse to have that expected of me.

This whole topic came about while meeting Stu's new girlfriend. I liked her, she seemed nice and I still like her; however, she seemed dead set on interpreting my words, actions and demeanour as self-absorbed and callous. I'm really getting tired of these bombastic response to my personality. I'm not a bad person and the outrageous things I say or do are not THAT outrageous. More to the point, I'm actually a pretty good person. I make mistakes, just like anybody else...but I don't let that be a selling point for my personality, or a definition for my identity.

It's the spotlight analogy all over again. I have no respect for relationship systems that are predicated on tearing OTHER people down. Let's assume, for the sake of argument, that I take up a lot of space...just the same as other people do, and that some people take up less space. In an aggressive, combative environment, than that "space" needs to be defended. People feel protective, as though their emotional space is somehow guaranteed or granted to them. I take up a lot of space, I'm a big personality...but this scarcity of space is only implied if you adhere to a belief that there IS a scarcity of space. I don't believe in this, there will always be more time for talking, for discussing and for emoting. If not today, than tomorrow, or the day after that. There is no rush to get to some apex of understanding someone else. My cup isn't half full or half empty, it's overflowing at all times; beyond the confines of it's sides, because those sides are arbitrary.

I suppose I'm just fed up of dealing with people who see the world as a set protocol of limitations. You can or can't do this or that because...well...because...well, because they said so and that's just the way things are.

I don't prescribe archetypes or paradigms to people. I'm unforgivingly and unabashedly myself and I WANT other people to be the same. This is the bind, because as much as I want people to be themselves, that's predicated on respect for other people being themselves as well. So I won't, or don't want to, tolerate narrow prescriptive interactions because they're limiting and self expiring. I know that I don't have to interact with these people, but I don't like the notion of limitations amongst my friendship circles...

Oh, What Fresh Hell Is This?

Sea Wolf - Turn The Dirt Over

Took a while to shake my head loose from whatever funk it'd been caught in. My parts keep snagging on something that doesn't quite sit right. I'm doing my best to relinquish control and let things be as they are, still...it's difficult.

I'm just kind of angry, is all.

It's like the only thing that matters, and the only thing that circulates in my atmosphere is sex and exploration of shallow sensuality. Perfunctory, paint by numbers accumulation of experience. Like a depository, some sort of unwanted time capsule. Keep scouring the looking glass clean, because it's fogged with sweat, tears, sex and grime.

Everything feels dirty. Then suddenly I realize what terrifies me about this behaviour. The mindless consumption for the purpose of consumption, not for sustenance or even for pleasure but simply because it happened to be in the way. It is an automated...zombified response. Which is quaint, given my fear of the aforementioned shambling corpse.

Then another thought shuffles through my brain...what terrifies me about this implication is the inability to separate and divide the times when I am merely consuming as a reflex and consuming as a choice. *for those less schooled in sub-text, replace 'consuming' with fucking* The emotions associated with the latter become enmeshed with the absurdity of the former.

So combined with the malevolent surge directed towards Alice, there's a recombinant process going on here. Reassembling the pieces I gave away to people and figuring out where they fit in my life. I never get to scream at people, or yell at them or feel real surges of ire. I'm vocal about my distaste, but rarely vehement or vitriolic. I just can't get behind the sensation enough to make it into a projectile.

But the picture looks as though colours from a different canvas have bled through. Some parts don't make sense, even in an abstract sensation. There are parts that just aren't "right". I grow restless with awe and adoration in either direction. More and more I feel less like a person and more like a horse, being placated with a calm hand on a shivering flank.

Precursory Warning To A Bottle Of Tequila...

Just sayin' is all...a few hours from now...wait for it.