Drifting, limbo style, and not the kind with the really low pole.
Emotion isn't subject to the laws of gravity here. What once as up is down, and down extends outwards from the center.
I'm not upset, but I am angry. Mostly at the being here.
I'm not sad, but I am lonely. Mostly for the being here.
And things would be eminently easier if the outside world, representing the future along with all its abundant potential, ceased to swirl about, but I can't be the one to end that.
Days pass in the blink of an eye, and then I work to support the passing of days.
Showing posts with label Ranting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ranting. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Show, Don't Tell
For one reason or another (Finder's Keepers, the Persona games, Push) I've been thinking about Tarot cards, Arcana and whatnot, and about how systems such as these have been in effect for centuries as a way of understanding the shape of the world. This I have known for some time, but it was only just recently that I really came to appreciate the sentiment.
Having been raised in the Lutheran church I have at no time been given any reason to invest even the smallest shreds of credibility into belief systems such as astrology, palm reading, card reading, whatever you like. This also means that I've been given into a world of predetermination (dance around that all you like, when you get down to it so much of any Christian denomination relies on this subtle acceptance). We believe that we're not really in control of our lives. Well, we might be in control of our immediate lives, our choices and decisions, but we can't look at the world around us and expect to find much.
For some reason, this bothers me. Not in the sense that I feel left out of some cosmic plan... it's more the knowledge that even if I put forth any sort of effort into reading the world around me nothing would turn up.
Spirit animals, reading the winds, I don't know. I could probably go on with a little bit of research if everything in my life hadn't already conspired to invalidate anything that didn't "fit" the pattern.
I mean, granted there is the Bible. But sometimes I feel like it's a case of telling rather than showing. I just want more to exist by way of symbols, or deduction, or meditation. And it doesn't.
Having been raised in the Lutheran church I have at no time been given any reason to invest even the smallest shreds of credibility into belief systems such as astrology, palm reading, card reading, whatever you like. This also means that I've been given into a world of predetermination (dance around that all you like, when you get down to it so much of any Christian denomination relies on this subtle acceptance). We believe that we're not really in control of our lives. Well, we might be in control of our immediate lives, our choices and decisions, but we can't look at the world around us and expect to find much.
For some reason, this bothers me. Not in the sense that I feel left out of some cosmic plan... it's more the knowledge that even if I put forth any sort of effort into reading the world around me nothing would turn up.
Spirit animals, reading the winds, I don't know. I could probably go on with a little bit of research if everything in my life hadn't already conspired to invalidate anything that didn't "fit" the pattern.
I mean, granted there is the Bible. But sometimes I feel like it's a case of telling rather than showing. I just want more to exist by way of symbols, or deduction, or meditation. And it doesn't.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Maverick?
At total risk to my own sanity, I have entered a world without a people behind me.
And even as I sit here and write it, I'm not sure what it means. But I do know that the "aloneness" which I haven't been able to fully identify is at home here, within this one fact.
The question is, what is a community? Is it a gathering of like-minded individuals, who may find solace in each other's company? Or is it a gathering of disparate minds, each one going its own way to an individual oblivion?
If Seattle is a community, then we're a community who doesn't talk amongst itself (look up the Seattle Freeze).
I'm sure UW is a community somehow, but I haven't the slightest idea how one interacts within it or what the point is.
The Church is a community that exists only insofar as the beliefs of its members are the same. Well, couldn't that be merely coincidental? And what do we do when "our" Church believes to some degree in that which we cannot? In the past I would have said that a single discrepancy cannot undermine unity, that I could retain my own individual beliefs in the face of that which I deemed wrong. I would have urged others to feel the same--that if a sermon or teaching did not represent your beliefs, you need only affirm your own and endure upon the strength of your own belief.
Now I'm not so sure.
I guess the only point I'm trying to make is that I feel like a person who's gone out on their own, a politician who has no funding, something like that. And I want to believe that that is an okay way to live. Well, whether it is or not I at least know where I stand and why I feel the way I do.
And even as I sit here and write it, I'm not sure what it means. But I do know that the "aloneness" which I haven't been able to fully identify is at home here, within this one fact.
The question is, what is a community? Is it a gathering of like-minded individuals, who may find solace in each other's company? Or is it a gathering of disparate minds, each one going its own way to an individual oblivion?
If Seattle is a community, then we're a community who doesn't talk amongst itself (look up the Seattle Freeze).
I'm sure UW is a community somehow, but I haven't the slightest idea how one interacts within it or what the point is.
The Church is a community that exists only insofar as the beliefs of its members are the same. Well, couldn't that be merely coincidental? And what do we do when "our" Church believes to some degree in that which we cannot? In the past I would have said that a single discrepancy cannot undermine unity, that I could retain my own individual beliefs in the face of that which I deemed wrong. I would have urged others to feel the same--that if a sermon or teaching did not represent your beliefs, you need only affirm your own and endure upon the strength of your own belief.
Now I'm not so sure.
I guess the only point I'm trying to make is that I feel like a person who's gone out on their own, a politician who has no funding, something like that. And I want to believe that that is an okay way to live. Well, whether it is or not I at least know where I stand and why I feel the way I do.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Unwelcome Irony
I'm all about "discovering" myself. And, transitively, anyone discovering themselves. It's a shame to see people get hurt or misunderstood or stuck into places where they're uncomfortable because they're not really sure who they are or what they want out of life. It's a shame to have it happen to me.
And it sneaks up on you. Maybe you don't realize that certain aspects of your life don't jive quite right until it's "too late" (in quotes because, let's be honest, it's never too late).
I'm getting distracted by reading other stuff I've written, but I want to finish with the thought that started this whole musing in the first place, which is this: sometimes the things you learn about yourself, instead of empowering you, make things more difficult.
It's an unwelcome irony at this point.
And it sneaks up on you. Maybe you don't realize that certain aspects of your life don't jive quite right until it's "too late" (in quotes because, let's be honest, it's never too late).
I'm getting distracted by reading other stuff I've written, but I want to finish with the thought that started this whole musing in the first place, which is this: sometimes the things you learn about yourself, instead of empowering you, make things more difficult.
It's an unwelcome irony at this point.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Snippets
We drop bombs from only the most appropriate heights.
---
If I worked my hardest to cover the page for no sake other than the task itself, ashes floating from on high would leave an impact far greater than any words I could ever dare to set into the world.
---
Last year's wishes aren't enough for this year's man.
---
Just in case, just in caves we wait, wail and waste away the flickering light left behind by a star burning straight to hell.
---
If I worked my hardest to cover the page for no sake other than the task itself, ashes floating from on high would leave an impact far greater than any words I could ever dare to set into the world.
---
Last year's wishes aren't enough for this year's man.
---
Just in case, just in caves we wait, wail and waste away the flickering light left behind by a star burning straight to hell.
My Country
This was my country, was the ground from which my rockets flew to burst in God-forsaken skies. These were my pictures, views of older days with tree swings swaying above that creek, the one in the backyard, our one escape from relatives drunk on American Nationalism, on 4 of July. This was my backyard, my hometown, the bright-eyed crucible of dreams forthcoming. Fuses lit, we huddled close and waited for ignition.
*written while listening to Our Song by Joe Henry
*written while listening to Our Song by Joe Henry
Golden Gardens
Their cries echoing agains the hillside, bursting forth from nature's megaphone, washed over the pair of eyes as they set about for their God-given task--to give light to the facets of the world, categorize them by name and likeness. To document and report on the state of the world, and most of all, to write it down.
(Here) Listen Up
Kid 2000, reppin the houses
where the people lay down their lives in the form of work
to sanctify their God-given fruits of the earth
and union?
Kicking down the doors of disunion
while passers by send a flare into the air praying for a second chance
praying against prayer with the thought that they can do it for themselves
but no, that's darkness stealing from the light.
Cause don't you see? Someone somewhere is playing that tune
and all you've got to do is listen,
hear, (here)
listen up
to the sound of your brothers as they're marching through the street
where the people lay down their lives in the form of work
to sanctify their God-given fruits of the earth
and union?
Kicking down the doors of disunion
while passers by send a flare into the air praying for a second chance
praying against prayer with the thought that they can do it for themselves
but no, that's darkness stealing from the light.
Cause don't you see? Someone somewhere is playing that tune
and all you've got to do is listen,
hear, (here)
listen up
to the sound of your brothers as they're marching through the street
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Some lines from some music, some other jottings
"I cringe for myself when I cringe for you" ~ Hello My Treacherous Friend, by OK Go
"Sing us a song to hum through the hours of dying" ~ Shortly Before the End, by OK Go
"And I've had recurring nightmares that I'm loved for who I am, and missed the opportunity to be a better man" ~ Hoodoo, by Muse
"You have so much to live for... I'm just dying to stay alive" ~ Show Me Something New, by Shout Out Louds
"You can drive those wheels to the end of the road--you will still find the past right behind you" ~ Carve Away the Stone, by Rush
---
You know what it is about the moon that I love so much? It's a giant undifferentiated rock orbiting the earth at about 300,000km away, and I'm a tiny organism.
It puts me in my place.
---
Used to cut through parking lots to save some time,
but now I walk the sides of streets on someone else's dime
---
As gunslingers go, none better than I
have walked these roads; no mortal eye
as keen as mine has dared to pass
among the hills where life stood last.
---
like days without jackets
---
This is something we cannot solve by words alone. We're speaking chasms here.
"Sing us a song to hum through the hours of dying" ~ Shortly Before the End, by OK Go
"And I've had recurring nightmares that I'm loved for who I am, and missed the opportunity to be a better man" ~ Hoodoo, by Muse
"You have so much to live for... I'm just dying to stay alive" ~ Show Me Something New, by Shout Out Louds
"You can drive those wheels to the end of the road--you will still find the past right behind you" ~ Carve Away the Stone, by Rush
---
You know what it is about the moon that I love so much? It's a giant undifferentiated rock orbiting the earth at about 300,000km away, and I'm a tiny organism.
It puts me in my place.
---
Used to cut through parking lots to save some time,
but now I walk the sides of streets on someone else's dime
---
As gunslingers go, none better than I
have walked these roads; no mortal eye
as keen as mine has dared to pass
among the hills where life stood last.
---
like days without jackets
---
This is something we cannot solve by words alone. We're speaking chasms here.
My Team
One day you wake up and realize that you don't speak the language of your ancestors, your own flesh and blood.
And you probably never will.
But you carry the bloodline still, despite what might be seen as your betrayals of the form. We want to reach back, of course. We feel the tug at all times when we wish we could live in older times--that's us reaching back. It's futile, we know, but that can't keep us from wishing.
The fact of the matter is, the bloodline is just as subject to the currents of time as we are. The bloodline is one long chain, one long life reaching over a thousand lifetimes. So instead of thinking "I wish I lived in [such and such] time, we ought to think, "my team already did that. Now, I'm here, doing this."
And you probably never will.
But you carry the bloodline still, despite what might be seen as your betrayals of the form. We want to reach back, of course. We feel the tug at all times when we wish we could live in older times--that's us reaching back. It's futile, we know, but that can't keep us from wishing.
The fact of the matter is, the bloodline is just as subject to the currents of time as we are. The bloodline is one long chain, one long life reaching over a thousand lifetimes. So instead of thinking "I wish I lived in [such and such] time, we ought to think, "my team already did that. Now, I'm here, doing this."
Monday, February 22, 2010
A Day in the Mind of a Guy who's Losing One
Slept through class again. Not accidental. Woke up at around 10:00 and milled around the apartment for an hour, listened to some music and messed around on the internet until about 11:00. Decided to get some air, so I grabbed my headphones, my writing journal, and a few pens.
I walked south for a block to grab a small bag of doritos and an energy drink from the Hamlin Market, which I consumed as I walked north across the University Bridge towards the UW campus. While in the area, I stopped by the bank and cashed some birthday checks (as well as depositing a fat wad of 20s. My roommate thought it would be funny to pay me back for the rent via ATM).
From there I went around the corner to Twice Sold Tales and looked around. I was completely surprised to find not one, but three Christopher Anvil novels. Now, Anvil's not a household name, even within the sci-fi community, but I had discovered him through a short story collection put together by Robert Hoskins (the Stars Around Us). His story Ghost Fleet captured my imagination, not in that it had wildly fantastical ideas, but in the geniousness with which it was put together, including a compelling main character with compelling motives and epic twists.
I picked up one of the books for $4 and caught the 44 to Ballard, stopping halfway in Wallingford. From there I planned to walk down to Gasworks and read or write something. I got off one stop too late because I was absorbed in my book, and not having had breakfast I of course decided that another energy drink was in order.
It was quite a walk, longer than I anticipated, but the scenery was nice. The street was called Woodlawn, Ave. and it was highly suburban, so it was cool to see all the different homes there. Finally, I reached Gasworks.
It was a rare sunny day and so I stayed there for maybe an hour, just reading on the side of the hill until I felt it was time to go back. The book is highly enjoyable, which is good because you never really know when you pick something up... I walked along the Burke-Gillman trail, back up the Ave and up to Jimmy John's, where I had lunch, then onto campus to the computer I'm now sitting at typing this story to you. Along hte way I had various literary insights that I penned into my journal, and you'll likely see some incarnation of them in future posts.
Because every tragedy endured enables enlightenment.
I walked south for a block to grab a small bag of doritos and an energy drink from the Hamlin Market, which I consumed as I walked north across the University Bridge towards the UW campus. While in the area, I stopped by the bank and cashed some birthday checks (as well as depositing a fat wad of 20s. My roommate thought it would be funny to pay me back for the rent via ATM).
From there I went around the corner to Twice Sold Tales and looked around. I was completely surprised to find not one, but three Christopher Anvil novels. Now, Anvil's not a household name, even within the sci-fi community, but I had discovered him through a short story collection put together by Robert Hoskins (the Stars Around Us). His story Ghost Fleet captured my imagination, not in that it had wildly fantastical ideas, but in the geniousness with which it was put together, including a compelling main character with compelling motives and epic twists.
I picked up one of the books for $4 and caught the 44 to Ballard, stopping halfway in Wallingford. From there I planned to walk down to Gasworks and read or write something. I got off one stop too late because I was absorbed in my book, and not having had breakfast I of course decided that another energy drink was in order.
It was quite a walk, longer than I anticipated, but the scenery was nice. The street was called Woodlawn, Ave. and it was highly suburban, so it was cool to see all the different homes there. Finally, I reached Gasworks.
It was a rare sunny day and so I stayed there for maybe an hour, just reading on the side of the hill until I felt it was time to go back. The book is highly enjoyable, which is good because you never really know when you pick something up... I walked along the Burke-Gillman trail, back up the Ave and up to Jimmy John's, where I had lunch, then onto campus to the computer I'm now sitting at typing this story to you. Along hte way I had various literary insights that I penned into my journal, and you'll likely see some incarnation of them in future posts.
Because every tragedy endured enables enlightenment.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
The Fisherman
As much as I'd like to blame my lot in life on some external force like destiny, we all know that it's only my fault. The fisherman, to attain viability, bust go to where the fish are, no matter the dangers of the waters, the closeness of the rocks, the temperamental skies. This is his trade. This he must do, or do without.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Valentine's Day Thoughts
With Valentine's Day rapidly approaching, a hefty host of us are spending a lot of time thinking of one thing or another. In the case of those with significant others, plans and surprises are likely being put in motion. With any luck, these plans will proceed unhindered, and good times will be had by all.
The rest of us are thinking of quite different things. Maybe someone is planning a winning move. I wish you the best of luck (not that I encourage people 'hooking up' on Valentine's Day just to feel like they're not alone). Others of us (myself included) are watching the day approach like a NEA readying for terrestrial impact. We know it's coming, we know it's going to suck, and there's nothing we can do about it.
As a mechanism of dealing with these considerations, should you share them, I would like to encourage you to realize that we are in a position of strategic advantage. Allow me to explain: for people with significant others, Valentine's Day marks out something special. It'll be an "up" day, a day to look forward to. By contrast, the "unattached" might be tempted to see Valentine's Day as a "down" day, something to dread. A day when things go from bad to worse.
Don't panic.
Look at it this way--Valentine's Day is painful to the unattached for what reason? Because it makes us aware of our detachment? Because we know that others around the nation will be celebrating their love, a love that you currently don't possess or share with anyone?
Both of these, and maybe more. But here's the upswing; is Valentine's Day the only day you're made aware of your detachment? Is it the only day where you realize that others are sharing their love for each other?
It's not. Valentine's Day is not remarkable in the negative spectrum to the unattached, because it's simply no worse than any other day. And really, it's not about being alone on Valentine's Day. It's about being alone, period. This isn't new (unless, you know, it is, in which case I feel for you). We've been weathering this storm some of us for weeks, months, years even. And we're still here. We're still alive. We still function. Yes, at times it may be lonely, and at times it may cause you to question your own value... but we've already got our hands on the short end of the stick. We've had our hands there. And you know what? We can take that short end, and we can go on, and well...
I guess that's something.
Love to my family and friends,
Matt
The rest of us are thinking of quite different things. Maybe someone is planning a winning move. I wish you the best of luck (not that I encourage people 'hooking up' on Valentine's Day just to feel like they're not alone). Others of us (myself included) are watching the day approach like a NEA readying for terrestrial impact. We know it's coming, we know it's going to suck, and there's nothing we can do about it.
As a mechanism of dealing with these considerations, should you share them, I would like to encourage you to realize that we are in a position of strategic advantage. Allow me to explain: for people with significant others, Valentine's Day marks out something special. It'll be an "up" day, a day to look forward to. By contrast, the "unattached" might be tempted to see Valentine's Day as a "down" day, something to dread. A day when things go from bad to worse.
Don't panic.
Look at it this way--Valentine's Day is painful to the unattached for what reason? Because it makes us aware of our detachment? Because we know that others around the nation will be celebrating their love, a love that you currently don't possess or share with anyone?
Both of these, and maybe more. But here's the upswing; is Valentine's Day the only day you're made aware of your detachment? Is it the only day where you realize that others are sharing their love for each other?
It's not. Valentine's Day is not remarkable in the negative spectrum to the unattached, because it's simply no worse than any other day. And really, it's not about being alone on Valentine's Day. It's about being alone, period. This isn't new (unless, you know, it is, in which case I feel for you). We've been weathering this storm some of us for weeks, months, years even. And we're still here. We're still alive. We still function. Yes, at times it may be lonely, and at times it may cause you to question your own value... but we've already got our hands on the short end of the stick. We've had our hands there. And you know what? We can take that short end, and we can go on, and well...
I guess that's something.
Love to my family and friends,
Matt
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Story Idea 2: Mind Wipe
Okay, so I've been reading The Devil's Eye by Jack McDevitt, and one of the devices he uses in this particular universe is the mind wipe, which is a socially instituted way for criminals and others who want a new stab at life to move on. They're housed in a facility for a few weeks until they relearn how to read, walk, communicate, be a person etc, and are given a fake history and family, then sent off to a distant part of the known worlds as a completely new person. No record exists to correlate between the old persona and the new--the person has effectively died. Memorial services are held, yadda yadda. In many ways, this notion is similar to suicide (which McDevitt always manages to touch on).
That's all McDevitt, and it's a relatively minor part of his universe structure.
Now, here's my spin and where a story comes out of it; what if someone who wanted a mind wipe to escape some past was so famous that other people knew who he used to be? But he doesn't know who he used to be, because... he's a completely different person. He notices that people follow him around and ask him strange questions. The key to tying this story together would be that the mind wipe procedure would be kept off the page for as long as possible. There can't be some lost lover who surfaces to tell him all of the things he was--that kills suspense, and it takes emphasis away from the main character, who is personality 2 and not personality 1.
The story would be driven by his own attempts to discover who he was, and more importantly, why he chose to undergo the procedure. It has nothing to do with some military amnesia or whatever--I'm not interested in that. That's been done.
Is he maybe still a little himself? (p1)? Or is he just a random guy (p2) looking into the history of some gone and dead celebrity?
It would take a lot of handwaving, but that's why it's showing up in Skeleton Plots.
That's all McDevitt, and it's a relatively minor part of his universe structure.
Now, here's my spin and where a story comes out of it; what if someone who wanted a mind wipe to escape some past was so famous that other people knew who he used to be? But he doesn't know who he used to be, because... he's a completely different person. He notices that people follow him around and ask him strange questions. The key to tying this story together would be that the mind wipe procedure would be kept off the page for as long as possible. There can't be some lost lover who surfaces to tell him all of the things he was--that kills suspense, and it takes emphasis away from the main character, who is personality 2 and not personality 1.
The story would be driven by his own attempts to discover who he was, and more importantly, why he chose to undergo the procedure. It has nothing to do with some military amnesia or whatever--I'm not interested in that. That's been done.
Is he maybe still a little himself? (p1)? Or is he just a random guy (p2) looking into the history of some gone and dead celebrity?
It would take a lot of handwaving, but that's why it's showing up in Skeleton Plots.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Story Idea
So a lot of times I come up with skeleton story ideas and they fall to the wayside; I usually don't give them any attention because they're so fleeting and, well, I have a million (3) other stories I'm developing at the moment.
Nevertheless, there is probably some value in cataloging these story ideas. I mean, what's the worst that could happen? Even if someone stole the idea, it would be getting more light than I ever intend to shed on it.
Enough with exposition: on with the show.
So a character encounters a meteorite, but it doesn't give him any special powers or anything--he just takes it as a sign that something fantastic is happening in his life and he begins looking for signs everywhere, thinking that his state in life will improve, his relationships with women, whatever.
And basically, it doesn't. The people close to him think he's being crazy and unreasonable, and in the end the message is that you have to do things for yourself, and no meteorite, mystically empowered or otherwise, can change that.
I told you it was skeletal.
Nevertheless, there is probably some value in cataloging these story ideas. I mean, what's the worst that could happen? Even if someone stole the idea, it would be getting more light than I ever intend to shed on it.
Enough with exposition: on with the show.
So a character encounters a meteorite, but it doesn't give him any special powers or anything--he just takes it as a sign that something fantastic is happening in his life and he begins looking for signs everywhere, thinking that his state in life will improve, his relationships with women, whatever.
And basically, it doesn't. The people close to him think he's being crazy and unreasonable, and in the end the message is that you have to do things for yourself, and no meteorite, mystically empowered or otherwise, can change that.
I told you it was skeletal.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Thank You: Danny Elfman
The beauty of art is not inherent in the art itself. For me, the beauty of art is how it takes on new life in the eyes or ears of the viewers, the listeners, the readers. The way it touches people, the way it acts as a communicative tool of shared experience. The way it gives voice to those feelings we might not so easily express through more standard means of speech and thought.
Art is the link that transcends our mediocrity.
And for all this, I am indebted to artists of all sorts; men and women of all races and identites across the globe. Today I want to give my thanks in particular to Danny Elfman, hollywood composer and music director for many various works (in my case, I'm referring to the Terminator Salvation soundtrack).
If Mr. Elfman is master of nothing else, it is his pention for stirring string intervals layered over a solidly mounting low brass key change. There is a presence in his work that I cannot deny, and one that I cannot quite put to words either, so I'll suffice to say thank you and leave it at that.
Art is the link that transcends our mediocrity.
And for all this, I am indebted to artists of all sorts; men and women of all races and identites across the globe. Today I want to give my thanks in particular to Danny Elfman, hollywood composer and music director for many various works (in my case, I'm referring to the Terminator Salvation soundtrack).
If Mr. Elfman is master of nothing else, it is his pention for stirring string intervals layered over a solidly mounting low brass key change. There is a presence in his work that I cannot deny, and one that I cannot quite put to words either, so I'll suffice to say thank you and leave it at that.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Various Unfinished Writings
Spin me round and make me weak
Draw me in close so I can't speak
Destroy the man I used to be
It's overrated to be free
Spin me round and make me weak
Draw me in close so I can't speak
Destroy the man I used to be
It's overrated to be free, oh yeah
Slavery's a different game
when you're slaving to a person you would die for
Gives slavery a different name
---
It's seven o'clock on a Friday night. Footsteps march up the stairs with a silent determination. You want to run, but don't. You don't want to seem so bold. But you can't stop the beating in your heart, the quickening in your pulse, and the feeling that all things are possible.
This is magic.
"This is my room," you say, flipping on the light. You launch yourself onto your bed and sit facing her. She stands with her hands in her back pockets, like a potential tenant, ready to move into that space. Her eyes, like blue candles, scan your life's assortment, illuminating everything they touch. She walks over to you, eyes upwards, looking at a poster of the Milky Way that is tacked to the ceiling. Your eyes follow hers and she sits next to you. A wave of scent washes over you and half of your reasoning centers are gone, just like that.
---
I have nothing to apologize for, in sight of the fact that I was merely speaking openly for once.
There are, I think, two remedies for this. Forget about what "this" is. Just close your eyes and read.
Draw me in close so I can't speak
Destroy the man I used to be
It's overrated to be free
Spin me round and make me weak
Draw me in close so I can't speak
Destroy the man I used to be
It's overrated to be free, oh yeah
Slavery's a different game
when you're slaving to a person you would die for
Gives slavery a different name
---
It's seven o'clock on a Friday night. Footsteps march up the stairs with a silent determination. You want to run, but don't. You don't want to seem so bold. But you can't stop the beating in your heart, the quickening in your pulse, and the feeling that all things are possible.
This is magic.
"This is my room," you say, flipping on the light. You launch yourself onto your bed and sit facing her. She stands with her hands in her back pockets, like a potential tenant, ready to move into that space. Her eyes, like blue candles, scan your life's assortment, illuminating everything they touch. She walks over to you, eyes upwards, looking at a poster of the Milky Way that is tacked to the ceiling. Your eyes follow hers and she sits next to you. A wave of scent washes over you and half of your reasoning centers are gone, just like that.
---
I have nothing to apologize for, in sight of the fact that I was merely speaking openly for once.
And if that created an uncomfortable realm of conversation, I cannot be continually blamed for your refusal to enter that sphere.
And this does not mean that I am a lost cause. It only means that you won't talk to me any more. It does mean that you have things to say but won't say them, which means whatever it is you think might help me to understand myself is less important than maintaining your own comfort. And it means that via your perception, there is help needed. Maybe there is; it would be unfair of me to say there wasn't.
But if I need help and you refuse to give it, where does that leave me? Is it something you're hoping I'll figure out for myself? And if/when I do, how will you know? How will we ever reach beyond this barrier that has been built (I say again) by openness?
---There are, I think, two remedies for this. Forget about what "this" is. Just close your eyes and read.
The first and most obvious is the relationship. Comfort. The quintessential coupling, the... the... whatever.
The other--and sometimes I swear to God more delicious--remedy, is the Badassery. You know, kicking down doors. Blowing up cars. Fighting evil. It's good for the soul, I swear. Just one hitch.
You can't go around doing that!
Well, you can, but you probably wouldn't cozy up to the consequences. I mean, the people that do go around doing this wind up in jail and stuff.
Those of us with greater self-control opt for the more reasonable (read: pansy) way. We watch movies or read books where "our" "heroes" do the things we always wish we could. While I hesitate to label that as pathetic, I most definitely want to resist this idea...
Relationships in an Hour
*The following data was taken from 05/22/09, and it has not been updated to our current time.
Really, my loneliness can be boiled down to one thing alone--my perceptions of time.
I'm twenty years old. Twenty years and a few months ago, I didn't even exist. I entered into my first relationship when I was seventeen. It lasted for three months.
17.5*12=210
3/210=1.43%
That first relationship comprised about one and a half percent of my entire life, and that's not even counting the time that passed afterwards.
My second relationship started shortly before my eighteenth birthday, and lasted until the summer before my twentieth (about 20 months).
19.5*12=234
20/234=8.55%
Now, 8.55 percent is a considerably larger chunk than 1.43, but 8.55 percent of my life is like 5 minutes of an hour. My first relationship was less than a minute.
1h=60min
60*0.0855=5.128
60*0.0143=0.858
Taking all months of relationship into question puts us at 23/234 or 9.83% (5.9 minutes). Taking all months of relationship into my entire life puts me at 23/243 or 9.47% (5.68 minutes). That's less time than there are commercials in an hour long TV show.
It doesn't take a rocket scientist to deduce that the majority of my life has been spent "alone" (quotes signify that I've never been literally alone but you get my point).
Looking at the numbers, I'd say the sense of loneliness or longing that I'm exhibiting is quite ludicrous and presumptuous. Of course, different definitions of time could yield different results. If we count only the years that I was interested in girls (excluding some of my childhood, of course) the minutes to the hour ratios are quite different. The first relationship comes in at 2% (1.2 min) and the second at 11.49% (6.9 min). Taking them together runs 12.568% or 7.54 minutes, still just under the commercial break line.
The next argument follows that I could only truly understand the lack of relationship after being in one. Okay, well that changes percentages drastically. Now we're talking about 23/38, which is a whopping 60.5%! That's a 36 minute timeslot!
I understand that this entire post is more than a little tedious, but the point I've been trying to make is that time is a flexible construct, depending on how we look at it. And, as time is our usual benchmark for life events, it only makes sense to explore our feelings as they change and develop through time.
And average world live expectancy is 70 years.
The thing is, my longings, my desires to have someone to hold or whatever, they're chemical. They're a part of me in order to propagate the survival of our species. So unless God has a plan for me to have a companion, I might just be better off living in a cave.
But love is more than a little bit insidious. It's wonderful, and addictive, and once you've had it you'll never ever feel it unnecessary. It's the sweetest poison around, and detoxing is as painful as it gets.
The experiences I've been through and my reasonings here have led me to believe firmly that it is not better to love and have lost than never to have loved at all.
FML
Really, my loneliness can be boiled down to one thing alone--my perceptions of time.
I'm twenty years old. Twenty years and a few months ago, I didn't even exist. I entered into my first relationship when I was seventeen. It lasted for three months.
17.5*12=210
3/210=1.43%
That first relationship comprised about one and a half percent of my entire life, and that's not even counting the time that passed afterwards.
My second relationship started shortly before my eighteenth birthday, and lasted until the summer before my twentieth (about 20 months).
19.5*12=234
20/234=8.55%
Now, 8.55 percent is a considerably larger chunk than 1.43, but 8.55 percent of my life is like 5 minutes of an hour. My first relationship was less than a minute.
1h=60min
60*0.0855=5.128
60*0.0143=0.858
Taking all months of relationship into question puts us at 23/234 or 9.83% (5.9 minutes). Taking all months of relationship into my entire life puts me at 23/243 or 9.47% (5.68 minutes). That's less time than there are commercials in an hour long TV show.
It doesn't take a rocket scientist to deduce that the majority of my life has been spent "alone" (quotes signify that I've never been literally alone but you get my point).
Looking at the numbers, I'd say the sense of loneliness or longing that I'm exhibiting is quite ludicrous and presumptuous. Of course, different definitions of time could yield different results. If we count only the years that I was interested in girls (excluding some of my childhood, of course) the minutes to the hour ratios are quite different. The first relationship comes in at 2% (1.2 min) and the second at 11.49% (6.9 min). Taking them together runs 12.568% or 7.54 minutes, still just under the commercial break line.
The next argument follows that I could only truly understand the lack of relationship after being in one. Okay, well that changes percentages drastically. Now we're talking about 23/38, which is a whopping 60.5%! That's a 36 minute timeslot!
I understand that this entire post is more than a little tedious, but the point I've been trying to make is that time is a flexible construct, depending on how we look at it. And, as time is our usual benchmark for life events, it only makes sense to explore our feelings as they change and develop through time.
And average world live expectancy is 70 years.
The thing is, my longings, my desires to have someone to hold or whatever, they're chemical. They're a part of me in order to propagate the survival of our species. So unless God has a plan for me to have a companion, I might just be better off living in a cave.
But love is more than a little bit insidious. It's wonderful, and addictive, and once you've had it you'll never ever feel it unnecessary. It's the sweetest poison around, and detoxing is as painful as it gets.
The experiences I've been through and my reasonings here have led me to believe firmly that it is not better to love and have lost than never to have loved at all.
FML
Friday, December 25, 2009
Give and Take
When we heard the diagnosis, I remember thinking “well, that’s what you get when you’ve smoked for fifty years,” a viewpoint that was unfortunately and, somewhat horrifically, echoed by my father. Theirs was a strained relationship, so while Dad was dealing with the understanding that a significant part of his life was in great peril, I was dealing with the all-knowing adolescence within me. Or perhaps it was merely a front, a way to push the loss away. Though, having seen my grandfather maybe one week out of every year, I can’t say I felt much anyway.
I do remember things, now and again. Most often through those items of his that are now in my possession. I remember playing games. Cribbage, which he taught my brother and I. Rummy. Trouble. The game doesn’t matter so terribly much. What does matter, what strikes me during these moments of reflection, is the steady breathing with which my grandfather attended his every move, his every play. In one of the creation stories from Genesis, God breathed life into the lifeless clay and formed Adam and Eve. That was the breath of my grandfather. I sometimes wonder if it was the cancer breathing or if it was just him, but his ghostly yet comfortably even breath chilled me. I would revel in his respiration. The mental gears working, the coming to conclusion, the acting out of a maneuver—all of these were revealed in that steady breath. Seeing and hearing the unspoken genius of my bloodline at work, I marveled at it.
It is interesting to me that the two things I remember most of my grandfather are those so diametrically opposed to one another—the breathing to the maintenance of life, and the cancer to its detriment. When my grandfather died we flew down for the funeral. He was placed in the veteran’s memorial. I don’t remember where it is. But I do remember the ten gun salute, the roses we laid on the casket, and my uncle breaking down in tears.
A year later, when my grandmother had finished going through his possessions, we returned via station wagon to collect those items which were “up for grabs,” so to speak. I vaguely remember some of the things I took, or was given—two white shirts, one with a bald eagle reading “Freedom is not Free.” Another with a western landscape, and “Running Strong for American Indian Youth.” (Wrapped in their original plastic, they were little more than freebies, even to him, but I took them anyway). A machete with “1945 U.S.” stamped into the blade. A metal wall cross. Some old tools. A red handkerchief. Most importantly though, to my fourteen year old self as well as to me now: a short sleeved army relief, with a “LUND” name patch above the right breast pocket.
Given my age at the time and my compatibility with the typical action-starved-teenager role, this jacket was the ultimate method of breaking through to that alternative action world. I wanted to wear it everywhere—at home, at school, on the bus. Without regard to my grandfather, I aimed to use the jacket as a means to an experience.
My parents had other plans—I could hang it up in my closet, and be content just knowing it was there. The reasoning was sound, if a little outdated. My mom thought that the crazies might take a shot at me, out of some misguided anti-Americanism. My grandmother thought it would be disrespectful, to the point that she invoked my grandfather’s will as well. My father didn’t say anything, but I could see that he agreed. My father doesn’t stay silent if he disagrees.
---
As time has gone on, I’ve realized that the jacket and the LUND patch on it represent more of a shared history than a personal one. In its time of use, it referred specifically to Andrew Christoffer Lund, military Seargeant in Vietnam and Korea. As a relief, it was used in the time of peace between conflicts, or for times away from combat in the military camps. I can’t be certain of its exact origins, but that I can be fairly sure of.
Now, in my possession, it does not have the immediacy of military context. That takes a backseat to the familial connections it allows. Certainly, my grandfather was doing great things while in the possession of the jacket. And I can’t help but try and take up that mantle, to be my very best if for nothing else than for my ancestry, to whom I owe my existence.
---
I didn’t know my grandfather long enough or well enough to know what he thought of me. Did he harbor expectations? Resentments? Which if any of my pursuits would he approve?
I approach these questions with a social curiosity expected of my generation. We swim through the waters of our world always asking, always probing—what does she think of me? What about him? In my case it is almost universally a search for approval. Acknowledgment. Maybe even acceptance. We exist in the eyes of others.
But in the case of my grandfather, who I never knew, the question leaves a different taste in my mouth. A funny one. So when my family told me, unanimously no less, to hang it away, the hole I felt inside was more than the superficial action-seeker undercut by paternal reason. It had more to do with the fact that I had finally found a way to share a space with my grandfather. To get inside his skin, or carry him with me, or whatever. Regardless, the relief jacket was and is my closest link to him.
Genetically, I am 25% Andrew Christoffer Lund, and 50% Andrew Christoffer Lund Jr. The same is true of my brother, Andrew Christoffer Lund III. I mention this because, aside from being the second child, the younger brother, I am also the one who does not bear my grandfather’s name. But I believe that he is watching me with, at the least, some curiosity. I believe that other ancestors, even more distant, are lining up to get a seat.
So at night when I go to bed, regardless of their characters, I give a wave and a bow to the multitude of my past that is forever cheering me on. It’s a give and take: I keep them alive—they keep me honest.
And in my darker times I put it on, the jacket, and let my military history well up within me. It is a history of power: the power of my grandfather, the power, though often questionable, of the US government. It is the power of breath, the weight of death, and the promise of life rolled into one.
I do remember things, now and again. Most often through those items of his that are now in my possession. I remember playing games. Cribbage, which he taught my brother and I. Rummy. Trouble. The game doesn’t matter so terribly much. What does matter, what strikes me during these moments of reflection, is the steady breathing with which my grandfather attended his every move, his every play. In one of the creation stories from Genesis, God breathed life into the lifeless clay and formed Adam and Eve. That was the breath of my grandfather. I sometimes wonder if it was the cancer breathing or if it was just him, but his ghostly yet comfortably even breath chilled me. I would revel in his respiration. The mental gears working, the coming to conclusion, the acting out of a maneuver—all of these were revealed in that steady breath. Seeing and hearing the unspoken genius of my bloodline at work, I marveled at it.
It is interesting to me that the two things I remember most of my grandfather are those so diametrically opposed to one another—the breathing to the maintenance of life, and the cancer to its detriment. When my grandfather died we flew down for the funeral. He was placed in the veteran’s memorial. I don’t remember where it is. But I do remember the ten gun salute, the roses we laid on the casket, and my uncle breaking down in tears.
A year later, when my grandmother had finished going through his possessions, we returned via station wagon to collect those items which were “up for grabs,” so to speak. I vaguely remember some of the things I took, or was given—two white shirts, one with a bald eagle reading “Freedom is not Free.” Another with a western landscape, and “Running Strong for American Indian Youth.” (Wrapped in their original plastic, they were little more than freebies, even to him, but I took them anyway). A machete with “1945 U.S.” stamped into the blade. A metal wall cross. Some old tools. A red handkerchief. Most importantly though, to my fourteen year old self as well as to me now: a short sleeved army relief, with a “LUND” name patch above the right breast pocket.
Given my age at the time and my compatibility with the typical action-starved-teenager role, this jacket was the ultimate method of breaking through to that alternative action world. I wanted to wear it everywhere—at home, at school, on the bus. Without regard to my grandfather, I aimed to use the jacket as a means to an experience.
My parents had other plans—I could hang it up in my closet, and be content just knowing it was there. The reasoning was sound, if a little outdated. My mom thought that the crazies might take a shot at me, out of some misguided anti-Americanism. My grandmother thought it would be disrespectful, to the point that she invoked my grandfather’s will as well. My father didn’t say anything, but I could see that he agreed. My father doesn’t stay silent if he disagrees.
---
As time has gone on, I’ve realized that the jacket and the LUND patch on it represent more of a shared history than a personal one. In its time of use, it referred specifically to Andrew Christoffer Lund, military Seargeant in Vietnam and Korea. As a relief, it was used in the time of peace between conflicts, or for times away from combat in the military camps. I can’t be certain of its exact origins, but that I can be fairly sure of.
Now, in my possession, it does not have the immediacy of military context. That takes a backseat to the familial connections it allows. Certainly, my grandfather was doing great things while in the possession of the jacket. And I can’t help but try and take up that mantle, to be my very best if for nothing else than for my ancestry, to whom I owe my existence.
---
I didn’t know my grandfather long enough or well enough to know what he thought of me. Did he harbor expectations? Resentments? Which if any of my pursuits would he approve?
I approach these questions with a social curiosity expected of my generation. We swim through the waters of our world always asking, always probing—what does she think of me? What about him? In my case it is almost universally a search for approval. Acknowledgment. Maybe even acceptance. We exist in the eyes of others.
But in the case of my grandfather, who I never knew, the question leaves a different taste in my mouth. A funny one. So when my family told me, unanimously no less, to hang it away, the hole I felt inside was more than the superficial action-seeker undercut by paternal reason. It had more to do with the fact that I had finally found a way to share a space with my grandfather. To get inside his skin, or carry him with me, or whatever. Regardless, the relief jacket was and is my closest link to him.
Genetically, I am 25% Andrew Christoffer Lund, and 50% Andrew Christoffer Lund Jr. The same is true of my brother, Andrew Christoffer Lund III. I mention this because, aside from being the second child, the younger brother, I am also the one who does not bear my grandfather’s name. But I believe that he is watching me with, at the least, some curiosity. I believe that other ancestors, even more distant, are lining up to get a seat.
So at night when I go to bed, regardless of their characters, I give a wave and a bow to the multitude of my past that is forever cheering me on. It’s a give and take: I keep them alive—they keep me honest.
And in my darker times I put it on, the jacket, and let my military history well up within me. It is a history of power: the power of my grandfather, the power, though often questionable, of the US government. It is the power of breath, the weight of death, and the promise of life rolled into one.
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