separate togetherness

There's something quite zen about an afternoon to while away, a glass of wine, a book, and a bar.

Safe solitude amongst the masses. The clink of silverware against plates. The orchestral banging of pots and pans in the kitchen. The high tones of women's voices offset by the low murmurs of their male companions with the occasional monkey howl of an infant whose parents thought they were ready for the decorum of a public place. They all harmonize together into a comforting chaos and I fall into it, both apart and not a part of the scene. When my engrossment falters, I like to look around me and wonder what brought the patrons to this place. Sunday, this barfly perched next to me on his stool in between intervals to the bathroom, sniffed vigorously, jerking his head to look around, and muttering to himself under his breath- having a one-sided conversation with his own demons. I wonder what happened to him- what the steps were from the babe born to the coked up old man with glass straps downing beer after beer. I have always depended on the company of strangers.

the eternal damnation of the human condition

It's the same thing from the time before that. Like the time before that. And the time before that. You have it in your hands. The sweet succulent taste of satisfaction, of victory felt, of time spent and rewarded, of the moment that you had fantasized about so much that you can taste it. But it's never enough, is it. Really. When you all boil it down, achievement is a fucking orgasm. Brief, ecstatic, life-affirming, a respite from the minutiae of everyday life. Then just like that, it's over and done with and you're on to the next one. I get it you know. I understand that if we were every truly satisfied, boredom would set in and the anxiety and unsettling feeling would creep in. Dissatisfaction motivates us, keeps us going, striving, nothing is ever enough or better. We are eternally Sisyphus- pushing up whatever boulder rests upon our shoulders only for it to roll down and we begin our toil once again. My parents bought their house in 1988. They've remolded one aspect of it at least every couple of years. A counter here, a garden there, nothing is ever...right. Finally when everything is...there- that room just right, the side table works just so, they decide that they want to sell the house and start again. But why must this be so? Why can't things just...be. When will we realize that the greenest of the grass is on both sides of the hill?

the fade out

I hate looking at old pictures. It reminds me of what I dislike the most about myself.

Looking at the faces of friends long gone, teachers that I learned from then discarded from my life like a used tissue. I'm terrible at keeping up with those that aren't in my immediate periphery. It's too easy to let them drift away- time preserves them as "that person that I was close to when I was [still singing/16/at camp].

I've always been jealous of people who are good at keeping in touch. That prideful, almost arrogant way they say "My friend/mentor of [numerous] years...I've known them since I was [blank years old]". What they're saying is giving that person context in the story of their lives. What I hear is "Keeping people close for years on end is a priority to me- it signifies that I can be friends with people for years on end without the relationship fading away into obscurity. I have stronger values than you do". Clearly what I hear is a projection of my insecurity but I end up berating myself in the end anyways.

With the exception of a select few, my friendships are like chapters in a book. The rush of the beginning, the climactic moment, then the gradual end where we pass by each other through our respective lives like ghosts in the night.

the halves that halve you in half

I'm not young enough to know everything.
But I thought that at least this... this precious little bubble of my life was safe
Protected and true.

And even when it burst I denied it to myself
but now the pain, the incomparable pain rests upon my shoulders
pressing down until I become a smudge of the self I'd always known

No one ever told me that knowledge and truth were anguish.
I feel the agony but at the same time am removed as if I'm watching my actions on a screen from a seat in a movie theater.

It doesn't feel real.

THERE ARE CERTAIN things about women that men will never understand, in part because they have no interest in understanding them. They will never know how deeply we care about our houses—what a large role they play in our dreams for ourselves, how unhappy their shortcomings make us. Men think they understand the way our physical beauty—or lack of it, or assaults on it from age or extra weight—preys on our minds, but they don’t fully grasp the significance these things have for us. Nor can they understand the way physical comforts or simple luxuries—the fresh towel or the fat new cake of soap—can lift our spirits. And they will never know how much our lives are shaped around the fear of bad men and the harm they can bring us if we’re not careful, if we’re not banded together, if we’re not telling each other what to watch out for, what we’ve learned. We need each other’s counsel, and oftentimes it comes when we’re talking about other things, when we seem not to have much important on our minds at all

the disaffection of romance

Edit: this post doesn't reflect my personal life but more of an observation/amalgamation of thoughts from reading scripts, articles, and situations.

Of course you've seen it all before but you always forget until you get to that place again. Past romances which had slapped the hurt into you always become shrouded and cloudy, withered memories like an Alzheimer's patient, in the face of the new object of desire.

Yet eventually, the perfect little seed that you've kept close, polishing it like a pearl nightly with love and fevered breath, begins to stain with every verbal sling, every injured feeling that gets buried, only to bubble up when least expected.




In the face of a world where new love objects are a click away, albeit virtual and remote, how do we persevere when most other daily activities of our lives have been simplified? Considering the breadth of our access to a wider range of partners, is it easier for us now to dismiss potential relationships because of some perceived or imaginary slight, knowing that our physical and intellectual ideal could still be out trolling the web highway?

It's so much easier not to care. Love/like/sex is so much simpler. A groping towards some sort of mutual satisfaction with no side of emotion, no risks, no problems. After all, how many couples actually make it, who don't just maintain appearances to fool their children, where the appreciation and respect grows instead of falling by the wayside. Does the dissolution happen because two people were never a right fit from the start or do the ravages of monogamy chip away slowly but surely, like the waves beating against the rocks on the beach?

We do it because it's precious. When we find it, we resort primitively to guarding and defending it to the death. We do it because we want to feel needed, we want it to be realized when we're not around. We do it because it feels good- not just the physical benefits but those moments after an argument where you realize that little fightquakes aren't going to tear it apart.

we can cross rivers with our will

Usually these photographs that I post are an abstract image that I find captivating, an image that I think is "cool"- whereas this image is a literal depiction of my state of mind.



Off-kilter. Off-balance. Twisted and tumbled over.

I know this from certain tendencies. Eating the same foods over and over. Whenever my brother was feeling this way, that was the time that certain foods populated our refrigerator. Dozens of vanilla yogurts, a bunch of poppy-seed bagels, whatever made the chemical connection that united mood with taste buds was plentiful in our household.

I haven't listened to music in a week and a half. I always vacillate between listening to primarily podcasts or music. I'm in the podcast mood because music access a too raw and primal set of emotions. Podcasts are comforting and clinical- dispensing stories, information, or hilarity- I can choose the conversation I want, I can choose the company I keep.

I'm being irrational. I don't want to say it aloud because speaking words breathes life into it. So rather I will type. I'm allowing the demon of my past rear his ugly head. The victim is not a comfortable role for me to play, usually an awkward and cumbersome fit, yet for some reason I'm slipping into it comfortably. The devil's dance that I entertained for three years left more scars that I realize, scars that manifest themselves more prominently in the face of a relationship with the opposite of everything I have known. Time to rewrite my emotional neurons.

I know I will climb out of this.