| Someone |
[20 Nov 2004|12:22am] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Metallica - One |
] |
Wandering down the corridor, the darkness was so bright he could no longer see even the shadow of his former self. He tread lightly, a shuffling commode, not daring to try his lower limbs at the dangerous task of moving forward through time, yet still inexorably drawn away from the past. And as he passed, each divider and stanchion protruding from smooth darkness like the ribbed muscle-wall of a succubus’ nether-regions, a muted slap was heard by someone; rough texture and a clothlike shear was at that instant perceived; and only after many had passed did he realize offhandedly that someone was himself.
The more light you shine, the more shadows are cast, he mused, a half-dim reverie residing somewhere behind the immediate darkness. As his inner voice chuckled to itself grimly, tightness overcame him and he held fast to the most recent ripple in the blackness. Something was wrong. Someone was wrong. Me again… me, came the noise in his head, but a moment too late. Too slow to be on time even for the contempt he had concocted for himself, he slid to the base of the island of emptiness in the sea of nothing.
Falling is curiously like fear. The illusion of control we have through our comfortable norm vaporizes at the rapid change in direction, tiny tubes in our head shuttling a thimbleful of goo over hairy stumps, and we feel fear. The comfortable grasp on our place in the world is but a hole in the shape of certainty. Maybe it is the emptiness we fear – the lack… of substance, of control, of self. Of those eyes staring us out into the mirror; a portrait of intimacy longing to be fondled like a supporous bit of flesh on the naked erogeneity of being alive. Life is an intercourse as vivid as any act of procreation its progeny engage, for to be alive is to make something apart from us like us. To be alive is to move and make. To experience is to expect. To live is to die.
|
|
|
[05 Nov 2004|10:08pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
discontent |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Evanescence - My Last Breath |
] |
I don't like how easy it is to upset the ones I love, these days No, that's not what I'm trying to say.
I'm confused and concerned. And alone. I always have had these three things beside me, to carry me along; brothers in arms, for the battle of life. But I'm not supposed to be concerned. Others can handle themselves. "You can't save everyone", they say. What if I only want to save someone? A certain one, that's all. "I can handle myself." Yes, you can. Mostly. But you refuse my help even when you cannot. ... no. That's not what I want to say either.
I whine too much. I can't bear to see what I've let me be. What I've become today. But things have been good lately. Really, really good. And they'll get better. The problem is, right now, I have a lot to pay for; a lot of cleaning up to do. I cried wolf once too often, and now my sheep won't hear my call, or seek the comfort of my hand. The wounds are healing, but it takes time. I can't stand the fact that not only did I inflict them, but I'm the one who keeps opening them back up, accidently or -- God forbid -- on purpose.
I am confused because I do not understand this place. I don't know how it works. I've picked up all of these words and ideas from everyone and everywhere, and I can put them together very prettily. I can make it sound good. It looks good. *I* look good. "You're awesome", they say. Wonderful. Amazing. Inspiring. I am none of these things...
What you see is what the world has made of me. I, myself, am a simple, humble man. Someone has seen it. Seen me, truly. My eyes window my soul, and that soul was bared for a time, a time in which she drunk me in deeply. So close... and now so far away. It was so comfortable then. And it will be again. It is now, in a way. The problem isn't me, exactly.
The problem is the distance. But not just ... being apart. That only emphasizes the real problems. Irritation, aggravation, desperation. She must deal with so many things, and she is a major part of so many people's lives. Even if it's a minor period of time, her role is huge. That is how she is. Who she is. Ignore her at your own peril, her strides are long and her reach far. All it takes is a look and a touch and a smile, and all the world crumbles before her.
Here I sit, waiting. Waiting to .. go back. I know that she's upset. I know that she doesn't want to be. I know that it's really not even with me. But I don't help, either. I don't know if that's my.. fault. I don't think it is. But I don't think it's hers either. We are victims of circumstance. Circumstances outside of our control. I don't see how we can be lain to blame for living and loving and finding both hard. We stumble. We're human.
For the longest time, I had problems seeing humans. I still do, to an extent. It seems like there's very little humanity among an awful lot of humans. It's not seeing "imperfection" or what have you that threw me. It's seeing normalcy. What belongs. What "should" be. I guess you could say seeing the purpose of mankind took me a while.
She hurts, and it's somewhat from my hand. Yet my hand is the only one that can heal her. I am locked in indecision, not daring to offer, yet terrified to withdraw. Sometimes I wonder if she's too big for me. There's so much to her and her life... and I have so very little. She can call everything her own. All I can claim.. .. I.. don't even know what I can claim as mine. It's all been given to me. I'm not a normal child... I didn't come complete with hopes and dreams. I am a sponge, filled with the world... but I am full. Too much, too fast. I lost my chance at a childhood. I lost my chance at young adulthood. Those three years from 18 to 21 disappeared into a nothingness of computers and meaningless pursuits which have all but faded entirely by now.
And here I am. 21 years old. It is now the 5th day of November, the year 2004. In less than 4 months, I will have ended what is supposed to be the most spectacular year of your life. Friends, jobs, marriage, families, vacations, concerts... doing stupid, reckless things, before you finally ease into being a responsible adult. 22 isn't a time for partying. 21 is. It's almost gone, and I'm about as reckless as an old man in a chair. "You know what your problem is" she asked rhetorically, "You don't know how to have fun."
I don't know how to have anything. I've never felt like I've owned anything. I've debated over the years about what ownership means. I can argue effectively that it comes down to control. And that's precisely the problem. I have no control over anything. I once had some control over this relationship. My desires and needs, hopes and fears.. they all mattered. They all influenced things. If something really bothered me, she would fall all over herself to avoid it or change it. But now...? I have no control. She can do whatever she wants, and if something bothers me, then it upsets her. I feel helpless.
I know, I know. "Every little thing bothers you." Yeah, well, two things. Not anymore. And, only ever because the big things were ignored. It's a cry for help. An attempt to have some control. some influence. Like I'm actually a part of something, instead of just watching. How can I "live my life" if I have no control over anything? Of course I don't hope or dream anymore, I don't feel like I can accomplish anything at all. I'm not allowed.
...sigh. But no. I'm not really even upset. I just needed to put what was in my head elsewhere, so it wouldn't be in there for me to chew on incessantly. Things are improving. And I'm dedicated to doing my damnedest to not slip back down the slope. I can only hope and pray that I won't have to keep seeing her upset and knowing that I'm part of the problem..
No.. it can't be me. It's other things, and she has no outlet. I'm the only one who could possibly understand, and so I am the one that feels the rumblings. I can handle that. I openly invite it. I only wish it didn't seem like I am the problem.
That's enough for now. I don't think I want comments. I certainly don't want to read a few sentences of "It's ok" and "We like you" from people I barely talk to. All the same, everything is public. Do what you wish. Even in this, I have no control. Setting it to completely private and locked doesn't give me control. No one sees it, then, and no one knows, and I remain in the same position, with less influence than I started with.
I think I'll try getting back online now.
|
|
| Love |
[25 Oct 2004|10:14pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
contemplative |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
The thoughts in my head and the breath in my lungs |
] |
What is the measure of a man? Is it his pride and accomplishment; his knowledge or power? Never having to answer for themselves makes some men feel important. They feed off of control and influence, making themselves feel tall by making others feel small. This, too, is a measure, but the scale extends the wrong way.
No, the measure of a man is not in what he has gathered to himself, but what he has given of himself freely. Truly, a man is measured by the stature of his character, not the stature of his body; by the depth of his compassion, not the depth of his pockets; and by the reach of his heart, not the reach of his hand.
In love, a man is honored and blessed to know the emotion which above all else defines humanity, for in it we choose, apart from instinct, and in it we give ourselves to another, acknowledging the uniqueness of the human condition where the connection overshadows the connected and the relationship joins two into one, with a sum greater than the parts.
|
|
| Everything I do |
[12 Oct 2004|03:01am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
thankful |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Brian Adams |
] |
Look into my eyes, you will see
What you mean to me
Search your heart, search your soul
And when you find me there, you'll search no more
Don't tell me, it's not worth trying for
You can't tell me, it's not worth dying for
You know it's true, everything I do
I do it for you
Look into your heart, you will find
There's nothing there to hide
Take me as I am, take my life
I would give it up, I would sacrifice
Don't tell me, it's not worth fighting for
I can't help it, there's nothing I want more
You know it's true, everything I do
I do it for you.. oh yeah...
There's no love, like your love
And no other, could give more love
There's nowhere, unless you're there
All the time, all the way
Look into your heart baby...
Oh you can't tell me, it's not worth trying for
I can't help it, there's nothing I want more
Yeah I would fight for you
I'd lie for you
Walk the wire for you
Yeah, I'd die for you
You know it's true, everything I do
...I do it for you...
Everything I do darlin'..
And we'll see it through
And we'll see it through
Oh yeah..
Look into your heart..
You can't tell me it ain't worth dying for
Oh yeah..
I'll be there.....
I'd walk the wire for you..
I'd die for you..
Oh yeah..
I'm going all the way, all the way..
|
|
| I'm here without you baby... |
[11 Oct 2004|08:01pm] |
|
But you're still on my lonely mind.
I think about you baby,
And I dream about you all the time.
I'm here without you baby,
But you're still with me in my dreams.
And tonight, it's only you and me...
This isn't going to be a rant. This isn't going to be an attempt to point the finger.
This is just going to be an observation.
Do you see me?
No. Really. Do you see me?
I don't mean these words on your screen.
I don't mean that picture in the corner.
I want to know if you can you see me. Hardly anyone can, these days.
There is one who could see me, but now even she, too, seems to be getting blind. She tells me now, "See you when I see you." I respond, "I'll see you when you see me." She doesn't seem to understand that I'm still waiting for her to see me. I haven't been seen in so long...
I, however, see everything. I see that she is busy. I see that she has things to do. I see that she has people to speak to. I see that she has classes to attend. And I see that throughout it all, when given the choice, out of all the things she could be doing, the choice is rarely to come and see me, anymore.
There was a time when the sight of me was a joy. When she, among others -- I like to think I had friends then -- would get excited at my presence. My company was a privilege; something desired. Now I can go for days, weeks, months even, without being seen, and when I am, the reaction is surprise. No longer am I exciting or desirable. I try not to blame myself for things that are not my fault anymore, but I feel like I deserve the blame for this. My error, it seems, was to deny what I believed in. I felt like I was abandoned by God, too. "If God can't see me either..."
But it was I who couldn't see. My blindness made everyone else blind to me. The fire I used to carry; the torch I used to hold up high for all to see... it went out, with a sigh and a tear, leaving me in the darkness, and unable to even see the lack of light. Yet I've been given a spark of hope.
My eyes seek reality, my fingers seek my veins... and I can't bear to see, what I've let me be, so wicked and worn. So as I write to you, of what is done to do, maybe you'll understand, and won't cry for this man, 'cause low man is due. Please forgive me. My eyes seek reality, my fingers feel for faith...
What I've seen is darkness, because I have lost my light. What I see now is something else. So low the sky is all I see, all I want from you is.. forgive me. Hold me close. Quiet me, whisper in the darkness. Nurture the warm ember; bring me to blaze again.
... see me, for I cannot see myself.
|
|
| Engineering(,) A Better Future(?) |
[18 Aug 2004|11:37pm] |
I want to make things. I also want to understand things. One of the things I'd like to understand is whether I should make music, machines or medicine. I don't understand where I am today, or what my interests really are. I know that I've always had a musical life and environment, though not to the degree that most musicians have. I've never had a private lesson in any instrument in my life, except for once when I sat down at a real piano with a piano teacher in 4th grade in the school music room. But she didn't teach me anything, except where C and G were, which I already knew. Now, I was in the school band (not that school though), in 5th grade up through 8th, essentially. I played the trumpet, and was very good at it. But it was nothing remotely similar to a passion of mine. After I was out of school, I really never played again.
Later in life, I began to play guitar and, after that, a bit of piano. I've been playing guitar for about 4-5 years now, and I'm really quite good, though I still want to and can improve. I really like playing guitar. And singing. It's very relaxing and enjoyable for me. As is writing songs, and working on them. Building something new. But am I passionate about it?
Medicine greatly interests me. Not medicines, as in synthetic chemicals intended to mimic the natural organic ones to manipulate the chemistry of a human body much as a chiropractor manipulates the joints. I mean, rather, direct patient care. Or perhaps just medical research. The point is, I'm interested in the field. In the study of physiology, nutrition, psychology, etc., and various other fields interrelated to those. But is that a passion? Is that something I want to make a career out of?
I'm told to do what I want. What I desire. What I have a passion for.
... but I'm not sure what I'm passionate about. I'm not even sure I know what it means to be passionate about something. At least not about a skill or endeavor. I'm passionate about my relationship with my girlfriend, and I fully intend to make a career out of that, but it won't pay our bills or feed our kids, when we get to that point. What are my passion(s)?
Ever since I was very young, I've been fascinated by what I guess I should call 'mechanical things'. But not just made of metal, or containing gears and moving things. Really perhaps I should say that I'm fascinated by the material world and how everything in it is built. I used to study books on "How Things Work" for weeks at a time, absorbing all of the pieces and parts and mechanisms and methods by which the building blocks formed a final product. I came to understand how any given operation something could do would be necessarily composed of parts that did this and that. It's very natural and automatic for me to understand things in such a way 'at a glance'. But what about passion?
I get excited when I get a chance to speak to Kimberly. When I see her face. Hear her voice. Read what she's written. Knowing she's there. Knowing she loves me. I'm passionate about her.
It has occurred to me that the one thing which excites me the most is to build and make things. All of my interests are based on that. I am, apparently, an inventor. A creator. I... need to build. But what?
I believe it is best to attempt to identify what excites me; what's always excited me. Perhaps then I can decide on what I will remain passionate about in years and decades to come.
I believe that may be to study engineering. Formally. I can still do all of the other things I am interested in, but I need not necessarily study them in a formal setting or pursue them as a career, per se. My thoughts are currently along the lines of a dual degree; both electrical and mechanical engineering, for they interest me the most, and are often covalent in my designs and pursuits.
Kimberly wants me to pursue my passion. I'm not certain yet, but I believe my passion is engineering. I must build... we'll have to see what I am to build in the years to come. For now, I must decide; where shall I go? What shall I do? I may turn from the path, but I have to start walking it first.
... I think it's going to be engineering, in one form or another.
|
|
| Steel Pearls |
[22 Jun 2004|05:49pm] |
|
She wears them like a bold tiara,
Clasped around her neck,
Studded with closure and security
In portable, removable form.
They're out of place; jagged against the expectations,
Throwing reality into an altogether different gear entirely.
Whispers of a truer self crown their embrace,
Quietly, firmly nodding with whiplike efficacy to the taut core coiled within.
They epitomize it; they catechize in a single round,
Flowing promise and specular persona in perfect focus,
As if the origin of everything that aspires to similarity.
What all else must do, she, through them, is.
|
|
| Driving |
[21 Jun 2004|11:11am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
optimistic |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
The whirring of my hard drives |
] |
So, I'm learning how to drive. Except, not. I already know how to drive, and I'm damned good at it. So, I'm learning how to drive our two cars. Gain some comfort with their size, familiarity with their characteristics -- brakes, acceleration, turning radius, handling, distances from the driver's seat -- and prove to my mother that I can drive well enough for her to feel comfortable with me taking the driving test, getting my license and subsequently being out amongst the traffic. By an unexpected turn of events, due to really ignorant folks at the DPS (Department of Public Safety -- Texas' version of a DMV), I already took the written test, without explicitly 'studying' for it to the degree I would have if I had known that they required such to get an instructional permit. I was going to just go 'practice' until Mom felt comfortable and then go take both tests and get my license. But we were wondering where we could drive for that... so, she went to ask, and they said that it's entirely against the law for anyone to drive anywhere in Texas without being licensed, minus people like farmers and service(wo)men. She asked on three different occasions she was there if a test was required for the permit, and got three different answers. It seemed like the answer was, essentially, 'no', so we went with that. Turns out they did want me to take the written test (well, ok, it was done on a booth with a touch-screen, but hey). I passed 11% above what they required, and the majority of the questions I missed (which in total were only 5) had to do with numeric quantities that I had not yet even seen in the book (though I got more than one of those kind right anyway! $200 for first DWI conviction, for instance. Of course, I had just seen that on the brochure on the counter... -cough-) I didn't miss a single question that had anything to do with traffic laws or driving itself, except one, and my answer was the more cautious one. But, of course, their test only cares if you got the answer they wanted. In any case... it turns out that their instructional permit is a standard license, with one extra restriction, and apparently you don't have to take a driving test to get it. The restriction being, of course, that you need a licensed adult in the front passenger's seat at all times.
So, driving. I like driving. I've liked driving since I was about 5 and had a bike. Then, later, my friend Thomas Bierman (who was a good deal older than me or anyone else in our neighborhood at that time) had a four-wheeler, and I got to ride it a fair amount. Then, later, another friend, Chris Farmer, had a dirtbike. A honda automatic. Being about 10 or 11 years old, and he about 16, it was bigger than me, but good that I didn't have to try and switch gears on it. Then later, on up through cars and trucks and tractors and scooters and mopeds and whatnot. I'm extremely hand/foot-eye coordinated, and have a fantastic spatial orientation, and as well have experience with driving all manner of things. So, I find it somewhat funny (though mostly aggravating) when people assume I've never been behind the wheel of anything and imagine me bumping and lurching like a ghetto-blaster with hydraulics when I tell them "I don't have a license yet." In any case, my mother -- who is an exceptional driver, both in safety and skill -- was extremely impressed and even surprised at my ability, knowledge and performance yesterday, which was the first day after I got my permit last Friday that she was able to go with me. It's simple. I just rock.
We started out in a deserted parking lot, which was rather easy to find, being the Bible Belt on Sunday in the morning. She oriented me with the controls of our Honda Civic hatchback (no, not that I needed it, and no, I don't mean things like "the one on the right is gas", heh. Rather, "on this transmission, you have to hold the brake while shifting to and from park" and such), and then had me get familiar with the particular brakes on it, as well as the idle speed and acceleration, all of which (of course) vary a great deal from car to car, and since I've never driven ours... Anyway, I drove, parked, backed up, slalomed the telephone poles and potholes, parked between other cars, stuff of that nature. Since I performed flawlessly, we went back home to our neighborhood to drive around there. It's hilly, out in the woods, narrow roads, some places have high traffic, some are dead-deserted, some roads are very rough and full of holes, if they even have pavement at all, and others are nice and smooth... stop signs, inclines... and all of it fairly low speed, so it was a good place, to make her comfortable and also give me far more challenging things to do than drive around a parking lot -chuckles- Again, I performed flawlessly. She really only gave me minor tips. There was really nothing I did she felt was wrong or unsafe. How many of you had your parent in the car one of the first days and they weren't raving, paranoid lunatics? So, then we drove down to the community centre (we live in a housing community, and if you're a homeowner, you can use their facilities. They have huge swimming pools, an arcade, a pool hall, bar and grille, archery, putt-putt golf, tennis courts, etc...), which has a lot of traffic and also rather narrow roads and hills. Again, flawless. Including how I handled a girl on a four-wheeler that came flying out of a side-road to the left at the same time I was getting left to avoid people parked on the right shoulder. She wouldn't have had time to tell me, and didn't even try. Maybe now people will believe me when I tell them that just because I don't have a license (not true now) that doesn't mean I can't drive.
Anyways. I'm feeling very good about all of this, because Mom and I may drive to Kelowna in a week and a half, instead of flying. She's feeling very confident in me, as I knew she would, and thus if I go get my license next week, we can share the driving time on the trip up there. Then, I'll have a vehicle while in town and not have to bus or walk everywhere. If there's heavy traffic in the city, she probably won't want me driving those areas, but I'd agree with her. So yeah. Besides, I've never had a chance -- in all my moving and cross-country trips -- to see the northwestern portion of the United States. I look forward very much to the possibility of driving across Colorado, Wyoming, Idaho, Montana, Washington... all places I've never yet been in, and some of the most beautiful country I've seen pictures of and heard about, this side of the Canadian border. I especially want to head through the foothills of the Rockies all through Colorado and Wyoming. That land has amazed many more before me, and I'd love to have the chance to be next on the list.
That's about all for this morning. I'll probably have more things to write about later on, if I'm not too lazy and I don't forget.
|
|
| Sometimes I wonder |
[31 May 2004|11:54pm] |
|
Do you ever think about what couldn't be and what could've been? What was and wasn't, has and hasn't?
I felt it before I saw it. I can do nothing. Nothing will change. Not even my watching... all I do is stare. I feel so cold inside... shaking and fighting for a warmth my flesh can not have. "Why?" is my question. Why must I be given something I cannot have? Why do you keep it just out of my reach... ... why do you let others have when I can not? Why do you let them touch when I am distant?
.. what do I have? .. how can I possess when the possession is not in my grasp? Is this really mine...? Another can grab hold so easily. Maybe there is a reason you keep this from me. Maybe there is something I cannot do. ... my world is uncertain. I speak nothing over a channel of emptiness, seeing and saying the ownership. The promises. But I've still yet to hold. How deep run the promises when someone else will be the one to hold?
.. this is not of me and I do not know it. I do not know my place and I have nothing to cling to. If it will be as I desire, if it will be as we have said.. then, then perhaps I will know. Then, perhaps, I will have something to call my own. Until then, all I can do is watch. Watch everything that should be mine belong to everyone but me. Soon I will have... or I will cease.
|
|
| It's been awhile |
[30 May 2004|08:57am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
tired |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
The thoughts in my head |
] |
9am... I was supposed to be asleep 2 hours ago. Some of that time was well spent, making myself a lovely breakfast and engaging in happy mastication. But where'd the other hour and a half go...?
You know, lately I've been thinking. Thinking a lot about life, and love, and liberty. I'm not sure that I have anything evocative or insightful to say about any of those thoughts, but I don't feel that it does me much good to only write about such things. I almost wrote "important things", and that's kind of my point here. There is much more to my daily life that is of import than merely cunning forms of reasoning or clever sequences of words. Under all of that I'm a rather low-level person... and that is what I live the majority of the time.
Intelligence can be such a burden. I .. hm. No. I don't think it's intelligence. I think it's knowledge that's the burden. I could be happy in my intelligence - and I am - but my knowledge, for the most part, has proved useless. To myself, at least. Many times it is useful to others, but that is not such a great thing. It makes me a vending machine or automatic support service, whereby I'm convenient to use when some obscure bit of knowledge or expertise is required. In essence, I become a tool; no longer a person, but merely wielded by one. The only part of this that actually bothers me, I think, is that I have such a difficult time saying 'no' when someone requires help, regardless of whether they're respectful and appreciative or demanding and dismissive. It's a bit of a character flaw, perhaps.
I like me. But I don't always understand me. ....... Actually, you know what? That's not true. I do always understand me. But I don't always believe what I conclude. I think that I'm still carrying around other people's luggage, a decade later. I was asked to hold it by some, merely tossed a suitcase by others, but I hold them all the same. It's taken me many years of careful unpacking to find myself beneath the piles of everyone else's dirty laundry. But find myself I have. And I like what I've found.
I'm a good person. To the point of fault, really. Trying to do my best for others, and see the best in them. I always expect good things, though I'm often found pointing out all the ways that something can go wrong. That, however, is usually because such a something was chosen in lieu of an obviously better idea that I came up with or saw before everyone else, which they later discover and then acquiesce to. With no apology or specific deference, of course... But now I sound like I have some issues to cover, when really, right now, I don't.
Things are good in my life; I couldn't be happier with my situation and the bright future I have planned and am actively working towards. One of my goals has recently been revealed to me in more plain and obvious terms. That goal is music. Listening to, singing, playing, recording, writing, producing, selling, analyzing, choosing, broadcasting... It seems like I'm going to be involved in one or more musical endeavors as a major way of life. If I can't do one, I'll do another. There are some that I am already doing, and will continue to do, such as write, sing and play. I've been involved in music ever since I was very young, and apparently that wasn't by accident nor to no good purpose. I'm happy with this.
My biggest goal however, which is lifelong in scope, is to live a life with the woman that I love more than anyone else. I want to walk in the ancient places of this world, with her by my side; see the things that my ancestors - near, distant or archaic - saw. Then, one day before long, I want to find a place with her; a place just for us, where we can live a strong life, full of love and laughter. A time and place for us to raise a family, together, forging a future, uniting a past. This goal I shall see through. For now, though, I shall sleep.
I can, knowing that if all else fails, she has loved me. Nothing else matters...
|
|
| Again |
[21 Mar 2004|07:30pm] |
|
It happened again. It always happens.
You know, what pisses me off the most is not that they try to step, or that she lets them walk. What actually bothers me is that I'm not preventing it. I'm capable, but not able. I can't quite reach... and that bothers me. I don't fear a fatal flaw in myself, being this short. In fact, I'm immensely tall. But it's a bit too far...
...yet close enough to hurt. Hmm. I don't blame her for letting them walk all over her. She didn't ask for it. It's not her fault, and she most certainly doesn't deserve it. But none of that changes the fact that it happens. I know that she can't hold their weight on her own... not without great struggle. That also doesn't bother me. It's the reason that she won't struggle that I wrestle with.
Why do you feel like you deserve this treatment? I know you don't actually think that, but I think you feel it sometimes. You said again today, as you've said many times, that if you do something about it, "Then I'm the bitch." This makes me want to scream and shout and cry all at once. You've done nothing wrong! And defending yourself justly, rightly, honorably, meaningfully, respectfully, doesn't make you the bad guy. You didn't ask for this, and you don't deserve it. So why think that if you point out they're the bad guy, suddenly they're blameless and you are now to blame?
It's an issue of blame, really. You don't like to upset others. You don't like to blame them for things. I know, and do not like to either. But think about why we don't like to, carefully. One of the reasons is that we don't like the sick feeling of nausea we get when other people are upset or in pain. We don't want to be around it, or have them experience it. But who are those people that applies to? The people who care about your opinions and interests and thoughts and life. Only someone who cares about what you say can be hurt by what you say. Yet the ones who deserve your blame and your anger deserve it precisely because they don't care. Why should you then feel so badly about calling them on how they're treating you? Taking the one-way caring road is a very hard journey.
And then there's the problem of change. Change is frightening. Fear is almost defined by what is unknown. Or, perhaps more accurately, uncertain - something over which we do not have control. The future, in general, is one of these things. We haven't experienced it yet, and we're afraid of what may or may not be. So we try our best to assure ourselves somehow. Attempt to secure some sort of certainty, some measure of control... Your certainty is that though it's painful and unfair, it won't change much if you simply keep letting them get away with it as they have been. Your control is that it's not chronically endangering your life, and you'll have a chance to be away from it when you leave home, without having to confront them. What I'm afraid of is how much blood you're losing from the gaping wounds of damage already done; wounds made worse every day. The change I fear is losing you.
I can't tell you to do this or do that. But I, myself, can't allow you to be hurt beyond the point of repair. My uncertainty is what that point is, and if we've already passed it. That is why I am afraid. That is why I get so upset. I know that you don't like to tell me things you know will upset me. I'm not sure how I feel about that... I never want you to feel reticent or actually afraid to tell me something. Anything. Everything. I'm your best friend on this planet. If you can't tell me anything, who can you tell? Maybe you haven't been able to trust me not to show strong emotion when I feel strong emotion. I don't know if you want me to turn those reactions down or not. It would be very difficult for me, but if it would give you comfort to feel less anxiety about relating upsetting things to me, I would do it in an instant. It will hurt, a lot, but I'll do it regardless. I'm not afraid of pain. Pain is familiar. I'm afraid of losing you, and in order to avoid that, I can't be unaware of things. I need to know. I need something to hold on to...
I'm sorry if the strength of my anger or pain or sadness or aggravation or any emotion has ever made you feel sorry that you told me something. You've said you were sorry for telling me, more than once. It about kills me every time... because I just... don't know any other way to feel. I don't know any other way to care. I can barely entertain the make-believe idea of sitting by and watching as someone hurts you. How can I sit calmly and offer well-placed, properly calm "That's terrible."'s while someone actually hurts you? While they actually make you cry and feel like a piece of shit? I ... can do better at it. If you want me to. But I think you only dislike - if it's dislike - my reactions because you've already resigned yourself to the 'fact' that nothing can be done about it. But you know that's not true. The truth is that you've decided to do nothing about it. ... but I can't fault you for that.
I don't know. Tell me what to do, and I'll do it. If you tell me to try harder not to get angry when someone does something which deserves anger, I'll do it. It might mean forcing myself to ignore the event as though it never happened, the idea of which bothers me a great deal... but I'll do it... if you want me to. If you tell me that you don't like me to tell you to change things, or to ask you why you're not willing to... then I'll do my best not to bring up the issue with you. ... I just don't want to upset you. Like with interpreting your dream... I didn't know it would bother you so much. Tell me what you want. If you never want me to speak of him ever again, then I will try to remember that as long as I live. Maybe only discuss him when you do? You tell me. I just want to know how to not upset you.
That's all I want. To make you happy. I never, ever want to know that I am the reason for your pain, no matter how small. And I never want to let anyone hurt you. I wish I could take it all away...
Tell me what to do. I'll do my best. It's all I can do.
|
|
| Where has my heart gone... |
[21 Feb 2004|07:14am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
destroyed |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Evanescence - Fields Of Innocence |
] |
I still remember the world
From the eyes of a child
Slowly those feelings were
Clouded by what I know now
Where has my heart gone?
An uneven trade for the real world
Oh I... I want to go back to believing
In everything and knowing nothing at all
I still remember the sun
Always warm on my back
Somehow it seems colder now
Where has my heart gone?
Trapped in the eyes of a stranger
Oh I... I want to go back to believing
In everything...
Where has my heart gone?
An uneven trade for the real world
Oh I... I want to go back to believing
In everything... Oh where...
Where has my heart gone?
Trapped in the eyes of a stranger
Oh I... I want to go back to believing
In everything......
I still remember...
|
|
| I need something to right |
[19 Feb 2004|06:59pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
blank |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Liszt - Hungarian Rhapsody #19 |
] |
I'm bothered. I never did like the feeling, though I've gotten used to it over the years. I suppose the same thing happens when one is a slave to a mainly mild master. You never exactly like it... but...
I didn't want her to have a hard time with it. I truly didn't. That's exactly why I did it - why I always do it - to try to fix what she is having a hard time with. But she struggles still the same. Why can't I help? "That's just how it is." I... ... don't understand these words. This idea. And neither do you. It's not true. You know that... but you don't seem to believe it. Don't seem to want to deal with it. Why is your own personality; your self-esteem, emotions, desires, interests... why so taboo? Off limits. No one can touch them. They're broken and you can't fix them. That's just how it is. I don't think I can accept that...
But I know I can't accept this. ... I don't know what I should've done instead. You'll tell me it's ok. That I didn't do anything wrong. Didn't I? Why else did you leave? We said we weren't going to do that... but I wasn't going to bring that up. -sighs softly-
That doesn't bother me. Honest. What bothers me is that you feel broken... like you can't get fixed. I need to fix you. I can fix you. But on some level you don't want to let me. It's painful. It's change. It's different. It's frightening.
I know. I'm afraid of the same things. I feel broken in the same way. But I also let myself recognize what I am.. in spite of how I often feel about myself. It's not so much that the image is false, but that no one else seems to see what I can see... so I must be seeing wrongly. Right? Of course. Heh...
I don't care if you're not "good at anything". No.. if that were the case, I wouldn't be bothered in the slightest.
But you are. And not just anything... just about everything.
I don't know how to help you see... I don't think you need help seeing. I think you need help feeling. You feel not good enough. You feel too little. Substandard. Well I feel the same... so why can I recognize that I'm not good enough, without always thinking that means I'm not good at all? I used to think that. I used to feel it. My world gave that to me, for my birthday, many years ago. Do you know part of how I've conquered it? You. External appreciation isn't good enough. People who do know, sometimes even experts in the field, are also not good enough. Someone, somewhere, doesn't appreciate. Someone, somewhere, doesn't care. And so everyone, everywhere, will never help. Except for you...
You're different. You actually know me. No one else can claim that. Very few have seen a glimpse... but you have the master book, carefully indexed and marked. This is why you help. This is why you matter. You are why I can accept praise and think that maybe, just maybe, I'm not so bad at it after all. I'm not as good as I want to be, but who is? I can treat it more casually... raise it up from the murky depths to where it doesn't hurt so much. You are the reason. The key.
So why can't I be the same to you? Maybe I am.. I think I am. Sometimes. In some things. But you seem to have a harder time than I. I think you may be more strict with yourself than even I am, which is quite a feat. I also think that you've let your world demand more that you feel you can't deliver. Not 'let' as in 'decided'. ... allowed, perhaps. Heh...
I want to help, but I don't know how. I won't apologize for talking about it. I can't. I did it because I care so much. I will apologize for the fact that it hurts and you're scared bothers you, and that trying to fix it bothers you.. and that I was the cause. It hurts me to know you - to see what you can do; your amazing intelligence and perception and so many other things that no bias could possibly concoct - and know that you have a negative image of these things. It hurts as though you were blind, and could not see your own radiant beauty because of it. But that wouldn't be a fixable pain - this is. This is something you can, and do see. I just want to take away the doubt and fear...
I doubt myself. I fear failing you. It hurts to think I may have... but that's not something you did, is it? No... I try, and fail, of my own accord.
I just wish I didn't feel like I wasn't good enough.
|
|
| The constancy of change |
[10 Feb 2004|10:24pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
curious |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Beethoven - Allegro Ma Non Troppo |
] |
Once
I once knew a boy who couldn't see
Why things weren't supposed to be
Nothing matched what he felt inside
I once knew a boy, but then he died
I once knew a man who spoke of life
How pain and anger weren't his strife
He wouldn't limit what he could find
I once knew a man who was left behind
I once knew a girl with long blonde hair
Who lived in fear that she wasn't there
She cried the night and chased the day
I once knew a girl who took it all away
I once knew a boy that watched the world
Banners of dreams and hopes unfurled
He built the walls with his bare hands
I once knew a boy whose castle yet stands
I once knew a man on a broken throne
A world of darkness to call his own
I once knew a boy who became a king
...nothing changes everything
|
|
| Perfection |
[06 Feb 2004|09:09pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
thoughtful |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Beethoven - 'Moonlight' Sonata |
] |
There used to be a perfect place. A perfect world, a perfect life. It was good. All was well...
...shattered.
The time and place has changed over the years, but the shards remain. Still razor-sharp. Still embedded deeply; cutting when driven deeper, cutting when clawed out. The problem is simple. It revolves around two concepts, presented to everyone at an early age: "Perfection," and its antithesis, "Wrong."
"This is perfect!" "You're perfect in every way." "She has perfected it."
Perfection is the epitome of right; it is, as presented, what is wanted. What is desired. What is loved. What should be. Therein lies the issue. Wrong. Bad. Mistake; to take wrongly. It is unavoidable. It is natural. It is inevitable that you will not be perfect to everyone; inevitable that someone will not desire you. This should be a somewhat smooth transition... this passage from protection into imperfection. It was not to be. What is left when the case is such that you are perfect to no one? When you just don't seem to fit... and all you hear is "wrong"? The imperfect, the inconsolable, the unwanted... It's hard to live. Hard to bear.
But it is borne all the same.
Would it be here and now if this had not been? No. It was necessary. It is good now... so who's perfection was not met, after all? The point of perfection is not to be desired... but to be designed; perfect for the purpose it's been given unto.
This imperfection was my perfecting. The undesirable designed for a greater and deeper purpose yet to be. I know now that my greatest flaws are my greatest strengths, for they show my inability to cope; my inability to cohere to this world. In the jagged wound flows life that demands purchase... somewhere to call home. Purpose.
Thank God I've found my purpose at last.
|
|
| Aye |
[05 Feb 2004|07:02pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
envious |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Metallica - Invisible Kid |
] |
I watched Braveheart again last night. It's been a while now. Braveheart is a movie that hits me in the way that Gladiator and Black Hawk Down hit me; far more than just movies, these are modern-day depictions of real history, portrayed by amazing actors and directors in a way many feel is highly accurate. Except...
Something is different with this one.
William Wallace lived and died fighting for the land many of my ancestors lived and died in, more than one in the battles he led. My clan name is, at oldest, Calicut, and I am feeling damned proud right now. The difference with this history as compared to the more ancient combat of the Romans or the more recent combat of US Marines... is that here, one of my ancestral lands is at issue. The strength, the resolve, the passion, the freedom of these people - what they used to be - it draws me. It fills me up, sets me ablaze. The flames become a deafening roar at the feeling of having my wife threatened by rape and tyranny and death. My friends and family. My land...
I believe I'm going to get married outside, in the grass, wearing a kilt. Wearing my family's plaid. The past is still with us; it is still with me, at least, and I intend to see it live again.
Now don't get me wrong here... I don't intend to become Amish or wear sackcloth and a kilt all the time (well.. maybe on that last one.) I just want to go back to when life was meaningful. Purposeful. When men and women lived and died more fully, living closer to the land and each other. When a community was more than fenced-in houses, 5m apart, where people pretend to wave in the morning as they drive by, fake lawns receding in the back window of the paradigm shift, merging into the modern workday. I can't stand it.
I don't know where I should live or go or wear or work. I do know that I need something different. "Back to a better way."
There must be a better way. We'll surely find it, together.
|
|
| Exegeting the exigence |
[04 Feb 2004|05:10am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
exanimate |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Beethoven - 5th Symphony |
] |
I feel... illucid. It's late (early), and I am breathing.
Inhail
Exhail
The world reels at my resonance, and I am drawn into the deepened void. Inside I find my mind in kind to bind the time I left behind. I write. A wright. Is right. My rite.
A ritual is due. To/o do/ue.
The hammer flies, cascading sparks with every arc, with every blow, further fashioning; sustained, the ringing harmonizes into cacophony, a symphonic lusterpiece of enthalpy; empathy, overpowering the score, resolves into a single note of poignant, singular disunity. Within the movement, I find my stillness. I fit, if only in brief. The cycle is the key; the handle is rusted, but at last gives way, voicing its concern with a grating shriek, uncertain if it will ever see tumbler set on edge again. I pray the light in, begetting life in the shadows of my dank; dark, word wisps merging into embers of seeing. It is in this I can vision.
It is by this I must be.
To where do you go? From wither whence you came? To what mete? Meeting of the minds, by meting of the eyes. My juxtaposition to consciousness approaches. I sense my purpose near. I know my road. "where" is not part of this; being, now, I require a trade. My words or my life. Give my life away, I can keep neither; give my words away, and I can keep both. I illuminate. I literate, iterating; atemporate. In the silent stillness, nothing is the same as change. Keep going both ways at twice; perhaps for once you can find your way two.
|
|
| Distance. Separation. Fuck... |
[03 Feb 2004|08:56pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
crushed |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
System Of A Down - Toxicity |
] |
Have you ever been so close to someone... you finish each other's thoughts, shared sentence fragments merging between you, an intimate connection that time cannot divide... well we have that connection. All is well in our world, but for one thing.
Distance.
We're so near, and yet so far. In general, it's bearable. Tolerated. Understood. But there are times when it's simply not alright. This is one of those times.
She's upset. And rightfully so. Or so it would seem... But that's irrelevant. Maybe this is irrelevant... All I know is that this place, this connection is not good enough right now. Too much delay, too much is missed. Not enough is shared.
I'm not holding her when she needs it, and that fucking kills me. I have nothing else... and all I have at the moment is nothing.
|
|
| Sleep |
[03 Feb 2004|04:09am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
tired |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Phoenyx - Yo Ho! |
] |
I'm tired. I think it's pissing me off. I'm not sure, and that's the problem. This digital medium is sucking away my ability to think and recall, turning me into a morass of switches and gears, churning input to output, and not remembering a damned thing in the process. I've come to realize that the text-based world exists exclusively in short-term memory... yet I do not have this problem with books, unless I read them quickly. That seems to be the key. Speed. Time. The one thing you have less of the more you take. I type and read so fast sitting at a computer that I don't have time to absorb as much for more than a short period... and it's beginning to bother me.
Now, I know what you're thinking (for those of you who are not, keep oozing along; as all good rhetorical devices are wont to do, this one too will guide you along.) I'm chopping down the wrong cherry-tree here, talking about not having enough time to do things like be so involved on a computer that my memory suffers from the volume of information I process. The thing is, I not only can handle it without batting an eye, I have been for years. Almost 6 now...
So what's all this then? Am I slowing down at the ripe old age of 21? Yes and no. Yes, I am slowing down, but no, it is not unwanted or unasked for. I have begun to slow myself down because I have more important things to process, these days. Things that not only deserve, but require my utmost depth of awareness and involvement. I'm digging in with both hands, up to the shoulders... but I'm disappointed when I come back soiled, empty-handed.
I need a solution.
I have a solution.
You, unsuspecting little LiveJournal, are my new brain extension. Muahahahaha...
... try not to stare too much, mouth agape. This is my plan, and it is good. When my brain tries its tomfoolery with this "No, really, this time I can do it!" nonsense, I shall put it in its place; right here, in the bowels of the demon whose medium has made me require this of it in the first place. Fiendishly clever, don't you think?
In all (the) honesty (that I can muster), though, what I need most is a way to express myself. I always have. I've also always been exceptionally good with languages. ... Apparently I've been an exceptional idiot for not starting sooner. Nothing like making up for lost time... the good thing is, I have a castle to build, and a damsel in the tower, and all the time in the world in which to get to them both.
Time... yes. It is time.
|
|
| The past has passed |
[02 Feb 2004|06:28pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
nostalgic |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Tristiania - December Elegy |
] |
I used to have this dream of a beautiful woman, floating in the liquid darkness, with eyes like metallic sky, long golden hair snaking around her. She would look at me, and call my name... then I was in her arms. Her smooth skin touching mine, caressing me with her gaze. It was magical, and when I awoke, I would curse the darkness aloud and shut out the world, trying desperately to hold onto the whisper I still heard in my head. She was so immaculate, so perfect... so beautiful. She fit nowhere, in this world or any other... yet she called to me. She knows my name.
She came to me again.
For just a brief moment... I was home. Her long, slender arms around me, graceful fingers tracing my lips, soft feet on my leg... her eyes make me disappear. There was nothing else but us, and so it shall be; so it must be.
Dreams are peculiar. How can you tell what's real and what's fake if you can't even tell when you're awake and when you're asleep? Today I 'awoke' to a different darkness. Today, I know where she is. Today, I know her name. She will come to me, and I will never dream again.
I look back, and I see so much behind me, most of which I also see when I look ahead. I wonder, sometimes, just how much of life that we live we are actually aware of. We can only recall at a surface level the barest of interactions, unable to fathom the rippling of causes and effects radiating from every instant. Just a fleeting glimpse... amazing how far one can see without sight. In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. I'm counting on my one good eye to see me through.
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
| [ |
go |
| |
earlier |
] |
|
|
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
mindal's journal