But a picture would.
Portlandia Prevails. As will we all.
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
19 January 2009
Vol. 2, Issue 2 | I'm (Still) With Sam.
Had a completely different rant lined up for today. Then I read the headlines. Wanted to put into words how I feel today, of all days. Realized words wouldn't do.
But a picture would.
Portlandia Prevails. As will we all.
But a picture would.
Portlandia Prevails. As will we all.
13 January 2009
Vol 2, Issue 1 | Mehwhidge
Been receiving a slew of invitations and announcements for weddings in the past few weeks. One of them from an ex-lover, which, though everything is water under the bridge now, still hit me harder than expected. Not in any "It could've been me" kind of way, but in the way that... regardless of how any relationship ends for me, I still carry love in my heart for the other person. Sometimes it changes, and sometimes remains an untouched memento of how things began, but it's always there.
In other words, I'm not reacting to regrets. I am, at some level, envious.
I've been mulling over this topic for a couple weeks now, specifically why marriage (regardless of who's) is suddenly evoking such an emotional response in me. And I've discovered that I've still not resolved how I feel about all of this. (Case in point, this is the third or fifth draft of this entry.) Instead, I've decided to state what I do know/feel:
It just doesn't fit neatly into the Facebook "relationship status" drop-down menu.
Portlandia Prevails... and Evolves.
In other words, I'm not reacting to regrets. I am, at some level, envious.
I've been mulling over this topic for a couple weeks now, specifically why marriage (regardless of who's) is suddenly evoking such an emotional response in me. And I've discovered that I've still not resolved how I feel about all of this. (Case in point, this is the third or fifth draft of this entry.) Instead, I've decided to state what I do know/feel:
- I am dating, in a very non-traditional sense, a woman whom I love, unequivocally.
- I am happy with, excited by, and anxious about all this relationship will bring about.
- I am, in my moments of uncertainty, distracted by traditional relationships, and the comfort of their familiarity.
It just doesn't fit neatly into the Facebook "relationship status" drop-down menu.
Portlandia Prevails... and Evolves.
12 January 2009
Vol. 2, Issue 0 | Back to the Blogosphere
I had planned on writing a whole intro to this blog, including a history of my writing, explanations as to why, and explaining why I was even migrating my original posts from their home at LiveJournal.
And then, I realized: Fuck it.
I knew if I did that, then I'd never, ever get any of this started. And I'm tired of not getting started on projects, let alone being continually frustrated w/ my inability to complete anything I've started. But that's a rant for another day.
Anyway... the thirty-some-odd posts that have gone up in the past few days are those that exemplify my particular writing style (or lack thereof), and the content I intend to cover as I move forward.
And moving forward is the whole reason that I've bothered to do this. I've recently realized that I want... need... to chronicle my thoughts & actions in this fashion, so that I stop living in my head so damned much, and actually interact with the world around me.
And there it is. An introduction, of sorts. Which, if you've read my work already, you should be accustomed to by now.
Portlandia Prevails.
And then, I realized: Fuck it.
I knew if I did that, then I'd never, ever get any of this started. And I'm tired of not getting started on projects, let alone being continually frustrated w/ my inability to complete anything I've started. But that's a rant for another day.
Anyway... the thirty-some-odd posts that have gone up in the past few days are those that exemplify my particular writing style (or lack thereof), and the content I intend to cover as I move forward.
And moving forward is the whole reason that I've bothered to do this. I've recently realized that I want... need... to chronicle my thoughts & actions in this fashion, so that I stop living in my head so damned much, and actually interact with the world around me.
And there it is. An introduction, of sorts. Which, if you've read my work already, you should be accustomed to by now.
Portlandia Prevails.
Vol. 1, Issue 15 | Rules
My last twitterfeed (twitter.com/arashikami, if you'd like to follow) includes a comment on crushes & why I don't act on the majority of them.
I mean... Aside from being a complete chicken-shit, that is. Because I am.
However, there's been a growing list of rules in my head, as a way to rationalize being a chicken-shit. Anytime I've needed a reason to avoid acting on my impulses, presto! There's another rule.
Hell... I feel like I'm *this* far away from being the adult equivalent of that nerdy kid in school that has a girlfriend. In Canada.
So yes, I'm acutely aware of how absolutely stupid every single one of those rules sound. Well, except the one involving other people's wives/girlfriends. That one is iron-clad. Lesson learned. (And I'm still sorry, in case you're reading.) But the rest?
Bollocks.
Absolute bollocks.
Nothing but proof of me being a chicken-shit.
Which means...
...it's time to toss out the rules.
Portlandia is no chicken-shit.
I mean... Aside from being a complete chicken-shit, that is. Because I am.
However, there's been a growing list of rules in my head, as a way to rationalize being a chicken-shit. Anytime I've needed a reason to avoid acting on my impulses, presto! There's another rule.
- No Bond Girls. (i.e. also known as: 'no fishing off the company pier.') Granted, the majority of the Bond Girls all have significant others, so this isn't too much of an issue. And this is also supposing that any of them would even fancy me. Also? If you don't know what I'm talking about, don't fret. It's a gallery inside joke.
- No Neighbors. I've almost fucked up friendships I've had w/ people because of this. Good friendships. Since the building I live in is such a small community, dating w/in it seems fraught w/ problems. I love my neighbors. I'd really rather not lose that over an impulse decision.
- No Curators. This just seems like a bad idea.
- No Long-Term Relationships / Marriage. Getting involved w/ anyone looking for either of these would be wrong for me to do, since that's not what I'm looking for. I'd feel like I was leading someone on. I already feel as though I do that inadvertently now...
- No Ex-S.O.'s of Friends. Like w/ neighbors, dating w/in seemingly small social groups (esp. the comic book scene in this town) also seems fraught w/ problems.
- No Current S.O.'s of Friends. You'd think this one was a no-brainer. You'd be wrong. No, I'm not explaining further.
- No Artists. I've broken this one a time or two & regretted it later. I think other artists can date artists, and that's great. But I can't.
Hell... I feel like I'm *this* far away from being the adult equivalent of that nerdy kid in school that has a girlfriend. In Canada.
So yes, I'm acutely aware of how absolutely stupid every single one of those rules sound. Well, except the one involving other people's wives/girlfriends. That one is iron-clad. Lesson learned. (And I'm still sorry, in case you're reading.) But the rest?
Bollocks.
Absolute bollocks.
Nothing but proof of me being a chicken-shit.
Which means...
...it's time to toss out the rules.
Portlandia is no chicken-shit.
Vol. 1, Issue 14 | Definitions, Part 4
Port•land
glit•te•ra•ti
Port•lan•der•at•ti
Portlandia... the original Portlanderatti.
- a seaport in NW Oregon, at the confluence of the Willamette and Columbia rivers. 366,383.
- a seaport in SW Maine, on Casco Bay. 61,572.
- a town in S Texas. 12,023.
glit•te•ra•ti
- wealthy or famous people who conspicuously or ostentatiously attend fashionable events.
Port•lan•der•at•ti
- subculture of Portlanders distinguished by a ridiculous level of notoriety & seemingly ubiquitous attendance of oh-so-very-Portland events:
- “Why does that guy look familiar?”
“Him? Dunno, but I’ve seen him before too. Must be Portlanderatti.” - [Origin: Mary-Suzanne Lamkins, 2007; portmanteau of Portland & glitterati]
Portlandia... the original Portlanderatti.
Vol. 1, Issue 13 | At the Risk of Sounding Terribly Melodramatic...
i am utterly, completely, maddeningly devoid of all creative ideas. my imagination has taken an unscheduled, unapproved absence, spanning months now. i've committed to creating one painting for the upcoming rooftop show... ONE. PAINTING. JUST ONE! and i'm at a total loss. and i've been this way for what feels like forever now. FOR. EVER. granted, i've got a lengthy list to draw inspiration from... an idea here, an idea there... all jotted down, organized with notes and sketches, details concerning the origin of the inspiration, etcetera, etcetera... but it's all meaningless to me. not that they aren't brilliant ideas and concepts, because they are. i mean, i came up with them; how could they not be? but they need to be passed on to those who'll breathe life into them, and right now, that's not going to be me. i've nothing to provide in the way of infusing these ideas with any sort of anima. it's monumentally frustrating.
and yes, it's affected my demeanor towards others. for those who've asked 'what's wrong?', and i've answered 'nothing' or some other equally horseshit answer, it's because saying that it's everything invites an explanation that i'm neither capable nor inclined to provide. i don't bloody know what it is specifically, but i'm in such a state from all this unclassifiable anguish that i'm ready to crawl out of my increasingly uncomfortable skin, almost literally, even as i type this. and i'm not attempting to solicit sympathies or decry 'o poor me'. christ, you know perfectly well that i cannot abide that behaviour in myself. i'm just acknowledging my emotional state at present, as best i can, in hopes that i can somehow make sense of the whole bloody mess. i'm not really looking for advice either... i'm rarely one to take it, even when solicited, so save yourself the headache... like i said. i'm just emoting for the sake of emoting.
partially unrelated, but an epiphany i had yesterday... it's likely that my epitaph, should i be unfortunate to pass on prematurely, will read: "huh... i guess i should have said 'no'."
Portlandia Prevails.
and yes, it's affected my demeanor towards others. for those who've asked 'what's wrong?', and i've answered 'nothing' or some other equally horseshit answer, it's because saying that it's everything invites an explanation that i'm neither capable nor inclined to provide. i don't bloody know what it is specifically, but i'm in such a state from all this unclassifiable anguish that i'm ready to crawl out of my increasingly uncomfortable skin, almost literally, even as i type this. and i'm not attempting to solicit sympathies or decry 'o poor me'. christ, you know perfectly well that i cannot abide that behaviour in myself. i'm just acknowledging my emotional state at present, as best i can, in hopes that i can somehow make sense of the whole bloody mess. i'm not really looking for advice either... i'm rarely one to take it, even when solicited, so save yourself the headache... like i said. i'm just emoting for the sake of emoting.
partially unrelated, but an epiphany i had yesterday... it's likely that my epitaph, should i be unfortunate to pass on prematurely, will read: "huh... i guess i should have said 'no'."
Portlandia Prevails.
Vol. 1, Issue 12 | re:Questions, Rhetorical
Why is it that tragedy inevitably brings out the asshole in us all? Why are acts of compassion, empathy for those suffering, and real attempts to make things better always accompanied to the party by rabid, self-righteous prigs who spew forth a litany of "you brought this on yourself" admonishments? Will we ever learn?
Portlandia...
Portlandia...
Vol. 1, Issue 10 | Evil
[originally written 06 June 2006, 3:56pm]
My day started with a text message from my sister, wishing me a Happy 6/6/6. Followed by a phone call from Isaias, wishing me a "Happy Birthday." (No. It's not my birthday. I call him 'Evil'; he calls me 'Satan.' It's a joke.) At work, people have wondered what I'm doing for my 'holiday.' Since I've been stewing on this most of the day, it seems appropriate to perhaps clear up a common misconception. Also, I wanted to get a couple things out into the aether.
First, regardless of my nickname, I'm not a subscriber to Satanism. The precepts of the Satanic Church espouse the merits of humanism and the belief in the Self, of which I do tend to agree with on points, it still co-opts the symbology of The Devil as its manifestation of Evil. And that particular symbol is linked to all forms of Christianity, in some shape or form. Herein lies my paradox: I don't believe in the Judeo-Christian concept of God; why would I believe in his opposite? Logically, I can't. Spiritually, I can't. If there's no God, then why would there be a Devil? (To be more precise, I don't believe in any one deity or doctrine. I believe in them all. But that's a different conversation.) And while I play and joke about those particular conceptions, I don't actually subscribe to them, so the God and the Devil to me are naught more than mythology. Like Thor and Loki, Zeus and Hades, etc. Making them subject to my mockery and irreverence, just like everyone and everything else.
Which brings me to today. Yes, 6/6/6 is amusing. Yes, many many people are excited about it, in the sense that they see this as yet another reason to party, drink, debauch, and otherwise act, y'know, evilly. And yes, if you're a Believer, then it's a significant date, and you're checking every suspicious-looking newborn you come across for that telltale birthmark. Hell, it's a huge "Let's Be EVIL!" extravaganza! An EVIL-Palooza! Why, there's even a "Horns Across the Hawthorne" event planned. (No. I'm not kidding.) Except...
That's not Evil, kids.
Evil does not need a reason, an excuse, or a set of guidelines set forth by various religious doctrines, to be Evil. Evil. Is. Evil. Evil will not pretend to be your friend, and then stab you in the back. No. What Evil will do is actually befriend you, learn all about you, lend you his car, bail you out of jail, etcetera, etc. And then, when it will hurt the most, when it will be the most damaging, Evil will stab you. In the gut. To your face, smiling all the while. And in front of everyone you know.
Evil is charming. Evil is sincere. Evil cares. Evil will offer hope, comfort, support... anything and everything you need in a weary, dreary world. Because it cuts deeper, into the bone, when you've everything to lose. And it isn't because Evil has anything to gain by it. Evil does this because he can. Win... Lose... neither matter.
"I'm evil." someone may say to me. I discount this prattle, yet they insist, describing fetishes, abberant thoughts, lack of compassion for faceless victims, lifestyle choices that clash with 'normal society', and so forth. I'm still not convinced.
I say, "Are you able to tell the person in your life who means the most to you, that you love more than life itself, that you suddenly feel nothing for them, and mean it? Can you use every intimate detail of their life to systematically render them asunder?" My audience giggles nervously, flashing back to a time when they wished they'd done that before someone did that to them. Their confidence waivers.
"Or perhaps spree killing. That seems popular with the kids these days. Could you kill?" My audience nods gleefully. "Indiscriminantly?" Nods. "Men..." Smiles. "Women..." Nods. "Children?" Hesitation. "Infants?" The audience pales. "Come now. They're so small. So easy to kill. It happens all the time; I've seen the statistics." The audience searches within... could they do it? "Of course the real trick is to do so with an absence of malice. Of malovelence." A quizzical look. "Not dispassionate, mind you. No. Just able to absorb the act of murder, making that a part of who you are. Relishing it." The audience is uncomfortable again.
"Even better. Making someone else Evil. Can you do that? No. Because you don't know what that entails, do you. You can't begin to grasp what it's like to use someone's own methods of rationalization to undermine their fundamental beliefs. You have never made your goal to take someone so low, make them choose to debase themselves in such a way that even if the human spirit was indominable, they'd have absolutely no tangible reason to ever rise up and come back from utter ruin. None. And it wouldn't be a stranger you'd have done it to. It'd have been someone you called friend. Because only those closest to you can cause that kind of loss. Evil isn't just atrocities. Evil is atrocities combined with hope. And Love."
One last bit: real Evil... you never see coming.
Portlandia Prevails. In spite of Evil.
My day started with a text message from my sister, wishing me a Happy 6/6/6. Followed by a phone call from Isaias, wishing me a "Happy Birthday." (No. It's not my birthday. I call him 'Evil'; he calls me 'Satan.' It's a joke.) At work, people have wondered what I'm doing for my 'holiday.' Since I've been stewing on this most of the day, it seems appropriate to perhaps clear up a common misconception. Also, I wanted to get a couple things out into the aether.
First, regardless of my nickname, I'm not a subscriber to Satanism. The precepts of the Satanic Church espouse the merits of humanism and the belief in the Self, of which I do tend to agree with on points, it still co-opts the symbology of The Devil as its manifestation of Evil. And that particular symbol is linked to all forms of Christianity, in some shape or form. Herein lies my paradox: I don't believe in the Judeo-Christian concept of God; why would I believe in his opposite? Logically, I can't. Spiritually, I can't. If there's no God, then why would there be a Devil? (To be more precise, I don't believe in any one deity or doctrine. I believe in them all. But that's a different conversation.) And while I play and joke about those particular conceptions, I don't actually subscribe to them, so the God and the Devil to me are naught more than mythology. Like Thor and Loki, Zeus and Hades, etc. Making them subject to my mockery and irreverence, just like everyone and everything else.
Which brings me to today. Yes, 6/6/6 is amusing. Yes, many many people are excited about it, in the sense that they see this as yet another reason to party, drink, debauch, and otherwise act, y'know, evilly. And yes, if you're a Believer, then it's a significant date, and you're checking every suspicious-looking newborn you come across for that telltale birthmark. Hell, it's a huge "Let's Be EVIL!" extravaganza! An EVIL-Palooza! Why, there's even a "Horns Across the Hawthorne" event planned. (No. I'm not kidding.) Except...
That's not Evil, kids.
Evil does not need a reason, an excuse, or a set of guidelines set forth by various religious doctrines, to be Evil. Evil. Is. Evil. Evil will not pretend to be your friend, and then stab you in the back. No. What Evil will do is actually befriend you, learn all about you, lend you his car, bail you out of jail, etcetera, etc. And then, when it will hurt the most, when it will be the most damaging, Evil will stab you. In the gut. To your face, smiling all the while. And in front of everyone you know.
Evil is charming. Evil is sincere. Evil cares. Evil will offer hope, comfort, support... anything and everything you need in a weary, dreary world. Because it cuts deeper, into the bone, when you've everything to lose. And it isn't because Evil has anything to gain by it. Evil does this because he can. Win... Lose... neither matter.
"I'm evil." someone may say to me. I discount this prattle, yet they insist, describing fetishes, abberant thoughts, lack of compassion for faceless victims, lifestyle choices that clash with 'normal society', and so forth. I'm still not convinced.
I say, "Are you able to tell the person in your life who means the most to you, that you love more than life itself, that you suddenly feel nothing for them, and mean it? Can you use every intimate detail of their life to systematically render them asunder?" My audience giggles nervously, flashing back to a time when they wished they'd done that before someone did that to them. Their confidence waivers.
"Or perhaps spree killing. That seems popular with the kids these days. Could you kill?" My audience nods gleefully. "Indiscriminantly?" Nods. "Men..." Smiles. "Women..." Nods. "Children?" Hesitation. "Infants?" The audience pales. "Come now. They're so small. So easy to kill. It happens all the time; I've seen the statistics." The audience searches within... could they do it? "Of course the real trick is to do so with an absence of malice. Of malovelence." A quizzical look. "Not dispassionate, mind you. No. Just able to absorb the act of murder, making that a part of who you are. Relishing it." The audience is uncomfortable again.
"Even better. Making someone else Evil. Can you do that? No. Because you don't know what that entails, do you. You can't begin to grasp what it's like to use someone's own methods of rationalization to undermine their fundamental beliefs. You have never made your goal to take someone so low, make them choose to debase themselves in such a way that even if the human spirit was indominable, they'd have absolutely no tangible reason to ever rise up and come back from utter ruin. None. And it wouldn't be a stranger you'd have done it to. It'd have been someone you called friend. Because only those closest to you can cause that kind of loss. Evil isn't just atrocities. Evil is atrocities combined with hope. And Love."
One last bit: real Evil... you never see coming.
Portlandia Prevails. In spite of Evil.
Vol. 1, Issue 9 | Definitions, Part 3
an·he·do·ni·a (n.): The absence of pleasure or the ability to experience it; anhe·donic (adj.)
mas·och·ist (n.): One who derives of pleasure from subjecting themselves to unpleasant or trying experiences.
So... when you hear me refer to myself as an "anhedonic masochist", you'll have proper context. Or you could just read Valis by PK Dick. That's a masochistic act in-and-of itself.
Portlandia Prevails.
Vol. 1, Issue 7 | ...My Sentiments, Exactly.
The linked column, from Wired News columnist Tom Long, sums up, almost verbatim, what I've been saying (off and on) since 2001.
"What If They Gave a War...?"
And I'll bet dollars to donuts that you'll forget the content of said column within a day, thus proving the point being made. Not that I think you're all dullards or incapable of caring about such things. Quite the opposite. What I think is that you and I are no more or less succeptible to the "Situation: Hopeless"-apathy that those capable of making necessary changes appear to be afflicted with. We create microenvironments, where we're making the best of a bad situation and letting the rest of the world fend for itself. We're not uncaring, uncompassionate people, but we really don't believe that we can effect lasting change, and so we sit in our bunkers, riding out the storm till it's our turn for the Big Sleep.
I'm afraid, for all my sound & fury, that I've no assignment for you. I'm as guilty of said behavior as the rest of society, and my hypocrasy does have it's boundries. Instead I leave you to your own rebellious, revolutionary and anarchistic devices. Be creative. Answer the question posed in the article, and show everyone exactly where the Hell you are.
(Thanks to Melissa A. AKA the Idea Maven for directing me to the article in the first place. She rocks the Casbah.)
One last thing: When I first read the title of the article, I immediately heard the full quote in my head. I'm sure you're familiar with it. If not...
"What if they gave a war, and no one came?
It's a lovely thought, often used as an anti-war sentiment. Carl Sandburg's direct quote was "Sometime they'll give a war, and no one will come." Recently, I came across the "What if..." version in its entirety, attributed to Bertolt Brecht, a German dramatist. It read:
"What if they gave a war, and no one came?
Why then, the war would come to them."
Food for thought.
Portlandia Prevails.
"What If They Gave a War...?"
And I'll bet dollars to donuts that you'll forget the content of said column within a day, thus proving the point being made. Not that I think you're all dullards or incapable of caring about such things. Quite the opposite. What I think is that you and I are no more or less succeptible to the "Situation: Hopeless"-apathy that those capable of making necessary changes appear to be afflicted with. We create microenvironments, where we're making the best of a bad situation and letting the rest of the world fend for itself. We're not uncaring, uncompassionate people, but we really don't believe that we can effect lasting change, and so we sit in our bunkers, riding out the storm till it's our turn for the Big Sleep.
I'm afraid, for all my sound & fury, that I've no assignment for you. I'm as guilty of said behavior as the rest of society, and my hypocrasy does have it's boundries. Instead I leave you to your own rebellious, revolutionary and anarchistic devices. Be creative. Answer the question posed in the article, and show everyone exactly where the Hell you are.
(Thanks to Melissa A. AKA the Idea Maven for directing me to the article in the first place. She rocks the Casbah.)
One last thing: When I first read the title of the article, I immediately heard the full quote in my head. I'm sure you're familiar with it. If not...
It's a lovely thought, often used as an anti-war sentiment. Carl Sandburg's direct quote was "Sometime they'll give a war, and no one will come." Recently, I came across the "What if..." version in its entirety, attributed to Bertolt Brecht, a German dramatist. It read:
Why then, the war would come to them."
Food for thought.
Portlandia Prevails.
Vol. 1, Issue 6 | Definitions, Part 2
Been hearing the word ‘collaborate’ frequently this year, in the context of artists of all types working together on fascinating projects. While I understand the word as used contextually, I looked up the definition, as I’m wont to do...
col·lab·o·rate
1 • To work together, especially in a joint intellectual effort.
2 • To cooperate treasonably, as with an enemy occupation force in one's country.
This is fucking brilliant.
I find a sweet synergy in juxtaposing the definitions. The phrase ‘Intellectual Treason’ ricochets inside my skull, causing new thoughts, ideas, plots and conspiracies...
Treason is defined as “A betrayal of trust or confidence.” When artists collaborate, whom are they betraying? Other artists? Or maybe their own comfortable artistic conventions? Possibly the artistic community at large? And how would one betray such a community that lives to defy convention? By collaborating to make non-art? Within the artistic zeitgeist, is non-art still art when committed by artists?
What of the rest of society? As the saying goes, Art imitates Life/Life imitates Art. When artists collaborate, are they betraying the society in which they are a part of? Is the art they create together revealing our society’s secrets to outsiders? To ourselves? If so, isn’t it the responsibility of those collaborating artist to do just that?
This isn’t a post full of rhetorical questions, nor do I intend to answer them myself. Instead I want your input, your thoughts, your questions. Talk to me. I want to know. I want to collaborate with you... with all of you, right here, right now. And I’ll even still respect you afterwards.
Talk. Now.
col·lab·o·rate
1 • To work together, especially in a joint intellectual effort.
2 • To cooperate treasonably, as with an enemy occupation force in one's country.
This is fucking brilliant.
I find a sweet synergy in juxtaposing the definitions. The phrase ‘Intellectual Treason’ ricochets inside my skull, causing new thoughts, ideas, plots and conspiracies...
Treason is defined as “A betrayal of trust or confidence.” When artists collaborate, whom are they betraying? Other artists? Or maybe their own comfortable artistic conventions? Possibly the artistic community at large? And how would one betray such a community that lives to defy convention? By collaborating to make non-art? Within the artistic zeitgeist, is non-art still art when committed by artists?
What of the rest of society? As the saying goes, Art imitates Life/Life imitates Art. When artists collaborate, are they betraying the society in which they are a part of? Is the art they create together revealing our society’s secrets to outsiders? To ourselves? If so, isn’t it the responsibility of those collaborating artist to do just that?
This isn’t a post full of rhetorical questions, nor do I intend to answer them myself. Instead I want your input, your thoughts, your questions. Talk to me. I want to know. I want to collaborate with you... with all of you, right here, right now. And I’ll even still respect you afterwards.
Talk. Now.
Vol. 1, Issue 5 | And Now, A Warning
The days of Portland's passive-aggressive stance on passive-aggressiveness are done. I will, with a smile on my face and a song in my heart, aggressively confront your passive-aggressive ways, fellow citizens. No more mollycoddling.
Oh, and just so that we're clear: Being Aggressive does not necessarily equate itself with Being Violent. It does lend itself well to Being Direct.
And yes, I am acutely aware that posting about confronting passive-aggressive behaviour in a blog is a form of passive-aggressiveness. Now that's irony.
Portlandia Prevails.
Oh, and just so that we're clear: Being Aggressive does not necessarily equate itself with Being Violent. It does lend itself well to Being Direct.
And yes, I am acutely aware that posting about confronting passive-aggressive behaviour in a blog is a form of passive-aggressiveness. Now that's irony.
Portlandia Prevails.
Vol. 1, Issue 4 | Definitions, Part 1
The following definitions are from Dictionary.com:
sacred cow: A person or thing immune to criticism or questioning.
cow tipping: A somewhat mean-spirited activity whereby one knocks over a sleeping cow (which sleeps standing up) by pushing on its side.
For this year (and presumably the rest of my life), I have decided to combine the terms, thus creating a clear definition for a practice (that some people are already participating in) I highly recommend to everyone:
sacred cow tipping
The practice of criticizing or questioning (i.e. tipping over, figuratively) a person(s) or thing(s) widely believed to be immune to such criticism or questioning. This practice works best when 1) a level of respect for the ‘sacred cow’ in question is still exhibited, especially during the actual ‘tipping’; and 2) the tipper is prepared to also become the tippee, since that is inevitable. This can also be referred to as ‘Developing a Sense of Humor.’
Why the caveats? you may ask. Because I don’t believe that you must be mean-spirited or hateful in order to effectively question the unquestionable. Doesn’t mean you have to be nice either, but you must have an understanding of what it is that you wish to criticize, else you’re just all sound and fury signifying nothing. And we’ve plenty of that already. Earlier this year, I said I’m not interested in espousing hate anymore, hence the column title change, and I still mean it.
As for the other caveat... the one about the inevitability of having your own sacred cows tipped... that particular rhubarb has been an object lesson for me as of late. You’ve listened to me spout off about the V for Vendetta film adaptation, and how I intend to walk out during the viewing, regardless. It’s taken the juxtaposition of my active participation in sacred cow tipping and having one of my few sacred cow’s knocked on it’s side for me to realize how quickly & easily you will end up on the receiving end. I recognize that I can and should have a sense of humor about this, and I am allowing for the possibility that someone else can read the same story and get an entirely different meaning from it than I had, and that my way isn’t always the right way.
This is the lesson of sacred cow tipping, boys and girls. In the grand scheme of things, we take some things too seriously. Lighten up. Laugh at yourself. Help others learn to do the same. Remember, there is no Them. Just Us. So go tip them cows.
Oh, and mind the manure.
Portlandia Prevails.
sacred cow: A person or thing immune to criticism or questioning.
cow tipping: A somewhat mean-spirited activity whereby one knocks over a sleeping cow (which sleeps standing up) by pushing on its side.
For this year (and presumably the rest of my life), I have decided to combine the terms, thus creating a clear definition for a practice (that some people are already participating in) I highly recommend to everyone:
The practice of criticizing or questioning (i.e. tipping over, figuratively) a person(s) or thing(s) widely believed to be immune to such criticism or questioning. This practice works best when 1) a level of respect for the ‘sacred cow’ in question is still exhibited, especially during the actual ‘tipping’; and 2) the tipper is prepared to also become the tippee, since that is inevitable. This can also be referred to as ‘Developing a Sense of Humor.’
Why the caveats? you may ask. Because I don’t believe that you must be mean-spirited or hateful in order to effectively question the unquestionable. Doesn’t mean you have to be nice either, but you must have an understanding of what it is that you wish to criticize, else you’re just all sound and fury signifying nothing. And we’ve plenty of that already. Earlier this year, I said I’m not interested in espousing hate anymore, hence the column title change, and I still mean it.
As for the other caveat... the one about the inevitability of having your own sacred cows tipped... that particular rhubarb has been an object lesson for me as of late. You’ve listened to me spout off about the V for Vendetta film adaptation, and how I intend to walk out during the viewing, regardless. It’s taken the juxtaposition of my active participation in sacred cow tipping and having one of my few sacred cow’s knocked on it’s side for me to realize how quickly & easily you will end up on the receiving end. I recognize that I can and should have a sense of humor about this, and I am allowing for the possibility that someone else can read the same story and get an entirely different meaning from it than I had, and that my way isn’t always the right way.
This is the lesson of sacred cow tipping, boys and girls. In the grand scheme of things, we take some things too seriously. Lighten up. Laugh at yourself. Help others learn to do the same. Remember, there is no Them. Just Us. So go tip them cows.
Oh, and mind the manure.
Portlandia Prevails.
Vol. 1, Issue 3 | Getting Emotional
I am finding myself emotionally all over the place this morning.
This is, I’m afraid, not the most opportune time for any type of deconstruction of self. Not on a day/night where I devote all my energies to being The Curator. But to deny or suppress these emotions will leave me in a worse state than I’m in now. And, honestly? I know I’m just at the beginning stages, so I should be fine...
First off, I had a negative body image moment this morning, which is odd as I’ve not ventured there in quite a while. At some level, I’m know that we all go through this, and for a year or so now, it’s not really been an issue for me. Anything that I don’t like about my physical shape is within my power to change, ergo I exercise as I see fit or choose healthier food. What still sneaks up on me are things I can’t do anything about, like being taller or having an entirely different skeletal structure. Which is what hit me this morning. That first look in the mirror, wishing that I was perhaps a few inches taller, and built more like these gangly boymen that populate the city. Eventually I shrug it off, since it’s nothing more than idle fantasy, and I can do nothing to change my genetic heritage. But it’s still depressing.
Those of you who actually struggle with negative body image on a regular basis, I empathize with you. I find an instance of it mood altering… a lifetime of it would be paralyzing to me.
Now that I think about it, the body image moment was the second thing. I was already dealing with fluctuations in my self-confidence before that.
I don’t, for a variety of reasons. The main one being that I’m well practiced in the art of overthinking any given situation, especially ones that involve another person. I try to create every possible scenario which could occur as a response to one of my actions. I like being prepared. Problem is that when I’m in that state, I can appear more... aloof, stand-offish, because I’m not done analyzing the situation. Of course, when an opportunity presents itself, and I don’t act for said reasons, then I spend an unhealthy amount of time kicking myself for not giving into impulse once and a while. Fortunately, I do learn from these types of experiences, and I’m not a subscriber to the theory that opportunity only knocking once.
I have had some conversations with a couple different people as of late, of the ‘getting to know you’ variety. Good conversations, long conversations. The kind I like. Which have sparked parts of my intellect, my imagination, my creativity, etc. (This is my long-winded way of saying that my emotional upheaval today isn’t all negative; rather it’s swinging both directions, making it equally confounding.) But there is a curiosity. While I enjoy listening to where people have come from, relishing both the differences and parallels in experiences, I’ve discovered that I don’t really require knowing where someone has come from. It’s interesting for some context, to be sure. But as someone who frequently practices patterns of reinvention, it isn’t fundamental for me to know where someone is from in order for me to know who they are, and where they are going. Sometimes, we as humans, like to have a clean slate, surrounded by people who don’t have any predisposed notions or expectations of us. I get that. I moved to Portland from my hometown for that very reason. And that was near 15 years ago now. In many ways, I’ve become the person I’ve told people I am as I meet them since I’ve been here. Which is why, despite my curmudgeonly demeanor, I try to be accepting of not just who people are but who they really want to be.
Sweet Fancy Moses. I was just using movie quotes that I find relevant to my current thoughts, but when I ran across this one, I remember having this type of physical reaction, and thinking to myself that I wasn’t cold, but couldn’t figure out why I was shaking. That’s just... well, it’s just. Huh.
It’s funny... the real reason I started this post was because I came into work, read my email, and was instantly pissed. I mean a good, nostril-flaring rage. It’s been rather tense around here for weeks, and some well-intentioned busybody attempted to undo a couple weeks of my work. But in the course of getting this all down on paper (so to speak), I seem to have mellowed back out considerably. On all emotional levels. Huh. I’ll be damned.
One last reminder to all you PDX folks: First Thursday’s tonight, so if you’re so inclined, come on down & hang out. I’ll be my usual charming self by then, I’m sure.
Portlandia Prevails.
”What is this I'm feeling? Is it pain? Panic? Hunger? Am I hungry? Who's hungry?”
This is, I’m afraid, not the most opportune time for any type of deconstruction of self. Not on a day/night where I devote all my energies to being The Curator. But to deny or suppress these emotions will leave me in a worse state than I’m in now. And, honestly? I know I’m just at the beginning stages, so I should be fine...
First off, I had a negative body image moment this morning, which is odd as I’ve not ventured there in quite a while. At some level, I’m know that we all go through this, and for a year or so now, it’s not really been an issue for me. Anything that I don’t like about my physical shape is within my power to change, ergo I exercise as I see fit or choose healthier food. What still sneaks up on me are things I can’t do anything about, like being taller or having an entirely different skeletal structure. Which is what hit me this morning. That first look in the mirror, wishing that I was perhaps a few inches taller, and built more like these gangly boymen that populate the city. Eventually I shrug it off, since it’s nothing more than idle fantasy, and I can do nothing to change my genetic heritage. But it’s still depressing.
”It is inevitable to be drawn back into human drama.”
Those of you who actually struggle with negative body image on a regular basis, I empathize with you. I find an instance of it mood altering… a lifetime of it would be paralyzing to me.
Now that I think about it, the body image moment was the second thing. I was already dealing with fluctuations in my self-confidence before that.
”Never trust my instincts.”
I don’t, for a variety of reasons. The main one being that I’m well practiced in the art of overthinking any given situation, especially ones that involve another person. I try to create every possible scenario which could occur as a response to one of my actions. I like being prepared. Problem is that when I’m in that state, I can appear more... aloof, stand-offish, because I’m not done analyzing the situation. Of course, when an opportunity presents itself, and I don’t act for said reasons, then I spend an unhealthy amount of time kicking myself for not giving into impulse once and a while. Fortunately, I do learn from these types of experiences, and I’m not a subscriber to the theory that opportunity only knocking once.
”Everybody's coming back to take stock of their lives.
You know what I say? Leave your livestock alone.”
I have had some conversations with a couple different people as of late, of the ‘getting to know you’ variety. Good conversations, long conversations. The kind I like. Which have sparked parts of my intellect, my imagination, my creativity, etc. (This is my long-winded way of saying that my emotional upheaval today isn’t all negative; rather it’s swinging both directions, making it equally confounding.) But there is a curiosity. While I enjoy listening to where people have come from, relishing both the differences and parallels in experiences, I’ve discovered that I don’t really require knowing where someone has come from. It’s interesting for some context, to be sure. But as someone who frequently practices patterns of reinvention, it isn’t fundamental for me to know where someone is from in order for me to know who they are, and where they are going. Sometimes, we as humans, like to have a clean slate, surrounded by people who don’t have any predisposed notions or expectations of us. I get that. I moved to Portland from my hometown for that very reason. And that was near 15 years ago now. In many ways, I’ve become the person I’ve told people I am as I meet them since I’ve been here. Which is why, despite my curmudgeonly demeanor, I try to be accepting of not just who people are but who they really want to be.
Diane Court: Are you shaking?
Lloyd Dobler: No.
Diane Court: You're shaking.
Lloyd Dobler: I don't think so.
Diane Court: You're cold.
Lloyd Dobler: I don't think I am.
Diane Court: Then why are you shaking?
Lloyd Dobler: I don't know. I think I'm happy.
Sweet Fancy Moses. I was just using movie quotes that I find relevant to my current thoughts, but when I ran across this one, I remember having this type of physical reaction, and thinking to myself that I wasn’t cold, but couldn’t figure out why I was shaking. That’s just... well, it’s just. Huh.
I'm not married, I don't have any kids,
and I'd blow your head off if someone paid me enough.
It’s funny... the real reason I started this post was because I came into work, read my email, and was instantly pissed. I mean a good, nostril-flaring rage. It’s been rather tense around here for weeks, and some well-intentioned busybody attempted to undo a couple weeks of my work. But in the course of getting this all down on paper (so to speak), I seem to have mellowed back out considerably. On all emotional levels. Huh. I’ll be damned.
One last reminder to all you PDX folks: First Thursday’s tonight, so if you’re so inclined, come on down & hang out. I’ll be my usual charming self by then, I’m sure.
Portlandia Prevails.
Vol. 1, Issue 2 | Fetishes
Last night, I went to the Deacon X Fetish Night at Berbati’s, courtesy of MarySuzanne & David. MSL: Thankyouverymuch & I hope David’s feeling better.
There was a requisite gothic band, complete with mostly pre-recorded synth tracks accompanying the singer/guitarist and a drummer/keyboardist. Followed by rather ornately dressed fire dancers. Then there were the girls on hooks. You could see on their backs the scars from previous piercing, clearly marking them as, at least, seasoned amateurs. Two of them, attached at opposite ends of the support bar, dancing, jumping, bobbing, thrashing and essentially being held aloft by the skin of their backs.
A moment of honesty: While I’m familiar with this practice, have seen images on the ‘Net and in film, I’ve never seen it done live before. Rationally, logically, I was able to process what I was seeing. However, some part of my psyche wasn’t quite ready for this. Whether it was the blood, the stretched skin, or what, I don’t know. I do know that near the end of this particular performance, I did feel a bit light-headed. Meh... it could’ve also been that I’d not eaten since breakfast.
Anyway, the last act I stayed for (I left about 1am, as it was a ‘school night’) was a spanking. A young woman, dressed mostly in strategically-placed, black PVC wrap, was bound to a bench. Another woman, in a corset & skirt, spent the next fifteen minutes or so teasing and spanking her with a leather paddle. (An aside: Those of you who are fans of the O.C. -- if you’ve ever wondered what Marissa would look like in the aforementioned situation, boy howdy, do I have mental images for you.)
Overall, it was... more sedate than I expected, I think. I mean... I’m glad I went, I’m glad I had the opportunity to go, as this was my first... waitaminute... Nope. Nevermind. I can’t back that up. Instead, I’ll say that it’s been awhile since I’ve attended a fetish night, so any comparison to anything I’ve seen previously would be questionable. However, the subject of fetishes, particularly the BDSM variety, have been on my mind a lot lately... Case in point, I was asked what my curiosity about some BDSM practices is, and why.
*ponders*
The What is more nebulous a topic, to me, than the Why. I’m unfamiliar with most of the terminology or techniques, so the What is, at present, kind of an all-encompassing What. As I learn and experiment, I will be able to narrow down the What. The Why covers several different layers of my being.
Watching the spanking, I found myself envying both participants; the dom for her thorough enjoyment in teasing and controlling the sub, and the sub in what I can only imagine was the ecstasy that comes from being bound and unable to control what was happening. While both of these states excite me, I can easily identify with the position of the dom, as I enjoy the administration and control of someone else’s pleasure. The role of sub is much more foreign to me, as I’m something of a control freak. So I recognize the need to experience both sides... learning to become both dom and sub.
Then there’s the sexual aspect, of course. I’d be dishonest stating otherwise. In my limited observations, I’ve found that something about the act itself is arousing to me. (Which reminds me... I need to get a copy of The Secretary.) I have no clue as to why, but I’m intrigued. But combining this with sex isn’t my end-all, be-all reason. Not to say that I’m not interested in the combination. Far from it. But it’s not the primary focus.
Finally, there’s the pain/pleasure fascination. A sort of kinkier version of Fight Club for me, in that whole “How much can you know about yourself if you’ve never been paddled, caned or flogged?”, to paraphrase Tyler Durden. That’s what I want to know. I want to know what my thresholds of physical pain are, how far I can push them, and at what point do I simultaneously experience pleasure along with the pain. I want to find out whether or not I would benefit more by remaining focused on the pain, or by allowing my conscious self to disassociate from the experience & focusing more on the existential. That is, if I’d even be able to transcend. That particular question came up while rewatching I (Heart) Huckabees over the weekend, from the discussion about attaining a state of pure being... where one is just able to exist, free of the misery of human drama. (Yes, I’m paraphrasing again.)
Just to clarify, I am less interested in adopting a lifestyle than I am engaging in alternate ways to alter my perceptions about, well, everything really. I do accept that I will need to venture into areas I know little to nothing about, and require the assistance of those with the experience to guide me. The goal will be to adapt & adopt what I learn into the fabric of my identity.
There was a requisite gothic band, complete with mostly pre-recorded synth tracks accompanying the singer/guitarist and a drummer/keyboardist. Followed by rather ornately dressed fire dancers. Then there were the girls on hooks. You could see on their backs the scars from previous piercing, clearly marking them as, at least, seasoned amateurs. Two of them, attached at opposite ends of the support bar, dancing, jumping, bobbing, thrashing and essentially being held aloft by the skin of their backs.
A moment of honesty: While I’m familiar with this practice, have seen images on the ‘Net and in film, I’ve never seen it done live before. Rationally, logically, I was able to process what I was seeing. However, some part of my psyche wasn’t quite ready for this. Whether it was the blood, the stretched skin, or what, I don’t know. I do know that near the end of this particular performance, I did feel a bit light-headed. Meh... it could’ve also been that I’d not eaten since breakfast.
Anyway, the last act I stayed for (I left about 1am, as it was a ‘school night’) was a spanking. A young woman, dressed mostly in strategically-placed, black PVC wrap, was bound to a bench. Another woman, in a corset & skirt, spent the next fifteen minutes or so teasing and spanking her with a leather paddle. (An aside: Those of you who are fans of the O.C. -- if you’ve ever wondered what Marissa would look like in the aforementioned situation, boy howdy, do I have mental images for you.)
Overall, it was... more sedate than I expected, I think. I mean... I’m glad I went, I’m glad I had the opportunity to go, as this was my first... waitaminute... Nope. Nevermind. I can’t back that up. Instead, I’ll say that it’s been awhile since I’ve attended a fetish night, so any comparison to anything I’ve seen previously would be questionable. However, the subject of fetishes, particularly the BDSM variety, have been on my mind a lot lately... Case in point, I was asked what my curiosity about some BDSM practices is, and why.
*ponders*
The What is more nebulous a topic, to me, than the Why. I’m unfamiliar with most of the terminology or techniques, so the What is, at present, kind of an all-encompassing What. As I learn and experiment, I will be able to narrow down the What. The Why covers several different layers of my being.
Watching the spanking, I found myself envying both participants; the dom for her thorough enjoyment in teasing and controlling the sub, and the sub in what I can only imagine was the ecstasy that comes from being bound and unable to control what was happening. While both of these states excite me, I can easily identify with the position of the dom, as I enjoy the administration and control of someone else’s pleasure. The role of sub is much more foreign to me, as I’m something of a control freak. So I recognize the need to experience both sides... learning to become both dom and sub.
Then there’s the sexual aspect, of course. I’d be dishonest stating otherwise. In my limited observations, I’ve found that something about the act itself is arousing to me. (Which reminds me... I need to get a copy of The Secretary.) I have no clue as to why, but I’m intrigued. But combining this with sex isn’t my end-all, be-all reason. Not to say that I’m not interested in the combination. Far from it. But it’s not the primary focus.
Finally, there’s the pain/pleasure fascination. A sort of kinkier version of Fight Club for me, in that whole “How much can you know about yourself if you’ve never been paddled, caned or flogged?”, to paraphrase Tyler Durden. That’s what I want to know. I want to know what my thresholds of physical pain are, how far I can push them, and at what point do I simultaneously experience pleasure along with the pain. I want to find out whether or not I would benefit more by remaining focused on the pain, or by allowing my conscious self to disassociate from the experience & focusing more on the existential. That is, if I’d even be able to transcend. That particular question came up while rewatching I (Heart) Huckabees over the weekend, from the discussion about attaining a state of pure being... where one is just able to exist, free of the misery of human drama. (Yes, I’m paraphrasing again.)
Just to clarify, I am less interested in adopting a lifestyle than I am engaging in alternate ways to alter my perceptions about, well, everything really. I do accept that I will need to venture into areas I know little to nothing about, and require the assistance of those with the experience to guide me. The goal will be to adapt & adopt what I learn into the fabric of my identity.
Vol. 1, Issue 1 | A Public Service Announcement, for the Fuckheads
[originally written 10 February 2006, 4:09pm]
Just read a series of posts that made me simply cringe at the thought that I share an atmosphere with these people. While I am capable of recognizing, respecting & comprehending the valid arguments hidden within layer upon layer of rhetoric & propaganda, I'm still left with the question of WTF?
Intent means a lot to me. Causing me harm is substantially less hurtful/debilitating/offensive to me than knowing that you intended to cause me harm. I joke a lot about the phrase "The road to Hell is paved with good intentions" and am often the first to lose my shit on people whose 'good' intentions encroach on my lifestyle (usually as it's interpreted as them telling me how I should/shouldn't live, etc). But when I see that someone's intent is to provide an opportunity where none or few existed, and said someone then becomes an object lesson in "No Good Deed Goes Unpunished," I simply want to throw my hands in the air, destroy the Universe & hit the 'Reset' button on the whole bloody mess. Yes, I've participated in the debate on how Opportunity can be another level Oppression, so I get it. I really do. Here's my counter argument to it. Ready? Cause if you blink, you'll miss it. Here it is:
Why didn't I include links to the posts so you'd know what I was referring to? Prolly because as I write this, I'm discovering that my indignation has less to do with the actual subject and more to do with the prevailing Us vs. Them mentality that is getting, as near as I can tell, increasingly worse. As I've said in the past, this needs to stop. Completely. There is no effing 'Them'... there never was. I say this suffering from my own kinds of daily paranoia, but at the core I do realize this. There really is no Them. It's just Us. And we are 'doing it' to ourselves. As oversimplified as that may sound... no, fuck that. It IS that simple. You are doing the bad shit to Yourself. Your neighbor is doing it to himself or herself. Etcetera. And, to get all existential for a moment, you are your neighbor, your neighbor is you, thus the We're Doing It To Ourselves theory.
Fuck. Brain got ahead of my fingers... hang on... Ah. Lightening up. Got it.
Part of the solution is accepting this realization that no one is out to get you (except in the generalized way that the Universe is out to get all of us. Read that somewhere... but don't remember where...), and then having a sense of humor about everything. Especially about anything that you are taking very seriously. Because if you don't, then you'll find yourself setting building on fire in protest, because someone thought what you take ever so seriously was funny. Know why they thought that?
Because it is.
Just read a series of posts that made me simply cringe at the thought that I share an atmosphere with these people. While I am capable of recognizing, respecting & comprehending the valid arguments hidden within layer upon layer of rhetoric & propaganda, I'm still left with the question of WTF?
Intent means a lot to me. Causing me harm is substantially less hurtful/debilitating/offensive to me than knowing that you intended to cause me harm. I joke a lot about the phrase "The road to Hell is paved with good intentions" and am often the first to lose my shit on people whose 'good' intentions encroach on my lifestyle (usually as it's interpreted as them telling me how I should/shouldn't live, etc). But when I see that someone's intent is to provide an opportunity where none or few existed, and said someone then becomes an object lesson in "No Good Deed Goes Unpunished," I simply want to throw my hands in the air, destroy the Universe & hit the 'Reset' button on the whole bloody mess. Yes, I've participated in the debate on how Opportunity can be another level Oppression, so I get it. I really do. Here's my counter argument to it. Ready? Cause if you blink, you'll miss it. Here it is:
Lighten. The Fuck. Up.
Why didn't I include links to the posts so you'd know what I was referring to? Prolly because as I write this, I'm discovering that my indignation has less to do with the actual subject and more to do with the prevailing Us vs. Them mentality that is getting, as near as I can tell, increasingly worse. As I've said in the past, this needs to stop. Completely. There is no effing 'Them'... there never was. I say this suffering from my own kinds of daily paranoia, but at the core I do realize this. There really is no Them. It's just Us. And we are 'doing it' to ourselves. As oversimplified as that may sound... no, fuck that. It IS that simple. You are doing the bad shit to Yourself. Your neighbor is doing it to himself or herself. Etcetera. And, to get all existential for a moment, you are your neighbor, your neighbor is you, thus the We're Doing It To Ourselves theory.
Fuck. Brain got ahead of my fingers... hang on... Ah. Lightening up. Got it.
Part of the solution is accepting this realization that no one is out to get you (except in the generalized way that the Universe is out to get all of us. Read that somewhere... but don't remember where...), and then having a sense of humor about everything. Especially about anything that you are taking very seriously. Because if you don't, then you'll find yourself setting building on fire in protest, because someone thought what you take ever so seriously was funny. Know why they thought that?
Because it is.
Vol. 0, Issue 19 | "...that you but slumbered here whilst these visions did appear."
Last night, I dreamt that I was with a woman of recent acquaintance. Talking. Sharing. Emoting. Attaining a kind of connection... the kind you find in those romantic films that really reach you, emotionally... the kind that you can never accurately describe to anyone who’s never been in love... that kind of connection, where there was the perfect balance of understanding and acceptance for anything not understood. Where anyone on the outside looking in could see it in our actions, our body language, our stolen glances.
...Hmm? Who was she? Judas Priest! Trust me when I say that it doesn’t really matter... except, maybe, to me. ‘She’ is representative of an archetype and therefore ‘her’ identity is coincidental. ‘She’ could’ve easily been replaced by any celebrity du jour or any character from a television show that I’d fallen asleep to while watching.
Besides, I never know who’s reading this these days... Where was I? Right.
At some point, I’m aware that we’re in a ‘first date’ situation, and that it has lasted for nearly 24 hours. We are laying on the grass, watching the sky, our heads together with our bodies pointing in opposite directions. Still talking. Euphoric in that realization that this…THIS ...is what we have been looking for… individually... collectively as humans... this, the essence of sonnets... and that it is mutually reciprocal. I remember nothing specific from any of the conversations, just the general feeling that they were the best I’ve ever had. In reality, I have had moments such as this, felt that connected at some level, and thus I’m able to recognize the rarity & beauty of the situation.
A moment of silence. She reaches over to touch my face, kissing me gently. She then rises and walks into her house, pausing to turn back and smile at me before entering. I walk slowly to the window, somehow already aware of what I will see.
She stands in the living room, in full bridal splendor, with a groom & wedding party & guests. I watch the proceedings for as long as I can before turning away, taking that long walk home. Before waking, my last thought is how beautiful (albeit more traditional than I’d have expected) she looked.
The heavy-handed metaphors and allegories aside, I’m still sorting this all out in my head. Twice now, just thinking about this today has me in a state. I’m wiping tears out of my eyes trying to type this. I’ve been utterly manic today, presumably to combat the overwhelming depressive swing I can feel lurking behind my eyes. Remember... I laugh not because it’s funny, but to keep from screaming.
I don’t know if I’m putting this out there, hoping that someone... anyone... has an answer, or if I’m just doing it just to get it out of my head, or a little bit of both. That last one seems most likely. Dunno... But it’s out there now. Meh... nevermind.
To paraphrase my friend Melissa: “Who needs therapy when you have the Internet?”
...Hmm? Who was she? Judas Priest! Trust me when I say that it doesn’t really matter... except, maybe, to me. ‘She’ is representative of an archetype and therefore ‘her’ identity is coincidental. ‘She’ could’ve easily been replaced by any celebrity du jour or any character from a television show that I’d fallen asleep to while watching.
Besides, I never know who’s reading this these days... Where was I? Right.
At some point, I’m aware that we’re in a ‘first date’ situation, and that it has lasted for nearly 24 hours. We are laying on the grass, watching the sky, our heads together with our bodies pointing in opposite directions. Still talking. Euphoric in that realization that this…THIS ...is what we have been looking for… individually... collectively as humans... this, the essence of sonnets... and that it is mutually reciprocal. I remember nothing specific from any of the conversations, just the general feeling that they were the best I’ve ever had. In reality, I have had moments such as this, felt that connected at some level, and thus I’m able to recognize the rarity & beauty of the situation.
A moment of silence. She reaches over to touch my face, kissing me gently. She then rises and walks into her house, pausing to turn back and smile at me before entering. I walk slowly to the window, somehow already aware of what I will see.
She stands in the living room, in full bridal splendor, with a groom & wedding party & guests. I watch the proceedings for as long as I can before turning away, taking that long walk home. Before waking, my last thought is how beautiful (albeit more traditional than I’d have expected) she looked.
The heavy-handed metaphors and allegories aside, I’m still sorting this all out in my head. Twice now, just thinking about this today has me in a state. I’m wiping tears out of my eyes trying to type this. I’ve been utterly manic today, presumably to combat the overwhelming depressive swing I can feel lurking behind my eyes. Remember... I laugh not because it’s funny, but to keep from screaming.
To paraphrase my friend Melissa: “Who needs therapy when you have the Internet?”
Vol. 0, Issue 18 | Asked and Answered
Via email, a good friend of mine & I caught up with each other, as one tends to do around this time of year. Among the topics of discussion were our lack of journaling over the past year. I mostly dodged the topic, as I never seem to have the time to answer the question as honestly as I'd like. However, her next question got me going, and I was in old form again before I knew it. And all she did was ask:
"How are you?"
I’m... I don’t know. I’m relatively fit. I’m gainfully employed. I’ve an enviable living space. I meet new & (potentially) exciting people every month. I don’t feel like running out into traffic or taking a swan dive off the Fremont Bridge or any such nonsense. I’m not depressed. I’m not manic. It’s just...
I’m not happy. I don’t even feel complacent or content either. I’ve been both of those. Happy and I don’t visit very often, and only in brief encounters, but I still recognize Happy when it comes around. Content I do very well. But this... Whatever this is... This isn’t contentment. This is some sort of cog-in-the-wheel feeling that I recognize (project?) in others that I observe. Which, you’d think, would foster a kinship between me and mine. Sadly, no. The nature of this particular malaise is such that the Self becomes more insulated from the rest of the world. Buzzwords of ‘self-centered’, ‘self-absorbed’, ‘selfish’, etc, etc, are bandied about, as a casual observance of those afflicted. Which, while somewhat true, is not entirely accurate. What’s the cause? I end up wondering. Because I can clearly tell that this is the effects, the symptoms, and not the disease.
It has something to do with the Information Society that we’ve become. Rather, a reaction to the information overload that inundates us hourly. We, as a whole, hit a saturation point some time ago, but are addicted to the feed nonetheless. We can’t handle anymore, yet we can’t see to go without our fix either. There are information programs that discuss how much information we as a society are assaulted with, for Pete’s sake! What about that isn’t a telling sign? Hell, I’m writing this, and I find my own attention waning, wanting the next thing, the fresher piece of intel. Judas. Fucking. Priest.
And is it really surprising then, that many of us have turned inward, trying instinctively to protect the Self? We focus all of our attention into our immediate surroundings, the handful of things which we can influence & control directly. Because that becomes all that matters, all that we can care about. But we are never without the World-at-Large, with our radios and televisions and Internet-connections beaming information into our homes, our supposed sanctuaries. Like the story about the miners in West Virginia. Sure the miners’ deaths are tragic. But tragedies happen all the time. The difference is that now we know about them, and that crushes us. And our inability to do anything about them makes us feel more and more ineffectual as people, so we do little tiny things instead... Things that we can do something about. And in the process, we become obsessed with what we can do, so that it is the only thing we can discuss. Another defense against additional information reaching us.
Think about it. How many conversations have you had recently where none of the people involved were really listening to the others? I’m not talking about people who have always been inherently self-absorbed. (They, I think, are ahead of the game this round.) I mean the people you’ve known for awhile, whose behavior has become similar to what I’m describing over a period of time. I’ve seen it in myself. I’ve seen it in my friends. Friends that I’d never (and don’t now) categorize as ‘selfish’ or ‘self-absorbed’. It’s just become the necessary adaptation to dealing with too much information.
It’s not as though it’s all useful information either. It’s just a steady stream into our heads, leaving us no time nor space in our heads to process or utilize most of it effectually. Instead, it distracts us, shortens our attention spans, fosters that feeling of forgetfulness (of which I’m particularly afflicted), and makes it all the easier for those in power to remain in power as we wander around perpetually distracted in the New Ignorance. And that thought, whenever I manage to hold onto it, is the one that reminds me to be angry. To be vigilant. To adapt in a different way than curling up into myself. But, unfortunately, I can never hold on to it for long. And I return to my cog-like, status quo existence.
Or maybe everyone else is right: maybe I just need a girlfriend. Meh...
There’s my answer. Or rant. Same thing these days anyway.
"How are you?"
I’m... I don’t know. I’m relatively fit. I’m gainfully employed. I’ve an enviable living space. I meet new & (potentially) exciting people every month. I don’t feel like running out into traffic or taking a swan dive off the Fremont Bridge or any such nonsense. I’m not depressed. I’m not manic. It’s just...
I’m not happy. I don’t even feel complacent or content either. I’ve been both of those. Happy and I don’t visit very often, and only in brief encounters, but I still recognize Happy when it comes around. Content I do very well. But this... Whatever this is... This isn’t contentment. This is some sort of cog-in-the-wheel feeling that I recognize (project?) in others that I observe. Which, you’d think, would foster a kinship between me and mine. Sadly, no. The nature of this particular malaise is such that the Self becomes more insulated from the rest of the world. Buzzwords of ‘self-centered’, ‘self-absorbed’, ‘selfish’, etc, etc, are bandied about, as a casual observance of those afflicted. Which, while somewhat true, is not entirely accurate. What’s the cause? I end up wondering. Because I can clearly tell that this is the effects, the symptoms, and not the disease.
It has something to do with the Information Society that we’ve become. Rather, a reaction to the information overload that inundates us hourly. We, as a whole, hit a saturation point some time ago, but are addicted to the feed nonetheless. We can’t handle anymore, yet we can’t see to go without our fix either. There are information programs that discuss how much information we as a society are assaulted with, for Pete’s sake! What about that isn’t a telling sign? Hell, I’m writing this, and I find my own attention waning, wanting the next thing, the fresher piece of intel. Judas. Fucking. Priest.
And is it really surprising then, that many of us have turned inward, trying instinctively to protect the Self? We focus all of our attention into our immediate surroundings, the handful of things which we can influence & control directly. Because that becomes all that matters, all that we can care about. But we are never without the World-at-Large, with our radios and televisions and Internet-connections beaming information into our homes, our supposed sanctuaries. Like the story about the miners in West Virginia. Sure the miners’ deaths are tragic. But tragedies happen all the time. The difference is that now we know about them, and that crushes us. And our inability to do anything about them makes us feel more and more ineffectual as people, so we do little tiny things instead... Things that we can do something about. And in the process, we become obsessed with what we can do, so that it is the only thing we can discuss. Another defense against additional information reaching us.
Think about it. How many conversations have you had recently where none of the people involved were really listening to the others? I’m not talking about people who have always been inherently self-absorbed. (They, I think, are ahead of the game this round.) I mean the people you’ve known for awhile, whose behavior has become similar to what I’m describing over a period of time. I’ve seen it in myself. I’ve seen it in my friends. Friends that I’d never (and don’t now) categorize as ‘selfish’ or ‘self-absorbed’. It’s just become the necessary adaptation to dealing with too much information.
It’s not as though it’s all useful information either. It’s just a steady stream into our heads, leaving us no time nor space in our heads to process or utilize most of it effectually. Instead, it distracts us, shortens our attention spans, fosters that feeling of forgetfulness (of which I’m particularly afflicted), and makes it all the easier for those in power to remain in power as we wander around perpetually distracted in the New Ignorance. And that thought, whenever I manage to hold onto it, is the one that reminds me to be angry. To be vigilant. To adapt in a different way than curling up into myself. But, unfortunately, I can never hold on to it for long. And I return to my cog-like, status quo existence.
Or maybe everyone else is right: maybe I just need a girlfriend. Meh...
There’s my answer. Or rant. Same thing these days anyway.
11 January 2009
Vol. 0, Issue 14 | Post-Election Night 2004
I can't trust you people with anything anymore, can I.
Vol. 0, Issue 12 | re:Volution
[originally written 03 Sept 2004, 11:13am]
As much as I bitch about the state of the nation, and the world at large, there are reasons why I'm not openly inciting armed revolution. And it's not because of any legal or moral or whathaveyou reasons. The reason is, I'm only Chaos. I'm not Order. As I have been told by someone who's counsel I trust, it is irresponsible to initiate and follow-through with a revolution if you don't have anything to replace the old and corrupt system that you're overthrowing. If you do, then you run the risk of killing or causing the suffering of those whom would truly benefit from such a revolution. I only have the drive and initiative and know-how for the first part. The Chaos. I am not the Order.
That's why I need you. All of you. Somewhere, amongst your collective consciousness, are the answers that I seek. The ideas, notions, theories and know-how to recreate our society into something we can again be proud to be a part of. It won't be perfect, but less corrupt would be a huge improvement.
Get your plans together, and your forces in place. You can remake the future. You can create the world that you want. When your ready, I'll destroy the one we have to make room. Promise. Just give me the word.
Another round of Molotov Cocktails, on me.
As much as I bitch about the state of the nation, and the world at large, there are reasons why I'm not openly inciting armed revolution. And it's not because of any legal or moral or whathaveyou reasons. The reason is, I'm only Chaos. I'm not Order. As I have been told by someone who's counsel I trust, it is irresponsible to initiate and follow-through with a revolution if you don't have anything to replace the old and corrupt system that you're overthrowing. If you do, then you run the risk of killing or causing the suffering of those whom would truly benefit from such a revolution. I only have the drive and initiative and know-how for the first part. The Chaos. I am not the Order.
That's why I need you. All of you. Somewhere, amongst your collective consciousness, are the answers that I seek. The ideas, notions, theories and know-how to recreate our society into something we can again be proud to be a part of. It won't be perfect, but less corrupt would be a huge improvement.
Get your plans together, and your forces in place. You can remake the future. You can create the world that you want. When your ready, I'll destroy the one we have to make room. Promise. Just give me the word.
Another round of Molotov Cocktails, on me.
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