I've been mulling over doing what I really want to accomplish with my life and as usual have reached the standard conclusion: dedicating myself to writing. I'm very tired so this will probably be short. One of the concerns I naturally have about writing is that most people don't read and that the novel isn't a modern vehicle.
I don't mean to imply that I think that our other options are superior but that society as a whole spends most of its leisure time doing things other than reading. I'm sure this comes as a revelation. The whole issue of medium is sort of moot for me. I have no interest in writing something that I think is great only to see a lousy director or cast turn it into a radically different story. There are great TV series and great movies but when I think of the stories I want to tell I don't see them in pictures or as seasons, I see it as a book. I'm sure this partially has to do with the obscene amount of reading I did as a child and it being a much much better distraction from my at the time unpleasant reality than a movie or tv show could have ever been.
Much better writers than I have spent a great deal of energy explaining the advantages of the novel, and more talented (but also less hopeful) writers have felt heart-wrenching hopelessness for their literary endeavors(Jonathan Franzen for example)... I apologize I was looking for a nice quote from Franzen and started to get sucked into the abyss of an essay that is "Why Bother." He makes valid points and is very convincing about the death of the novel as our primary means of conversation, but he also easily captures the primary difference between a book and these other forms of media. The plot of a book takes place within the reader's imagination, there is nothing separating him or her from it.
Plus, I'm not entirely sure that there are less people reading today. We certainly spend less time reading but there are many more people today, what was a best seller in the 1940s would not be a best seller today. Regardless, yesterday I woke up in a sort of bleak mood. I had a couple realizations about lies I had been telling myself and wasn't quite sure where to go from there. I did my best to cut those pipe dreams off but I didn't account for them being my supports. The night before I had gone through quite a bit of old e-mails and old bits of writing. I was struck by how angry I was and also by how blind to guidance I could be. I read very direct e-mails with very clear advice to me that I completely ignored. I was younger but I'm still a bit shocked to see a fossil-record of my arrogance. I was completely cut off from my feelings and could easily ignore anyone whose flaws were apparent. I idealized everyone else.
I woke up feeling pretty uncertain about what I should be doing. Beneath my regret I saw some choice phrases and felt proud of myself too. One line I really liked was: "That simple night was worth the money it cost me, and the cold crying nights I spent alone in broken houses." Amongst these old e-mails was a list of residency programs from my friend Rick. Some of the deadlines are in two days, but others aren't until January. I am going to write something and submit it to as many January deadline residencies as I can find. I decided that, then as I looked over each programs' list of immensely talented authors. Well, I considered it, but I was still doubting this whole idea. I don't think that doubt is going anywhere. Deciding that you have something important enough to say is a pretty bold act on its own, but then you've got to dedicate years into refining and polishing whatever that is into some sort of cohesive narrative. It's impossibly daunting. Add to that the possibility or reality that most people just don't care and I think you have a good idea of what I was feeling at that moment.
So I drove to get my oil changed and brought the Brothers Karamazov with me. The man who set my appointment is there and he asks "What are you reading?"
"Oh, The Brothers Karamazov. I'm finishing it this time."
"It can be challenging but it is really worth it. I prefer it to Crime and Punishment."
He continued to tell me how the book was better in Russian but that he thought Pevear and Volokhonsky did the best English translation, and how happy he was to see a young person reading. I sat down in the empty business section, as far from the daytime soap opera playing on the television and happily opened the book while daydreaming about really writing a novel.
I am not a person who believes in fate but that day that man had a huge impact on me and his simple, polite question pushed me towards something that has been a desire I've been reluctant to acknowledge let alone grasp.
Earlier today an old friend linked me to this poem by our mutual friend's father who is a brilliant and successful musician. Dt had a brain tumor in the early nineties but it was removed and his skull was sealed shut with a metal plate. He continues to make amazing music and function at a level far beyond most people. Here's what he has to say:
very brief,
against the impossible
spun & spinning depths
of aeons & aeons & aeons of time.
play hard; play well; play forthrightly;
play as if it's the last chance
to chirrup like the smallest cricket
does for a single moment,
its particle of song
winking in, winking out,
the bulb just pops once
on this less-than-a-summer's-night
in our horizonless valley of cloud.
professional, student, teacher, hobbyist, whatever:
not one of us is guaranteed another tomorrow,
& every yesterday becomes
shadowier, unrealer
as it dissolves with & merges into
the intangibility of no-history,
no-traces.
play forthrightly; play well; play hard.
and,
enjoy the visit as ya can.
Good night.
Sep 29, 2009
Sep 28, 2009
What living in Poughkeepsie was like during bird season
In my first year of college I lived across the river from New Paltz in Poughkeepsie. Poughkeepsie once had the highest GDP in New York. It also has more recently had the highest murder rate. After IBM downsized majorly the city sort of fell apart. There are parts that are really nice but it isn't exactly somewhere you would want to raise a family. This being the situation rent is cheap and I moved into a nice studio with hardwood floors. I lived a couple blocks away from my good friend. We were probably the only white people in the neighborhood by choice.
My friend Dan lived across the street from a corner store. Due to the convenience we'd often stop by for food. It took the owner awhile to realize that Dan in fact lived there, but as soon as he did the owner said "You know to lock your doors right? Don't walk around outside a lot okay? This is a bad neighborhood." This was a bit shocking because we're fairly certain the business was used to launder money. The owner drove to work in a new Mercedes but the store was almost always empty.
A couple months later I stopped by that store while Dan was finishing a paper. A young thug was buying cigarettes at the counter while I tried to choose between Cheese Doodlez and Cape Cod chips. I hear a loud "What up son?" and turn around to see another man come in pulling out a pistol and saying "Bang bang you dead motherfucker."
Neither the store clerk or the customer react. The young thug says "Nah, dawg I got my vest," and pulls his hoodie up to show that in fact he is wearing a bullet-proof vest. Welcome to the neighborhood.
Most of the area was pretty urban but there were trees scattered through the cityscape. I unfortunately lived near several tall oak trees. At first you might think that would be desirable but you would be terribly mistaken. I'm not sure where the birds came from but they decided that for a couple wonderful weeks they would be my new neighbors. I shared my street with people who had no qualms about putting a car on blocks and taking the wheels, but these new neighbors were a much bigger problem.
My car was parked outside in a small lot for the apartment building. The tree branches hung above every possible parking space. This wouldn't be a problem if it weren't for two to three hundred birds living in those trees. The birds were sources of two unpleasant things, noise and shit. Every morning they would wake up at 6 and fight as loud as possible. This went on for two or three days until one morning while I rustled around in my bed attempting and failing to fall back asleep I heard, "Yo you bitches need to shut up. I ain't playing no more."
Like a good Irish boy I looked out my window and saw one of my neighbors pull a pistol out and shoot into the air. A couple seconds later a bird fell to the ground. The others grew quiet and I went right back to sleep. The next day they acted as if nothing had happened and I think my neighbor realized his strategy wasn't cost-effective.
Speaking of cost-effective strategies I needed to find one for the bird shit. Everyday I spent ten minutes scraping off my windows so I could safely drive. Initially I thought I could wait them out, but the shit accumulated too quickly. The roof was the worst but somehow they would always manage to hit my door handles and windows. There was a lot a couple blocks away that I could park in and did occasionally but given the neighborhood I thought it was worth the car-washes and extra time spent with an ice-scraper. The first car wash I purchased was wasted quickly, before the day was over I could hardly tell the difference so I started to shop around for the best car wash deal in Poughkeepsie.
I'm not a clean freak or anything but I maintain a certain standard of cleanliness and this battle with the birds became a bit of an obsession for me. I found a car wash on the commercial strip of Poughkeepsie that had an unlimited car wash policy. The idea was that if your car got really dirty the same day they washed it they would wash it again for free. I have no idea who came up with this concept, maybe they thought I would be purchasing snacks every time I washed my car. I'm not sure. The worst part of the car washing was that I knew every guy who had any part of washing my god-forsaken car would be miserable. If it weren't for my defeated expression I would expect them to think I was pulling some sort of prank on them, but I wasn't, this was my life for a couple of special weeks in October.
The first time I went to the perfect car wash place for my needs with its unlimited washes per day guarantee the man washing my car looked at me with a look of horror but managed not to say anything as he struggled to reveal the true color of my car. When I came back that afternoon he was no longer quite as patient. As he saw me drive up he said, "What the fuck? What the fuck is happening to your car? Where are you parking, who is doing this to you?"
He sounded like he was about to lose his mind. I could tell since I was half-way there. "I'm sorry man. It's these birds. They're outside and they won't leave. All they do is shit all day and fight. I can't take it anymore." He nodded and started cleaning my car again. I imagine that morning he had thought, well after this car everything is going to be downhill, no other car is going to be as filthy as this, and in a sense he was right. I doubt anyone else came in with a dirtier car, but he didn't account for the possibility of me coming back that very day. At least he got paid the first time!
Eventually the birds left and allowed me to start sleeping regularly but more importantly I could finally stop getting my car washed 3-4 times a week. I'm really happy that guy shot one of them though.
My friend Dan lived across the street from a corner store. Due to the convenience we'd often stop by for food. It took the owner awhile to realize that Dan in fact lived there, but as soon as he did the owner said "You know to lock your doors right? Don't walk around outside a lot okay? This is a bad neighborhood." This was a bit shocking because we're fairly certain the business was used to launder money. The owner drove to work in a new Mercedes but the store was almost always empty.
A couple months later I stopped by that store while Dan was finishing a paper. A young thug was buying cigarettes at the counter while I tried to choose between Cheese Doodlez and Cape Cod chips. I hear a loud "What up son?" and turn around to see another man come in pulling out a pistol and saying "Bang bang you dead motherfucker."
Neither the store clerk or the customer react. The young thug says "Nah, dawg I got my vest," and pulls his hoodie up to show that in fact he is wearing a bullet-proof vest. Welcome to the neighborhood.
Most of the area was pretty urban but there were trees scattered through the cityscape. I unfortunately lived near several tall oak trees. At first you might think that would be desirable but you would be terribly mistaken. I'm not sure where the birds came from but they decided that for a couple wonderful weeks they would be my new neighbors. I shared my street with people who had no qualms about putting a car on blocks and taking the wheels, but these new neighbors were a much bigger problem.
My car was parked outside in a small lot for the apartment building. The tree branches hung above every possible parking space. This wouldn't be a problem if it weren't for two to three hundred birds living in those trees. The birds were sources of two unpleasant things, noise and shit. Every morning they would wake up at 6 and fight as loud as possible. This went on for two or three days until one morning while I rustled around in my bed attempting and failing to fall back asleep I heard, "Yo you bitches need to shut up. I ain't playing no more."
Like a good Irish boy I looked out my window and saw one of my neighbors pull a pistol out and shoot into the air. A couple seconds later a bird fell to the ground. The others grew quiet and I went right back to sleep. The next day they acted as if nothing had happened and I think my neighbor realized his strategy wasn't cost-effective.
Speaking of cost-effective strategies I needed to find one for the bird shit. Everyday I spent ten minutes scraping off my windows so I could safely drive. Initially I thought I could wait them out, but the shit accumulated too quickly. The roof was the worst but somehow they would always manage to hit my door handles and windows. There was a lot a couple blocks away that I could park in and did occasionally but given the neighborhood I thought it was worth the car-washes and extra time spent with an ice-scraper. The first car wash I purchased was wasted quickly, before the day was over I could hardly tell the difference so I started to shop around for the best car wash deal in Poughkeepsie.
I'm not a clean freak or anything but I maintain a certain standard of cleanliness and this battle with the birds became a bit of an obsession for me. I found a car wash on the commercial strip of Poughkeepsie that had an unlimited car wash policy. The idea was that if your car got really dirty the same day they washed it they would wash it again for free. I have no idea who came up with this concept, maybe they thought I would be purchasing snacks every time I washed my car. I'm not sure. The worst part of the car washing was that I knew every guy who had any part of washing my god-forsaken car would be miserable. If it weren't for my defeated expression I would expect them to think I was pulling some sort of prank on them, but I wasn't, this was my life for a couple of special weeks in October.
The first time I went to the perfect car wash place for my needs with its unlimited washes per day guarantee the man washing my car looked at me with a look of horror but managed not to say anything as he struggled to reveal the true color of my car. When I came back that afternoon he was no longer quite as patient. As he saw me drive up he said, "What the fuck? What the fuck is happening to your car? Where are you parking, who is doing this to you?"
He sounded like he was about to lose his mind. I could tell since I was half-way there. "I'm sorry man. It's these birds. They're outside and they won't leave. All they do is shit all day and fight. I can't take it anymore." He nodded and started cleaning my car again. I imagine that morning he had thought, well after this car everything is going to be downhill, no other car is going to be as filthy as this, and in a sense he was right. I doubt anyone else came in with a dirtier car, but he didn't account for the possibility of me coming back that very day. At least he got paid the first time!
Eventually the birds left and allowed me to start sleeping regularly but more importantly I could finally stop getting my car washed 3-4 times a week. I'm really happy that guy shot one of them though.
Sep 27, 2009
The Milstream
All my life whenever something really has troubled me or upset me I've gone to the same place. Somewhat deep in the woods behind a house I lived in a long time ago there is a stream. Its in Woodstock, past the Cuomo property and a couple miles upriver. We lived in that house when I was five after we had moved out of the tipi. I met Ayman and Aliya who were my best friends there, they lived below us and we spent hours of our lives playing Castlevania or Wizards and Warriors. Many snow days spent entirely staring at a television and mashing our thumbs frantically. When there wasn't snow on the ground we cut down saplings and made make-believe swords engraved with our initials.
Anytime I've peaked into the backyard of that house I am struck by how small everything is. As a young boy that backyard and the small thicket of woods behind it was a rich exciting world. Today I can see far past where I was allowed to explore as a kid. I remember walking along the frozen ice of the small stream in the winter. Anyways, back to where I go and why. Behind that small patch of woods there is a huge field, that extends far past our neighborhood to a place we called sled hill. I spent days in that field throwing boomerangs or wandering around looking up at the bright stars with my dad. Anytime there was a decent snowfall sled hill would be packed with everyone from the town.
Behind that large field was a soccer field where I started and finished my soccer career. At the age of six I was completely disgusted by parents yelling and screaming at us to kick a black and white ball in opposite directions on a field. I remember walking off in the middle of a game. I just didn't see the point. We had no idea what we were doing and the adults cared more than anyone on that field. Bordering the edges of that field was a thick forest. Paths led deeper into the woods toward the stream, along the way there were massive uprooted trees - which makes me think of my family covering ourselves with clay and posing in front of a massive tree's roots and my mom taking photographs. Eventually the path reaches the water but there is a steep drop and no safe way to get down to the rocks bordering the stream, there it splits in two and one can travel either to the right, upstream, or to the left, downstream. To find the particular place I prefer you take a right.
The forest floor is perennially covered in old pine needles. The path mostly follows the stream but draws closer and further from it occasionally. After awhile there is a tree that fell across the pathway. Someone cut a large section out of the middle and made each end of the tree into chairs for people to rest in. These makeshift seats are covered in carved initials of ancient young couples. The chair on the right side of the path is broken, its right armrest is missing. This landmark signals that soon it will be time to head to the riverbed. The river or stream itself is about twenty to thirty feet wide but not very deep. This of course depends on the rainfall. Sometimes I have visited only to find water dribbling between rocks. The stream itself is ancient. There are beautiful portions of the rock where the water has carved out pathways that run along the surface of these elevated portions of the riverbed. Small waterfalls appear here and there, or whirlpools where the water circles briefly before passing further downstream.
Generally here I would make my way further upstream balancing on rocks or walking along the trunk of fallen trees. I love the feeling of focus and calm as I try to jump from small rock to larger stone to the pebbles of the other side of the river. Sometimes I have to double back, but it reminds me of my fascination with mazes and labyrinths that I also had as a child. I would spend days navigating through the most complex labyrinths and then hours designing as intricate and massive a maze as I could painstakingly create. I think the reassuring thing about mazes is we know there is a way out.
I usually make my way upstream by crossing to the side most conducive for travel and keep my path on the stones of the river. The sound and smell of the water are really important to me. Moving water has always soothed me. After some time I reach where I think our swimming hole was. When I was young my parents made a small dam to trap water in a deeper portion of the river where the water ran slower. We would build rock sculptures and swim in the hot summer days. It always felt like my family was okay there. The water is cool and slightly green from the moss covering the stones underneath it. It is on the far side of the stream. I'm never positive if I've found the right spot but I don't fixate on it too much. A lot has changed over time, but the water is the same for the most part, and I walked on these very rocks long ago to find wherever our swimming hole might have been.
In my mental map of the river further up and on the side close to the path is where we released my father's ashes into the stream. I'm not sure if it was my mom or aunt's idea to bring him here but whoever thought of it, their reasoning was that this was somewhere that David (my father) had always been happy. Nature always seemed to help him fight his addiction. So after his funeral we had made our way here together, my sister, my mom, my dad's sister Robin and her husband Roger. The funeral was terrible. None of my father's true friends said a word about him. Everyone who was left had been stolen from and betrayed too many times to trust themselves to say only good. I had been estranged from him for three years when I found out he had overdosed and died. I thought about saying something but I couldn't. I didn't know what to say. I hated him for what he had done, and I hated him for leaving without fixing it. So instead of eulogies from people who knew him we had anecdotes from people who knew him as some sort of town character. I listened to how my dad had apparently always been reading and riding his bike through town with a smile on his face. Or how he was such a kind man. The truth was these people had no idea who my father was or what he was capable of. In all likelihood he didn't even like them.
My dad was always great with one or two people but anytime there was a party he was off alone. Maybe it was because he couldn't drink since my mom was watching but he never was gregarious. It also seemed very unlikely that all of these people had only seen my father do good things. He was an angry, violent drunk. He also was a heroin addict. The funeral was either an outright lie or a bunch of mindless strangers talking about someone they had made an acquaintance of. Being there was terrifying for me. I wondered what my funeral would look like and whether anyone would really be able to say anything true and wonderful about me, or if I would be alone with silent lost friends and vocal strangers. Or would anyone even be there? I didn't cry or feel like anything was resolved. There wasn't any release. I watched his girlfriend cry without any sympathy. She knew why we left him and yet she chose to love someone who was killing themselves.
Back to the ashes. I don't remember what we said but Emma, my Mom, Robin, Roger, and I all said something about my dad. For the first time in a long time I cried about him and felt relief. I was surprised by how much ash there was. It was stuck together and sealed in large plastic bags. We spread his ashes and left. All of the anger and disappointment I felt at his funeral was washed away. I felt like we had done exactly what he would have wanted and that for once we didn't have to worry about him.
I came back to that stream when I found out my girlfriend had cheated on me, I came back when I felt like I had failed and had no idea where to go, and every time I left feeling a bit better. Its a really special place to me but I have never shared it with anyone. I've had people who I technically could have shared it with but I've never brought anyone there. Maybe it is trust, but I also have felt an urge to bring someone important there, almost as though visiting this place would reveal something about me.
Anytime I've peaked into the backyard of that house I am struck by how small everything is. As a young boy that backyard and the small thicket of woods behind it was a rich exciting world. Today I can see far past where I was allowed to explore as a kid. I remember walking along the frozen ice of the small stream in the winter. Anyways, back to where I go and why. Behind that small patch of woods there is a huge field, that extends far past our neighborhood to a place we called sled hill. I spent days in that field throwing boomerangs or wandering around looking up at the bright stars with my dad. Anytime there was a decent snowfall sled hill would be packed with everyone from the town.
Behind that large field was a soccer field where I started and finished my soccer career. At the age of six I was completely disgusted by parents yelling and screaming at us to kick a black and white ball in opposite directions on a field. I remember walking off in the middle of a game. I just didn't see the point. We had no idea what we were doing and the adults cared more than anyone on that field. Bordering the edges of that field was a thick forest. Paths led deeper into the woods toward the stream, along the way there were massive uprooted trees - which makes me think of my family covering ourselves with clay and posing in front of a massive tree's roots and my mom taking photographs. Eventually the path reaches the water but there is a steep drop and no safe way to get down to the rocks bordering the stream, there it splits in two and one can travel either to the right, upstream, or to the left, downstream. To find the particular place I prefer you take a right.
The forest floor is perennially covered in old pine needles. The path mostly follows the stream but draws closer and further from it occasionally. After awhile there is a tree that fell across the pathway. Someone cut a large section out of the middle and made each end of the tree into chairs for people to rest in. These makeshift seats are covered in carved initials of ancient young couples. The chair on the right side of the path is broken, its right armrest is missing. This landmark signals that soon it will be time to head to the riverbed. The river or stream itself is about twenty to thirty feet wide but not very deep. This of course depends on the rainfall. Sometimes I have visited only to find water dribbling between rocks. The stream itself is ancient. There are beautiful portions of the rock where the water has carved out pathways that run along the surface of these elevated portions of the riverbed. Small waterfalls appear here and there, or whirlpools where the water circles briefly before passing further downstream.
Generally here I would make my way further upstream balancing on rocks or walking along the trunk of fallen trees. I love the feeling of focus and calm as I try to jump from small rock to larger stone to the pebbles of the other side of the river. Sometimes I have to double back, but it reminds me of my fascination with mazes and labyrinths that I also had as a child. I would spend days navigating through the most complex labyrinths and then hours designing as intricate and massive a maze as I could painstakingly create. I think the reassuring thing about mazes is we know there is a way out.
I usually make my way upstream by crossing to the side most conducive for travel and keep my path on the stones of the river. The sound and smell of the water are really important to me. Moving water has always soothed me. After some time I reach where I think our swimming hole was. When I was young my parents made a small dam to trap water in a deeper portion of the river where the water ran slower. We would build rock sculptures and swim in the hot summer days. It always felt like my family was okay there. The water is cool and slightly green from the moss covering the stones underneath it. It is on the far side of the stream. I'm never positive if I've found the right spot but I don't fixate on it too much. A lot has changed over time, but the water is the same for the most part, and I walked on these very rocks long ago to find wherever our swimming hole might have been.
In my mental map of the river further up and on the side close to the path is where we released my father's ashes into the stream. I'm not sure if it was my mom or aunt's idea to bring him here but whoever thought of it, their reasoning was that this was somewhere that David (my father) had always been happy. Nature always seemed to help him fight his addiction. So after his funeral we had made our way here together, my sister, my mom, my dad's sister Robin and her husband Roger. The funeral was terrible. None of my father's true friends said a word about him. Everyone who was left had been stolen from and betrayed too many times to trust themselves to say only good. I had been estranged from him for three years when I found out he had overdosed and died. I thought about saying something but I couldn't. I didn't know what to say. I hated him for what he had done, and I hated him for leaving without fixing it. So instead of eulogies from people who knew him we had anecdotes from people who knew him as some sort of town character. I listened to how my dad had apparently always been reading and riding his bike through town with a smile on his face. Or how he was such a kind man. The truth was these people had no idea who my father was or what he was capable of. In all likelihood he didn't even like them.
My dad was always great with one or two people but anytime there was a party he was off alone. Maybe it was because he couldn't drink since my mom was watching but he never was gregarious. It also seemed very unlikely that all of these people had only seen my father do good things. He was an angry, violent drunk. He also was a heroin addict. The funeral was either an outright lie or a bunch of mindless strangers talking about someone they had made an acquaintance of. Being there was terrifying for me. I wondered what my funeral would look like and whether anyone would really be able to say anything true and wonderful about me, or if I would be alone with silent lost friends and vocal strangers. Or would anyone even be there? I didn't cry or feel like anything was resolved. There wasn't any release. I watched his girlfriend cry without any sympathy. She knew why we left him and yet she chose to love someone who was killing themselves.
Back to the ashes. I don't remember what we said but Emma, my Mom, Robin, Roger, and I all said something about my dad. For the first time in a long time I cried about him and felt relief. I was surprised by how much ash there was. It was stuck together and sealed in large plastic bags. We spread his ashes and left. All of the anger and disappointment I felt at his funeral was washed away. I felt like we had done exactly what he would have wanted and that for once we didn't have to worry about him.
I came back to that stream when I found out my girlfriend had cheated on me, I came back when I felt like I had failed and had no idea where to go, and every time I left feeling a bit better. Its a really special place to me but I have never shared it with anyone. I've had people who I technically could have shared it with but I've never brought anyone there. Maybe it is trust, but I also have felt an urge to bring someone important there, almost as though visiting this place would reveal something about me.
Four or Five years ago
I wrote this.. Has some interesting snippets from my life and it was informative to see how I used to write.
My father and I are playing Frisbee. It’s the only “sport” he’ll play with me. He loves it. His eyes light up while they focus upon the Frisbee as it nears his hands. He encourages me as I make a somewhat impressive catch. We’re playing in front of the library in Woodstock. The grass has been cut recently, spring is just starting. He’s almost fully absorbed by our game of Frisbee. A regular father would probably be somewhat distracted by the bills, or possibly whatever work he has to do tomorrow. My father isn’t pre-occupied with such bullshit. He knows what’s important; he’s planning for his next fix. He’s an addict. To the untrained eye, Dad appears to be the best father a boy could have. He loves the hell out of me. He always pays attention to me. He’s actually cool. He doesn’t sit around complaining about this “new” music, instead he sits down and enjoys it. He loves Frisbee, me, my mother, my sister, movies, books, music, and drums. I forgot one thing. Heroin. He over-dosed twice in my presence, at twelve and then fourteen. I think in total he overdosed at least ten times—eventually dying when I was nineteen. I hadn’t had any real contact with him since I was fourteen. I couldn’t see the point. I mean he loved me, but we didn’t have him, something else did. People were surprised by my cold reaction to his death. I cried sure, but that was only because I could finally express my love for him—it was safe finally. Before he died, if I loved him I thought that would mean that I would make him a part of my life. So instead I hated him. It was the only practical solution. Strangers would tell me “I am so sorry for your loss.”
And I would think, “What loss? I never even had him.” So for the first time in my life I am coping with real loss.
Aside from my relationship with my mother only one girlfriend of mine has ever shown me that sort of love. I had her. I don’t mean in the possession sort of way, I mean she loved me. Completely. She and I are in my car, a Buick Park Avenue with blood red interior, at the gas station. It’s our typical meeting place. We live about an hour apart, and we share the burden as equitably as possible—since her old Saab is theoretically incapable of such a great distance of travel. It’s raining: water pouring out of the sky, pouring like god is trying to drown us, again. She lights up another cigarette and complains about the broken passenger window. Her first puff of smoke is always so practiced and precise, just totally fake. It looks like an actress in an old black and white, those elegant women couldn’t pull it off and here time and time again she tries to do it, tries to look cultured right after she has complained about the stupid fucking piece of shit or some other equally charming description. Plus I haven’t eaten yet. When I’m hungry smoke nauseates me, otherwise it’s not a problem. So I get out of the car and walk under the canopy, safe from the rain, into the gas station. The fluorescent lighting is blindingly white, holy heroin colored, I pay the attendant quickly, slightly disturbed by the sterilized environment and walk back out to my car. She’s looking at me sweetly as I open the door. Then she has that look. No, not that look, it’s the, I have to talk to you about something look. We share everything like best friends, so if something isn’t shared it’s usually a bad idea. Only one seat belt plug works in the front of my car, so as we’re automatically jury-rigging ourselves into our seat belts she says as smoke escapes leisurely from her mouth, “I think I’m going to do mushrooms again with Rachel and Marissa.”
I respond quickly, lying, “Yeah, I have to do heroin at least once before I die.” The plan is innocent enough. I’m a selfish man. If instead of challenging her about it I escalate the situation then perhaps she’ll rethink her plan. I look at her and her eyes are shimmering with tears, her eyebrows are raised, and her mouth is half open. It’s a dopey, hurt, questioning look.
“Why would you want to do that?”
“To prove that I’m better than him.”
“But you know you’re better than him. I do.”
“So I know what could be more important than me to my father.”
She looks at me, like a pet just betrayed by it’s owner, and I cave. “I promise you I won’t do it.”
She says, “Don’t do it for me, do it for you.”
“Okay, whatever.”
And we drive off in the rain, her satisfied and enjoying her cigarette, me contemplating heroin use. It was a cheap trick but it worked. I couldn’t help it. I was worried about her. She is a dreamer, I guess like all girls. Girls used to impress me with their ability to dream in detail. To dream the color of their true loves eyes, tone of skin, brightness of smile. It’s a pretty standard dream but for a time it impressed me. Girls are taught to dream about these things. I don’t think boys are. I think we’re taught to nurture dreams of success or a job or something. I don’t know, it’s not like I *had* a dad. She dreamt about falling in love, and it working out. You know, love for real. Dreams are a vital component for addiction. Someplace better has to be imagined in order for a person to become so thoroughly dissatisfied with here. The true dreamer creates their own world, but the casual dreamer remains somewhere in-between and therefore vulnerable to addiction. I wasn’t aware that she was infected with other pre-made dreams. Dreams about college that I’m sure accelerated my loss.
I didn’t think she was dissatisfied with me, but the world was surely a source of dissatisfaction for her. She hated it, and I loved her for it. She didn’t ground me, she encouraged me to run with my madness. Since she was unhappy with the world I worried about her and drugs. She had a bad history with alcohol, her dad died driving drunk, and she drank habitually throughout what would now be called middleschool. I must emphasize my dangerous attraction to unhappy people. I wrongly associate an unhappy disposition with a person who sees the world as I do. I see so much potential squandered, and it drives me crazy. It’s not about my personal situation it’s about the way things are—but for some people nothing is enough.
Some people might say, “What if your family loved your father more?” Or maybe “What if you loved her more?” In my loneliness and solitude I am plagued by post-midnight anxiety and insecurities leaving me vulnerable to these kinds of questions that haunt me—but during the light of day, which warms my soul and summons my senses I know better. I know how little a difference more love would’ve made, such an awful truth. With my father it might have meant a couple more years of pain. With my lover it might have meant a couple more months of tip-toeing around. In neither case would a great change take place. I’m starting to think maybe I didn’t have her after all. For both of them nothing was ever enough. I still hope for her, but I’m through saving people. “Jesus Christ tried to save everyone, look what they did to him. They killed the poor bastard.”—Henry Miller, The Rosy Crucifixion. Sometimes I get caught up in worrying about the world, bogged down in it, but then I rediscover the beauty of the world, the enormity of sensation as my lips touch lips or skin or much desired food, the overwhelming beauty of the landscape assaulting my eyes, the texture of it all—and I forget about her. I stop second-guessing myself about her beauty and charm and realize that I was for once seeing clearly—and now I need to see everything clearly, not just her. Once I do that I won’t miss her so much.
My father and I are playing Frisbee. It’s the only “sport” he’ll play with me. He loves it. His eyes light up while they focus upon the Frisbee as it nears his hands. He encourages me as I make a somewhat impressive catch. We’re playing in front of the library in Woodstock. The grass has been cut recently, spring is just starting. He’s almost fully absorbed by our game of Frisbee. A regular father would probably be somewhat distracted by the bills, or possibly whatever work he has to do tomorrow. My father isn’t pre-occupied with such bullshit. He knows what’s important; he’s planning for his next fix. He’s an addict. To the untrained eye, Dad appears to be the best father a boy could have. He loves the hell out of me. He always pays attention to me. He’s actually cool. He doesn’t sit around complaining about this “new” music, instead he sits down and enjoys it. He loves Frisbee, me, my mother, my sister, movies, books, music, and drums. I forgot one thing. Heroin. He over-dosed twice in my presence, at twelve and then fourteen. I think in total he overdosed at least ten times—eventually dying when I was nineteen. I hadn’t had any real contact with him since I was fourteen. I couldn’t see the point. I mean he loved me, but we didn’t have him, something else did. People were surprised by my cold reaction to his death. I cried sure, but that was only because I could finally express my love for him—it was safe finally. Before he died, if I loved him I thought that would mean that I would make him a part of my life. So instead I hated him. It was the only practical solution. Strangers would tell me “I am so sorry for your loss.”
And I would think, “What loss? I never even had him.” So for the first time in my life I am coping with real loss.
Aside from my relationship with my mother only one girlfriend of mine has ever shown me that sort of love. I had her. I don’t mean in the possession sort of way, I mean she loved me. Completely. She and I are in my car, a Buick Park Avenue with blood red interior, at the gas station. It’s our typical meeting place. We live about an hour apart, and we share the burden as equitably as possible—since her old Saab is theoretically incapable of such a great distance of travel. It’s raining: water pouring out of the sky, pouring like god is trying to drown us, again. She lights up another cigarette and complains about the broken passenger window. Her first puff of smoke is always so practiced and precise, just totally fake. It looks like an actress in an old black and white, those elegant women couldn’t pull it off and here time and time again she tries to do it, tries to look cultured right after she has complained about the stupid fucking piece of shit or some other equally charming description. Plus I haven’t eaten yet. When I’m hungry smoke nauseates me, otherwise it’s not a problem. So I get out of the car and walk under the canopy, safe from the rain, into the gas station. The fluorescent lighting is blindingly white, holy heroin colored, I pay the attendant quickly, slightly disturbed by the sterilized environment and walk back out to my car. She’s looking at me sweetly as I open the door. Then she has that look. No, not that look, it’s the, I have to talk to you about something look. We share everything like best friends, so if something isn’t shared it’s usually a bad idea. Only one seat belt plug works in the front of my car, so as we’re automatically jury-rigging ourselves into our seat belts she says as smoke escapes leisurely from her mouth, “I think I’m going to do mushrooms again with Rachel and Marissa.”
I respond quickly, lying, “Yeah, I have to do heroin at least once before I die.” The plan is innocent enough. I’m a selfish man. If instead of challenging her about it I escalate the situation then perhaps she’ll rethink her plan. I look at her and her eyes are shimmering with tears, her eyebrows are raised, and her mouth is half open. It’s a dopey, hurt, questioning look.
“Why would you want to do that?”
“To prove that I’m better than him.”
“But you know you’re better than him. I do.”
“So I know what could be more important than me to my father.”
She looks at me, like a pet just betrayed by it’s owner, and I cave. “I promise you I won’t do it.”
She says, “Don’t do it for me, do it for you.”
“Okay, whatever.”
And we drive off in the rain, her satisfied and enjoying her cigarette, me contemplating heroin use. It was a cheap trick but it worked. I couldn’t help it. I was worried about her. She is a dreamer, I guess like all girls. Girls used to impress me with their ability to dream in detail. To dream the color of their true loves eyes, tone of skin, brightness of smile. It’s a pretty standard dream but for a time it impressed me. Girls are taught to dream about these things. I don’t think boys are. I think we’re taught to nurture dreams of success or a job or something. I don’t know, it’s not like I *had* a dad. She dreamt about falling in love, and it working out. You know, love for real. Dreams are a vital component for addiction. Someplace better has to be imagined in order for a person to become so thoroughly dissatisfied with here. The true dreamer creates their own world, but the casual dreamer remains somewhere in-between and therefore vulnerable to addiction. I wasn’t aware that she was infected with other pre-made dreams. Dreams about college that I’m sure accelerated my loss.
I didn’t think she was dissatisfied with me, but the world was surely a source of dissatisfaction for her. She hated it, and I loved her for it. She didn’t ground me, she encouraged me to run with my madness. Since she was unhappy with the world I worried about her and drugs. She had a bad history with alcohol, her dad died driving drunk, and she drank habitually throughout what would now be called middleschool. I must emphasize my dangerous attraction to unhappy people. I wrongly associate an unhappy disposition with a person who sees the world as I do. I see so much potential squandered, and it drives me crazy. It’s not about my personal situation it’s about the way things are—but for some people nothing is enough.
Some people might say, “What if your family loved your father more?” Or maybe “What if you loved her more?” In my loneliness and solitude I am plagued by post-midnight anxiety and insecurities leaving me vulnerable to these kinds of questions that haunt me—but during the light of day, which warms my soul and summons my senses I know better. I know how little a difference more love would’ve made, such an awful truth. With my father it might have meant a couple more years of pain. With my lover it might have meant a couple more months of tip-toeing around. In neither case would a great change take place. I’m starting to think maybe I didn’t have her after all. For both of them nothing was ever enough. I still hope for her, but I’m through saving people. “Jesus Christ tried to save everyone, look what they did to him. They killed the poor bastard.”—Henry Miller, The Rosy Crucifixion. Sometimes I get caught up in worrying about the world, bogged down in it, but then I rediscover the beauty of the world, the enormity of sensation as my lips touch lips or skin or much desired food, the overwhelming beauty of the landscape assaulting my eyes, the texture of it all—and I forget about her. I stop second-guessing myself about her beauty and charm and realize that I was for once seeing clearly—and now I need to see everything clearly, not just her. Once I do that I won’t miss her so much.
Sep 23, 2009
Family
“The important thing to remember when meeting someone like Haley is that everyone has an agenda. Haley cannot be trusted simply because she laughs on cue, or listens to every word. She wants something; whether that is, simply to be admired or something darker only time will reveal. Don’t get comfortable,” were Shepherd’s last words before I boarded my flight to Los Angeles.
When I first met Haley I thought she was gorgeous. She was waiting at the airport with a small sign for me. She was tall, thin and insubstantial. Her blond hair hung loosely over her narrow shoulders. Even from afar her eyes were focused and bright blue. I wondered why Shepherd had warned me.
We hugged comfortably, “Oh it is so good to finally meet you, I’ve heard so much from Shepherd about you.”
“Shepherd and you talk? I thought he’d have told Rob.”
“They’re brother’s, I don’t think there is much to be said anymore. He calls but usually he and I talk longer. We’re really happy you’re here.”
She drove me to their large home in a nice neighborhood, did everything she could to make me comfortable and I lay down, listened to Iron & Wine for a bit and then fell asleep.
I woke up the next morning to the smell of eggs and coffee. Haley was making Rob breakfast. Rob is I guess my uncle too by association. He’d been working late last night so now was the first I saw him. He had whisps of silver in his stubble and bags under his eyes, but his smile was genuine and bright when he saw me and gave me a huge hug.
“I’m really glad you’re here.”
“Thanks for having me. It’s good to see you too.”
Haley quietly set the table and served Rob and I breakfast. She refused to join us, insisting it was her pleasure. “So will I be starting work today?”
“No, honey you have to recover from your jetlag. I’ll open up and Rob will go see about a couple of old books we might take on consignment. You’ll have the place to yourself.”
This was a dedicated, brilliant, intelligent woman – of course Shepherd was intimidated and wary. I suppose he was right to warn me, even with his warning I felt an inkling of the infatuation I had growing for her.
Shepherd sent me to make sure everything was being run properly at his father’s business. He is sort of my uncle, and with me having nothing to do this summer it seemed like a good idea for me to visit California and learn something about business. Los Angeles is a strange place for a rare bookstore, but they also carry original Hollywood posters and memorabilia, which I imagine is where most of their profits come from.
When I first met Haley I thought she was gorgeous. She was waiting at the airport with a small sign for me. She was tall, thin and insubstantial. Her blond hair hung loosely over her narrow shoulders. Even from afar her eyes were focused and bright blue. I wondered why Shepherd had warned me.
We hugged comfortably, “Oh it is so good to finally meet you, I’ve heard so much from Shepherd about you.”
“Shepherd and you talk? I thought he’d have told Rob.”
“They’re brother’s, I don’t think there is much to be said anymore. He calls but usually he and I talk longer. We’re really happy you’re here.”
She drove me to their large home in a nice neighborhood, did everything she could to make me comfortable and I lay down, listened to Iron & Wine for a bit and then fell asleep.
I woke up the next morning to the smell of eggs and coffee. Haley was making Rob breakfast. Rob is I guess my uncle too by association. He’d been working late last night so now was the first I saw him. He had whisps of silver in his stubble and bags under his eyes, but his smile was genuine and bright when he saw me and gave me a huge hug.
“I’m really glad you’re here.”
“Thanks for having me. It’s good to see you too.”
Haley quietly set the table and served Rob and I breakfast. She refused to join us, insisting it was her pleasure. “So will I be starting work today?”
“No, honey you have to recover from your jetlag. I’ll open up and Rob will go see about a couple of old books we might take on consignment. You’ll have the place to yourself.”
This was a dedicated, brilliant, intelligent woman – of course Shepherd was intimidated and wary. I suppose he was right to warn me, even with his warning I felt an inkling of the infatuation I had growing for her.
Shepherd sent me to make sure everything was being run properly at his father’s business. He is sort of my uncle, and with me having nothing to do this summer it seemed like a good idea for me to visit California and learn something about business. Los Angeles is a strange place for a rare bookstore, but they also carry original Hollywood posters and memorabilia, which I imagine is where most of their profits come from.
Sep 22, 2009
Time and Kali
"The form of Kali transmits the force of making a clean cut with the past, the edge of focused rage." - Coleman Barks, The Soul of Rumi
Years ago I first became interested in Kali. Kali and Shiva are the gods that comprise Shivaic tradition. Her name literally means "black time," and represents annihilation. In modern tradition she simply represents time, but in the past there is a violence to her that is unavoidable. She is the force that wants complete devotion and if she receives any less will destroy mercilessly. She is the embodiment of the consuming aspects of reality.
The quote above is from a collection of Rumi's poetry. When I first became interested in her I, don't laugh, wanted a tattoo of her on my body. Most likely just the sanskrit since she is depicted pitch black, with a belt of skulls, standing over Shiva with swords in her 8 arms with blood dripping from them. I'm not really the type of guy that would work for. I've meditated on Kali, I've considered why I'm drawn to her, and I've never been able to put it into words. I do love the reminder of time being finite and destructive, but that never seemed to be enough. I always felt unsatisfied as I explained the concept to someone. Generally their reaction was a feigned sort of understanding or worse, "Yeah that sounds sick!" Not that I've ever gone around preaching about Kali to strangers.
I am fascinated with the darker aspects of humanity and the world. I believe deeply that there is something to be gained from looking at what most people avoid. I think that being aware of your eventual death is a hugely valuable skill, one that our culture avoids. We are meant to be happy all of the time, yet deep down we know eventually everything we love will die and everything we build will be destroyed or forgotten. A superficial relationship with this fact means your response is well what is the point? Or why bother? A deeper understanding of it sees the potential and power hidden within this belief. Our existential awareness can lead to a sense of vertigo and the insurmountability of that fact, but I think within it is our greatest gift.
I am doing my best to avoid the cliches but essentially what is beautiful and unique about humanity is a part of us is filled with doubt, fear, knowledge of eventual failure, and awareness of our own imminent death. In the face of that we strive for whatever it is we believe in, be it social, artistic, political change, or just the pursuit of a life well-lived.
I think that at the time I stumbled upon Kali I was looking for a way to make a clean cut with my past. Again I think this is a moment in my life where this opportunity has re-presented itself. I want to take this time to step apart from my regrets, failures, and ideas from the past so as to make room and gain perspective for whatever life may come.
Years ago I first became interested in Kali. Kali and Shiva are the gods that comprise Shivaic tradition. Her name literally means "black time," and represents annihilation. In modern tradition she simply represents time, but in the past there is a violence to her that is unavoidable. She is the force that wants complete devotion and if she receives any less will destroy mercilessly. She is the embodiment of the consuming aspects of reality.
The quote above is from a collection of Rumi's poetry. When I first became interested in her I, don't laugh, wanted a tattoo of her on my body. Most likely just the sanskrit since she is depicted pitch black, with a belt of skulls, standing over Shiva with swords in her 8 arms with blood dripping from them. I'm not really the type of guy that would work for. I've meditated on Kali, I've considered why I'm drawn to her, and I've never been able to put it into words. I do love the reminder of time being finite and destructive, but that never seemed to be enough. I always felt unsatisfied as I explained the concept to someone. Generally their reaction was a feigned sort of understanding or worse, "Yeah that sounds sick!" Not that I've ever gone around preaching about Kali to strangers.
I am fascinated with the darker aspects of humanity and the world. I believe deeply that there is something to be gained from looking at what most people avoid. I think that being aware of your eventual death is a hugely valuable skill, one that our culture avoids. We are meant to be happy all of the time, yet deep down we know eventually everything we love will die and everything we build will be destroyed or forgotten. A superficial relationship with this fact means your response is well what is the point? Or why bother? A deeper understanding of it sees the potential and power hidden within this belief. Our existential awareness can lead to a sense of vertigo and the insurmountability of that fact, but I think within it is our greatest gift.
I am doing my best to avoid the cliches but essentially what is beautiful and unique about humanity is a part of us is filled with doubt, fear, knowledge of eventual failure, and awareness of our own imminent death. In the face of that we strive for whatever it is we believe in, be it social, artistic, political change, or just the pursuit of a life well-lived.
I think that at the time I stumbled upon Kali I was looking for a way to make a clean cut with my past. Again I think this is a moment in my life where this opportunity has re-presented itself. I want to take this time to step apart from my regrets, failures, and ideas from the past so as to make room and gain perspective for whatever life may come.
Sep 16, 2009
Among the ashes
Well, on the day I was born,
God was sick...
They all know that I'm alive,
that I chew my food...and they don't know
why harsh winds whistle in my poems,
the narrow uneasiness of a coffin,
winds untangled from the sphinx
who holds the desert for routine questioning..
On the day I was born,
God was sick,
gravely.
-César Vallejo
Young men in viking times were sometimes allowed two or three years of ashes. At the time Norwegians lives in long houses similar to Western Native American tribes and their beds were placed along the walls with a fire running down the length of the building. Sometimes young men would lie down between the fire, ash pile, and the beds. Occasionally they would stay there for years. They would do nothing useful but the older viking men accepted this as a sort of ritual lethargy. Our society does not accept this sort of behavior, drop-outs from college are shamed and repeatedly asked when they will figure their lives out.
In the eleventh century there was a Cinder-Biter (their name for these young men), named Starkad who lay in the ashes for years until he was asked by his foster father on an expedition. Starkad stood up, shaved, cleaned himself and went on to become one of the best warriors in the expedition. Later he became a great poet as well. In Nordic mythology Starkad is a man who is cursed and blessed by Odin. For each blessing he receives a curse accompanies it. To me this is a clear metaphor for humanity, we have such a great capacity for good as well as evil. Odin says that Starkad will live the life of three men but that he will commit three evil deeds.
Anyways, back to the ashes. In our culture there is such an emphasis on a Disneyland way of life. Ashes are the substance that remains after life has left an object entirely. Our inner dreams are ashes too. Eventually we all realize that no matter what outlandish luck we have there is simply no way we can do everything that we thought we would love to do. Yes, there is a great beauty to life and out of ashes things often grow but I feel that right now I need to keep in mind the ashes. It is without a doubt for the best that I'm no longer involved with my ex; we were entirely different people with very different values, but at the same time I am trying my best to look at the ashes of my life. Often after something like this I am excited and optimistic about the future frequently replacing whatever dreams I had of a life with her with other fresh new dreams. Without a doubt these broken dreams of ours are something we carry with us.
The idea of ashes makes me think of Hubert Selby Jr. Selby wrote Last Exit to Brooklyn, Requiem for a Dream, and The Room. Each of these books is a terrifying experience. He creates a dark world where there is no light. His intention is that in order for the reader to be able to fully experience his work the light must come from within them. There is nothing to nurture the reader as they read; their nourishment must come from within themselves.
Spend some time with the ashes.
Sep 13, 2009
Dream dreaming
Just woke up from a difficult dream. My ex and I were in a room in a house I grew up in long ago. We were trying to have sex, knowing that she is a nervous type I locked the door as a favor to her. As we would start to fuck, Latte - a female bengal cat, would open the door and walk in meowing over and over again. Despite me locking the door for my ex, she wouldn't notice at all. I would stop, push the cat out and lock the door again.
This happened several times until I felt like there was no spontaneity in the sex, we were simply trying to finish. Throughout this all she was completely unaware of what I was doing. Finally, I used a screw-driver to lock the door, sliding it through two hooks like a cross bar. This didn't work at all, Sally - my boss's friend from Trinidad was at the door and it had swung open. I got up, apologized without any shame and together she and I tried to lock the door again this time using two screw drivers. (mother figure?) This kept the door firmly stuck but there was an 8 inch gap and it wasn't long before Latte the cat was running into the room again and again.
At this point I woke up. Initially, I was a bit upset that I was dreaming about her but then I started to think about what the dream was saying. I was locking us up in a room, but it wasn't for her. She could care less. I equate this on one level to my attempts to protect my ex from herself but also on another level in that I trapped myself in a very narrow world, eliminating many possibilities to try to help one lost girl. I did it ultimately to protect myself from qualities within me. I projected certain aspects of myself - the positive female ones onto her, and the others kept sneaking into the room, in my dream in the shape of a cat and later Sally who is a very mother-like figure. The cat seemed to be trying to open the door, while the other was trying to help me keep myself locked inside.
I need to open the door and face what I have run from.
This happened several times until I felt like there was no spontaneity in the sex, we were simply trying to finish. Throughout this all she was completely unaware of what I was doing. Finally, I used a screw-driver to lock the door, sliding it through two hooks like a cross bar. This didn't work at all, Sally - my boss's friend from Trinidad was at the door and it had swung open. I got up, apologized without any shame and together she and I tried to lock the door again this time using two screw drivers. (mother figure?) This kept the door firmly stuck but there was an 8 inch gap and it wasn't long before Latte the cat was running into the room again and again.
At this point I woke up. Initially, I was a bit upset that I was dreaming about her but then I started to think about what the dream was saying. I was locking us up in a room, but it wasn't for her. She could care less. I equate this on one level to my attempts to protect my ex from herself but also on another level in that I trapped myself in a very narrow world, eliminating many possibilities to try to help one lost girl. I did it ultimately to protect myself from qualities within me. I projected certain aspects of myself - the positive female ones onto her, and the others kept sneaking into the room, in my dream in the shape of a cat and later Sally who is a very mother-like figure. The cat seemed to be trying to open the door, while the other was trying to help me keep myself locked inside.
I need to open the door and face what I have run from.
Sep 11, 2009
Looking at patterns.
I am about to finish reading a book by Robert Bly about the Human Shadow. I am reading this because I want to learn from my mistakes with Emilie and why I felt that she could change after all of the problems and warnings.
I am worried about going through this again with her. I just read back through some old posts, and this is a short quote from a post I wrote in January about the movie The Wrestler. What scares me is that if I replace Randy or my father with Emilie there is a very accurate summation of our relationship. At every turn I hoped that she could change, that she could for once feel like she was enough.
"This fucking movie brought back those moments of feeling betrayed and hurt very vividly. Just as in my life, I watched as Randy fucked up and wished that he could change. I always had this fantasy that one day my father would clean up and we could talk about our days spent playing frisbee or walking through the woods together. That never happened."
Of course she and I didn't play much frisbee or walk through the woods often but we had our moments like everyone does. I miss parts of our relationship but I don't miss the fear of her getting drunk and doing something stupid. I don't miss wondering where she is, or why she won't returns my texts. I am hoping that by exploring more of my shadow that I will be able to avoid this kind of projection. Emilie isn't a bad person but she is misguided and toxic to me. I feel as though I suffered from a bit of a Pygmalion complex and tried to make her into more than she was. I am a really sensitive, caring person but I think in day to day life I do not allow that part of my personality to show. This denial drew me to a relationship where I needed to take care of someone else instead of caring about them.
I am so furious that I blinded myself and gave her second chance after second chance. Every time the story is the same. She was drunk and didn't realize the guy liked her.. I have to thank my friend for pointing out that it is most likely not the case that Emilie doesn't love me or care about me but more that because she does such awful things she hates herself and is looking for reassurance from another outside male source.
One point that Bly makes in A Little Book on the Human Shadow is that express/deny is a very narrow means of coping with our unconscious urges. To simply express my hatred and hurt at being betrayed isn't going to do any good. I would and have momentarily given into it and been swept up in the current of emotion while completely losing sight of myself, and usually feel much more exhausted after. He uses the example of monks who will meditate on anger for hours and emerge with a choice about whether to express that anger and how to do so. A cutting remark can be infinitely more effective than letting loose in a moment of rage.
Bly recommends to keep a very close eye upon the people and habits that you hate, generally this is a warning sign that they are qualities which we repress within ourselves. I need to stop repressing my urge to be creative. I am hoping to take some time and create a list of all of the qualities I deny within myself.
What I have been thankful for is the people who have listened and helped me through this painful process. I also try to keep in mind people like Jeff Buckley who were tremendously talented, beautiful and still were treated like shit by people they loved. Hopefully for now on I can suss out those relationships and avoid them completely.
I am worried about going through this again with her. I just read back through some old posts, and this is a short quote from a post I wrote in January about the movie The Wrestler. What scares me is that if I replace Randy or my father with Emilie there is a very accurate summation of our relationship. At every turn I hoped that she could change, that she could for once feel like she was enough.
"This fucking movie brought back those moments of feeling betrayed and hurt very vividly. Just as in my life, I watched as Randy fucked up and wished that he could change. I always had this fantasy that one day my father would clean up and we could talk about our days spent playing frisbee or walking through the woods together. That never happened."
Of course she and I didn't play much frisbee or walk through the woods often but we had our moments like everyone does. I miss parts of our relationship but I don't miss the fear of her getting drunk and doing something stupid. I don't miss wondering where she is, or why she won't returns my texts. I am hoping that by exploring more of my shadow that I will be able to avoid this kind of projection. Emilie isn't a bad person but she is misguided and toxic to me. I feel as though I suffered from a bit of a Pygmalion complex and tried to make her into more than she was. I am a really sensitive, caring person but I think in day to day life I do not allow that part of my personality to show. This denial drew me to a relationship where I needed to take care of someone else instead of caring about them.
I am so furious that I blinded myself and gave her second chance after second chance. Every time the story is the same. She was drunk and didn't realize the guy liked her.. I have to thank my friend for pointing out that it is most likely not the case that Emilie doesn't love me or care about me but more that because she does such awful things she hates herself and is looking for reassurance from another outside male source.
One point that Bly makes in A Little Book on the Human Shadow is that express/deny is a very narrow means of coping with our unconscious urges. To simply express my hatred and hurt at being betrayed isn't going to do any good. I would and have momentarily given into it and been swept up in the current of emotion while completely losing sight of myself, and usually feel much more exhausted after. He uses the example of monks who will meditate on anger for hours and emerge with a choice about whether to express that anger and how to do so. A cutting remark can be infinitely more effective than letting loose in a moment of rage.
Bly recommends to keep a very close eye upon the people and habits that you hate, generally this is a warning sign that they are qualities which we repress within ourselves. I need to stop repressing my urge to be creative. I am hoping to take some time and create a list of all of the qualities I deny within myself.
What I have been thankful for is the people who have listened and helped me through this painful process. I also try to keep in mind people like Jeff Buckley who were tremendously talented, beautiful and still were treated like shit by people they loved. Hopefully for now on I can suss out those relationships and avoid them completely.
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