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1.30.2009

I can't feel my fingertips

I've just resigned my keys to the house on Clinton.

It's a strange sensation, knowing I'll never go back there.
Then again, who really knows?

Perhaps some metaphysical element of that space as my home will one day ask me back, like when people drive by their childhood homes just to get their fix of nostalgia.

I rode my bike today for the first time in months. I can't feel my fingertips. My stomach feels like it's wrinkled and shrinking. My throat is lines with rigid tissue paper.

And now to work.


Posted with LifeCast


1.29.2009

The morn of my 23rd year

It's official: I'm 23 years old.

There is something particularly unremarkable about this age, I think.
23 is a nice enough number, I guess.
But it lacks va-va-voom.

I guess that means that this will be the year during which I learn to more deftly provide for myself in the area of excitement and sensationalism.

I see this as a good thing.

This is the year I intend on doing a few things.

-Graduate from PSU
-Write a collection of short stories
-Finish the first installment of my memoirs
-Delve more passionately into professional modeling
-Grow out my curls
-Go to France
-Get out of the service industry
-Get married (kidding)

Here I am with this new list in front of me and it's the first thing I'm doing with a set intention in my newest of anniversarial endeavors.
I think that means I'm setting goals for myself rather than expectations.

This is the year of accomplishment.
And with that, I bid you all a good night.

1.28.2009

Here I am, once again.
It's too late to be awake and too early to be asleep.

My mind is in such a messy turmoil.
Sure, I'm conniving and manipulative and jealous and angry and indignant and vengeful and bitchy and sad and buried and ugly and mean and judgmental and tired and bored and antsy and impatient and brilliantly prideful and painfully stupid.

So what?

Everyone really is, deep down...


...at some point.

1.27.2009

Spirals aren't always pretty and graceful

I'm beginning to feel that I need medical attention.

As much as I used to criticize and riddle the notion that a person might need some pharmaceutical substance to balance out their moods, I'm at the point where I feel like every moment I'm cognizant is a guessing game of how I'll feel.

It seems like I have no control over my emotions.
I'm on this cruelly bucking wave of misty, cresting highs followed by plunging and darkened lows.
And the sad truth is that every time I reach the lowest part of the tidal dip, I take on a bit of water.
And I've been so up and down lately that I've accrued a dangerous amount of additional weight in my vessel of self.

I'm sinking.
I'm growing more and more reticent to rise to the top of the rolling water's peak.
Sunshine is growing to be more and more of a stranger and I'm feeling the salt water sting of the ubiquitously blinding brine of angst.

I don't want to see anyone or be close to anyone.
I don't want to be kind.
To others or myself.

I think I need help.

I can't seem to find sleep.

I thought I'd captured it a little earlier in the evening but somehow, between brushing my teeth and finding the perfect lullaby, it eluded me once again.

And after a day filled with mandatory accomplishment I felt it only fitting to write something of my own volition.

I caught myself scouring Craigslist for jobs again today.
It's moderately upsetting that I can't just find contentment in what I'm doing for longer than a brief season or two.
It's as if I'm hardwired to behave as if life's would be definites are little more than lily pads.
I hop from one to the next and the next and so on.
Occasionally, I land on a fresh and undulating floating green to discover that it plays home to a burst of gradient fuchsia petals resting in the soothing cradle of the serenely rippling surface.

I've always loved floating lilies.

But coming back to my metaphor, these lilies seem to wilt and fade causing me to jump to the next pad in hopes of finding a new blossom.

Whether that blossom be a kinder boss, a more appealing living space, or a better relationship, there is still an itch in my lengthy limbs telling me it will only be a matter of time before the vulnerable petals of each of my newly discovered blossoms will eventually suffer the mercilessness of entropy.
And once again I'll bound to the next green berth in hopes of discovering a stronger, more beautiful beauty.

But what of the argument that my presence might just be the cause of my discovered flowers' destruction?
Perhaps my arrival saps from the existing loveliness whatever life force it might have held sans me.
Perhaps.
Or perhaps I might offer an opportunity to play the botanical gardener, providing love and attention to the stillness of organic blooms.

Life is funny like that: so full of mutable things that seem to fall away from focus and/or importance.
And funnier still is that fact that so many of us just accept that the failure of said aspects to persevere and live on with us is a natural thing.

Could it not be said that our investment in those natural elements might sustain them?
And the practice of providing care to those things that are outside of us, could it not be that which best sustains ourselves?

I wonder if this metaphor has grown murky or perhaps stagnant.

Even so, I tire of leaping.
I'd rather rest in the open arms of my budding life.

1.24.2009

Wipe that silly plaid off your lips

Perhaps there's something to the idea that we all think of our relationships as too special, too independent of contemporary problem and strife.
Those common issues that "regular couples" face aren't applicable to us because we're just too incredibly unique to be bothered with the riddling doubts and confrontations of the everyday dyads.

Maybe the answer to all of the discomfort, the sour stomach, the unmet expectations is to behave with an assumption that in at least a general sense we're just like everyone else.

Blending with the crowd might actually prove to be an element of saving grace.
This whole idea stems from the notion that too much of the time individuals craft for themselves a sort of "personal fable"; some people believe themselves to be living a life completely outside of the norm and in accordance with that belief think of everyone around them as being able to see the blatant contrast between their puny, regular, vanilla lives and the bright, shiny, one-of-a-kind lives of those with this misconception.

Perhaps that last paragraph didn't make much sense.
Perhaps it's just because I'm so different than all of you.

Well now I'm just making an example using myself.

But this whole issue seems to be so obvious and yet so arcane.

1.19.2009

The Town Crier: A Short Story in 26 Sentences, A to Z

I just completed a writing exercise that one of my author friends told me about.
The function is mainly to exercise both an attention to short story plot while simultaneously developing flexibly creativity within a limited set of options.

Here's the skinny:
-Write a short story in 26 sentences.
-Beginning the first sentence with the letter A, each progressive sentence must begin with the following alphabetical letter (2nd sentence B, 3rd sentence C).
-And as a final push, one of the 26 sentences must be exactly 100 words long. No more, no less. It doesn't matter which one, just so long as one of them has that precise count.

This is my first try but I'm pretty happy with the outcome.

Enjoy.
And feel free to give it a hand yourself and send me the result. Maybe even post it as a comment!


THE TOWN CRIER

Already the people around had begun to hiss and whisper at what they took to be quite a spectacle.
By the time the rumoring crackled through the crowd Hans was up on his feet brushing the dry khaki dust off his clothes and hair.
Center of attention was never his place of preference.
Delighted by the sight of the freshly pommeled boy rising from the pile he'd just been left in, Hans' hound pup was quick to come and lick his master's wounds in some unwelcome offering of comfort.
Everyone began to break out of the tight circle that had formed around the youths wrestling in the streets.
Fights rarely occurred in the small town of Xylophone Springs.
Granted, the berg's name garnished plenty of public attention, attracting the drunk and over-sexed teens from the nearby suburbs to canvas the downtown streets with trouble in their lazy eyes.
Hundreds of people flocked to the unremarkable little populace to chance hearing a "musical trickle".
It happened that the tiny river running through the town (appropriately names the Xylophone after is matron spring) ran so lightly over a section of stair step layered shale that whenever fresh silt or tiny pebbles washed down the feeble flow over the stones, their sprinkled impact would create a tart and hollow resonance very much like a quiet Xylophone, bringing different musical tones out of the variously sized shelves beneath the water's sun-dappled surface.
"Just get off of me," Hans shushed sternly as the pup persisted in trying to salivate the bruises and abrasions now covering the boy's dirty legs.
Kids in Xylophone Springs were always known to be quite polite, well behaved, and well kempt.
Lately the cleaner, louder children (the ones whose parents clearly had an excess of means) had begun to heckle Hans for his shyness and dowdy wardrobe.
Mostly the harassment consisted of little more than the occasional jeering comment or ditty, ("Hans the hobo, Hans the hobo", "Hey trashcan", and "Are your pants sewn from a burlap potting soil sack?" were the most popular) but there were still the more aggressive and menacing attacks like the one that had just ended where Hans was either made target of whatever object the offending kids could obtain as a missile or actually directly accosted by the more proactive children who would pin his limbs and tickle him to the point that he began sobbing or crying for his mother.
Not that much about the present day's cruelties strayed far from the established pattern where the physical abuse at school was concerned, but this time the town brats had started their bullying in the middle of a crowded street full of the town's working adults and elderly crones.
Obviously it would seem a bit public for such a childish sin and yet the kids beat up on Hans with a particular sunny abandon that Sunday afternoon.
People around the kerfuffle did nothing.
Quiet perturbation and maybe even a little bit of spite tainted all of the proud citizens, looking on as "that dirty little boy" received what they took to be his just comeuppance at the hands of their bright and shiny offspring.
Rarely did anyone step in to defend Hans.
Several times a number of the surrounding playground children had thought very seriously about just how unfair it was to gang up on their sad and quiet classmate.
Thinking wasn't ever the same doing.
Usually, Hans would submissively weather the bitter abuse and then sneak into the backstage of the Primary school's auditorium to conceal himself by sitting cross-legged between the floor-length heavy felt curtains.
Veiled from sight, Hans would silently talk to himself confirming that he was still a good boy no matter how all of those people treated him.
Wiping rebellious tears from the corners of his eyes before the hot salt had a chance to stain his cheeks, he would calm himself and then walk out onto the blank stage in front of 220 empty seats and take a bow, imagining the freedom of knowing that the beautiful audience in his head would always be giving him the standing ovation he craved so intensely.
Xylophone Springs Primary school was currently thirteen blocks from Hans' blood and muddied shins, and so were the empty auditorium, the curtains, the stage, and his adoring and thunderously approving audience.
Yearning for the safety of his secret cocoon, Hans felt the expected tears fighting their way to the rim of his lower eyelids and, for the first time, didn't raise his hands to keep them from marring his countenance, instead allowing them to fall freely, tracing brownish pathways down his smudged cheeks.
Zipping his ripped jacket all the way to the top of the collar, he stood in the middle of the street and cried liquid release for all the town to see, pausing as the last of the hot water spouted from his Xylophone Springs...

...and then he bowed.

1.16.2009

Checkmate

That's it!
No more moves for me.

And yet unlike Chess, I'm happier knowing that no amount of strategy I possess will counter this state.

I have yet to put everything away, I have yet to transport the last of my belongings from my prior residence, I have yet to figure out final bills, but I am here.
I'm living here now.
And I happy.

This is an incredibly welcome change and I couldn't think of a better person to be sharing this with than my dear friend, Maekol.
We spoke about how it kind of always seemed like this situation was going to come about at some point. And here we are: roommates.

I think I can confidently speak for both of us and say that we're both thrilled at the good luck of having landed one another as living partners.
And here we sit, side by side on my old leather couch, sipping french press coffee and listening to Sufjan.

Life is beautiful.
And the sun is shining.
And we are free.

1.03.2009

And then there was more

Everybody seems to have their own idea of Heaven.
For some it's the empty countryside on a clear, warm day.
Others might say it's complete silence.
And still others might say Manolo Blahnik.

For me it's Powell's Bookstore.

Walking through those impossibly spotless glass doors into the literary mecca of old, new, used and never been cracked volumes upon volumes is enough to calm me in even the most doomsaying mood.

Having just come back from one of my many trips to my own version of paradise, I sat down with my book bag and removed each of the new purchases (none of which I really should have made but all of which are completely necessary). I carefully placed each of my three new pieces of verbal candy on the desk top in front of the computer with careful attention to my need to see each of their title and author. It's just this thing I do.

Adding to my library are Margaret Atwood's Oryx and Crake, Tobias Wolff's This Boy's Life, and Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse.

I couldn't seem to keep from pawing through my canvas sack as I walked from the book store and ended up pulling out the Atwood novel, beginning its first few pages as I walked.
I wish I could say I narrowly missed an offending telephone pole, walked across a busy street against the signal and caused a number of near-collisions, or ran headlong into some other booky with their head buried in someone else's words but none of those things actually occurred. I simply read until I reached my destination and then climbed a set of rickety, oily, dangerous and skewed steps to an over noisy office so I could make a point of recording the otherwise uneventful happenings of my last half an hour.

This seemingly pointless endeavor might go unnoticed by any number of people who don't relate notions of Elysium to gargantuan book stores but for any of you who might have some sort of slight connection to my present excitement, simply insert your own experiences.
Think of running through that open field with your eyes closed, not worrying at all about tripping or running into anything.
Think of hearing the echo of a single drop of water as its muted staccato is quelled by breathy nothingness.
Think of obtaining the last pair of a limited edition heel in just your size...for half price.

This is how I feel right now.
36 minutes and 20 dollars later, I'm happy.

a title that is in all lower case

People everywhere have strange habits.
A lot of times those habits tend to inflict a minor amount of damage on the person but typically that damage is counter-balanced by some new skill, growth, or achievement.
Take coffee for instance.
It's moderately good for you where nutrition is concerned but the sheer quantity by which some people choose to saturate their minutes, hours, days and lives is enough to be considered dangerous no matter what the substance.
And yet the invigoration of caffeine combined with the social culture built around obtaining coffee (going to cafes, supporting local roasteries, feeding the limp and pallid economy) is enough to balance out what little harm an overdose of java might inflict.
The basis of justification is in the even trade off.
However, when that trade is at an imbalance in favor of the self-damaging side of things the habit poses a large threat to the person's well-being. It can do little more ultimately cripple and challenge them by means of an overdose of self-medication.

My job rides on just such an imbalance.
I feed into people's abuse of alcohol and profit from their selfishness, stupidity and baseness.
No, no, no, not everybody's abuse, only some are abusers. But it's the abusers that cause me to pause and reflect on the morality of the situation.
When it comes to people who are crippled by their bad habit I blind myself to the eventual negative energy and anti-production that my provision of alcohol will ensure.

Or should I say I used to blind myself.

I believe I've come to a crux.
I've reached an important juncture in my travels through the jungles of philosophy in my own developing and still-learning mind. I've come to better understand my misplacement of misanthropy on many by locating the few who really deserve. The frustrating part is realizing that I've been playing a vital role in what makes them so deplorable to me.
It's completely Utopian...the book, not the concept.

It's as if I make drunks and then punish them.

Hmmm...This thought alone brings me to a place where I just have to stop and consider all that I've made out to be so worthy of my disdain and if it's only because it somehow relates back to me.

Am I saying I hate myself?
No, I doubt it. (I'm too much of a narcissist to actually hate myself.)

I believe I am a perfectionist.
I hate when I see people behaving similarly to the way I behave because I want that behavior to be just right and if it isn't then it's a poor reflection back on me (since we're ostensibly of the same personality/character). In other words, I don't like people who are like me because I think they're going to screw it up.

Wow.
Do I have a big head or what?

Seriously, I'm curious now.
'Cause now I'm going to hate people with big heads even more.

I'll find some reason they're not doing it right.