“Hands Off My Box!”, Laissez-Faire Sex, Sexuality, and Gender

From the day you’re born, nay, even before then, from the time your mother receives her first sonogram and receives that ever-anticipated declaration of “it’s a girl,” or “it’s a boy,” without having been consulted personally at all, you will undergo one of the most complex and delicate portions of your development as a human...and you’ll have little to no say in the matter. Scary isn’t it? Scarier still is the fact that once you have matured to a point of being considered competent at making your own decisions, so many will have already been made for you that it will be next to impossible to alter your course of growth without huge amounts of upset and financial setback. Not to mention society at large will collectively frown upon you while ensuring you that there’s clearly something the matter with you for not just accepting the what they’ve given you is good enough. This process of restricted developmental agency is so typical in contemporary America that it has become accepted as completely natural and appropriate. The facts of the matter are based on indisputable scientific physicality: once an infant is independent of the mother’s functional somatic support, that infant is to be revered as independent of the mother’s control. And that concept is the very core of this debate: control. Society at large has fostered and proliferated very carefully crafted constructs surrounding the notions of physical sex, gender, and sexuality and the reason they continue to affect the minds and behaviors of said society’s population is because they are equivalent to fences built to hold back the broiling masses from the assumed chaos that would ensue in the case of a non-binary gender-based social hegemony. Social constructs are observed because they are assumed to be the key to keeping the peace, to keeping the hoi polloi feng shui, to keeping control. But what good are peace and order without the freedom to enjoy them?
According to Leslie Feinberg, “each person should have the right to choose between pink or blue tinted gender categories, as well as all of the other hues of the palette,” (Feinberg, 1). Leslie’s statement raises an additionally thought-provoking point: there are more than two simple, solid colors of pink and blue on the gender line. And yet while I leave the consideration of the multi-faceted nature of human gender to stew for a bit, allow me to address the assumption prompting this statement: the binary system of gender.
Since the written history of mankind there have been languages, cultures, and haberdashery constructed with built-in reminders of human anatomical variety. However, over the millennia the width of that acknowledgement has condensed considerably, leaving in its wake a limp and patchy portrayal of just how much complexity is intrinsic to humans with regard to the relationship between physiological sex (as a vagina/uterus woman or a penis/testicles man) and mental/emotional gender (the outward behavioral expression of one’s cognitive identity). I’m reminded of the SMYRC training’s first discussion of the gender Gumby and most especially of when Mehera relayed her personal preferences of wearing mostly men’s clothing as an acknowledged physiological female. And there was nothing upsetting or willfully disruptive about it! She was simply comfortable expressing herself as a person of both male and female gender traits. It was comforting and even inspiring to observe someone with such self-awareness and self-possession confidently making a statement about the diversity found even within each individual.
The social constructs surrounding what it is to be “woman” and what it is to be “man” are separated by an additionally socially constructed chasm of impassable discrimination. At birth, a doctor examines a newborn in search of a penis. If one is present (and not considered “too small” by arbitrarily-set industry standards and thus genetically aberrant) the infant is declared a boy. However, if the elusive penis is not present (and the clitoral tissue isn’t too large by industry standards) then the infant is inferred to be a girl. And as referenced before, so begins a lifelong tour through being instructed on how to behave, how to dress, what to play with, how to speak, and even more specifically, how not to act in order to claim irrefutable membership to your medically declared sex. And the truth of the matter is that we’ve all been subjected to this ubiquitous social instructional even in direct relation to the words we take for granted in daily language. Alex G writes,

We automatically assume boys will be boys, and girls will be girls, as the old saying goes. For instance, what comes into your mind when you hear the word “Boy”? What about “Girl”? Most people have entirely different images, built on memories and experiences, which make them treat boys and girls very differently, (G, 1).

These constructs have been engrained into the culture in which we all reside to the point that to avoid being at all affected by them is quite impossible. We’ve been audience to a lifelong story telling of bold and strong knights rescuing beautiful and dainty princesses...who are then banished to the kitchen with no shoes and a gingham apron. These are excellent examples of the gender roles that exist in today’s culture: men = rugged, physical, aggressive and assertive, women = passive, pretty, weak and emotional. In no ways are these descriptions accurate, much less in any relationship to a given individual’s gender identity. As we have discusses on multiple occasions in class, gender identity is the cognitive understanding a person has about their gender. Taking the discussion a step further, I think of when Jen from TransActive pulled up Rae and Liz as the contrasting examples of a gender expression. Liz’s more predominantly female gender identity was clearly seen in feminine gender expression (what people perceive as her gender) while Rae’s more fluid gender identity was additionally clear in her more intentionally ambiguous gender expression.
Our society is so hungry for categories and neat little boxes that it is rather resistant to the idea of a less cut and dried system of thinking. We have to define everyone as female, male, gay or straight. Only in recent years has the chic of (solely female) bisexuality become a topic appropriate in the generally accepted forum for discussion. And that stems from a socially-constructed masculine desire to see two women sexually gratifying each other so that he might reap the sensational rewards for the sexual efforts he no longer has to make. Implicit in the gender binary system is the idea that there is a declension amongst the hierarchically arranged boxes of individual definition. Men are superior to women. Gays are inferior to straights. But gay men are right about on par with women (if not a little above) while gay women are flexible depending upon whether or not their gender expression threatens or arouses the straight men. It’s a ridiculous mindset and yet it has been known to be the foundation for huge amounts of exclusion and pain.
Take Emily from In The Life, for example. A girl with talent, intelligence, piety, and kindness. Until she came out to her small community as a homosexual female, she was seen as worthy of great amounts of attention and even celebration. And then her position within the “straight female” box was rattled loose and she suddenly found herself in the “gay female” box where there was much less understanding and positive response. The same is true for men who come out as gay. Whether or not they’re laudable individuals with exceeding popularity and social acclaim, their shifting from one box (straight male) to another (gay male) is a process that tends to dismantle a large portion of their positive social reception.
The solution to all of this mess is rather simple, really: do away with the boxes! As a society, it makes no sense for us to try so desperately to universalize every aspect of our populace. We’re not homogenous and it’s foolhardy to expect everyone to be just the same in behavior and expectation. It would be like assuming that everyone would be allergic to the same foods just because they’re human when in fact, everyone’s immune systems and tolerances are different across the board. And no amount of social conditioning is going to save a person with Celiac’s from reacting to gluten, it’s just not the way they’re put together! The same might be said for physiological women who identify as partially or totally male; no amount of social conditioning is going to change their true identity. Rather their expression of said identity will perhaps shift slightly (or drastically depending on the pressure) but their inward understanding of who they are apart from the social standard is immutable. It’s a hardwired aspect of their chemical and physical composition.
And on the point of social conditioning, there is research to support the notion that our current schema for qualifying gender and gender-based processing is not as concrete as the contemporary mystique might hope. According to Christopher Kilmartin, in his book, “The Masculine Self”,

Sandra Bem (1981b; 1985; 1987; 1993) constructed a theory of gender-dependent information processing with an important emphasis on cultural factors. Bem believes that cognitive development and gender role development are parallel in some regards. She also argues that gender-typed information processing is taught to children by a culture that emphasizes sex differences for virtually every domain of behavior. If our culture were not so gender-typed, children would learn to use other categories to organize their experiences, (Kilmartin, 81-82).

Kilmartin’s description of Bem’s gender-dependence theory presents a fantastic alternative to the currently held beliefs surrounding the necessity for establishing absolute masculinity or absolute femininity. And reminding of my point just prior, the boxes we as a society so desperately cling to are not really as assisting as we’d perhaps like to think.
In considering the basis for these ills one cannot help but look additionally to the social quandary that is transgender. Because the concept of transsex falls completely outside of any of the currently available categorical boxes it is not only viewed as aberrant but threatening. Its novelty is not welcomed with excitement and celebration but cringed away from with criticism, fear, and disgust. Well what do we have to be afraid of? How is transex harmful? This address of a much larger issue of social discrimination could be expounded upon for greater length of a three-volume novel and thus I’ll elect to curtail it for now with a pointed acknowledgement of its huge injustice and social mistreatment.
Leslie Feinberg marries all of the aforementioned points of discussion in stating:

Our struggle will also help expose some of the harmful myths about what it means to be a woman or a man that have compartmentalized and distorted your life, as well as mine. Trans liberation has meaning for you- no matter how you define or express your sex or your gender, (Feinberg, 5).

In order to address the social wrongs resulting from the hasty and typically insufficient definitions and flash judgments surrounding individual sex and gender there must be a juggernaut effort to alter the collective mindset with regard to the concepts of sex separate from gender. The two are not the same and yet society paints them to appear as one. We must stand against that assumption by ending the silence that has muted the voices of so many throughout the years. End the silence by confidently and openly discussing these topics in all social forums: religious, political, commercial. They are all just as saturated with the misinformation we’ve all been fed and thus they are all in need of reformation. That reformation can only happen if their is willful dissemination of truth. And that is where every voice raises together in constant, vigilant fervor. Don’t let shame overpower your just right to freedom. And in this nation where we are said to have human rights for all, claim those rights by being unstoppably vocal and demonstrative. Start discussions. Change the verbiage. Make a change. And once it’s been made, keep it.

I'm already sick of Swine Flu

Has anyone stopped to think of what this nebulously corroborated "Swine Flu" actually means on a social level?

-the introduction of increased of international trade limitations
-possible justifications for closing borders
-governmental permission to allocate excessive funds to ambiguously described health campaigns
-and the compulsory compliance of the entire nations as fueled by fear of contraction

Now, I don't know about the rest of you but these concepts seem oddly coincidental (not to mention convenient) on behalf of a government in financial crisis as a result of a costly (and unnecessarily prolonged) war, and an economy in the plummeting downturn of highly publicized purported undoing.

So how do we go about convincing everyone to reinvest in their local market? Get them scared of anything from outside of their own country.

Suddenly, all of the baby-boomers glued to their television news broadcasts are rocketed into cataclysmic terror at the onset of an ominous threat with the familiar face of a new strain of already recognized illness. And this new threat's spread is entirely dependent upon the promotion of information by large numbers of inter-coordinated news networks with clear bias and framing influence.

And then it goes global and everyone starts begging for the quarantining of any and all afflicted members along with the cut off of all imports due to their now high likelihood for transporting external infectious germs.

So what do people do? They start spending their money inside their own local communities and nation.
And what does this do? It stimulates a weakened economy.

In addition, everyone is now fully amenable to the idea of governmental control on international travel. Borders are the new Berlin Wall and obtaining the privilege of leaving ones own country is now a worldwide difficulty.

And all because of a little flu.

Who exactly is telling us there's this flu?
And where did the term pandemic enter into the discourse?

The fact is, we're getting little to no truly empirical proof of this rising menace and instead we're being caused to shiver in fear at the unknown.

Fear. This is all about fear.

And isn't it interesting that in all of this melee, a new National Health and Human Services candidate is swiftly thrown into office whilst we, as Americans, are being informed (not asked) that $1.5 billion are being invested in an anti-swine flu health effort?

What does this mean?
For what is the money being used?
And who is Kathleen Sebelius?

And finally, why are we so afraid?

Sunshine and that

I've spent two days living in the light of real, unadulterated sunshine.
Each day its own.
Every moment special.

I rode my bike and bore my skin.
I played with my comrades and laid with my lover.
I drew pictures and wrote words.
And now I look forward to more of these sunshine promises.

Just when I thought it going so well...

Having entered class today with a rushed effort at what should have been a much more carefully crafted assignment, I felt a little self-conscious about actually handing the piece of paper to my professor.

Imagine my dismay at having him respond with a sound and thorough exhalation combined with a frown deep enough to be mistaken for the Mariana Trench.

I've now been informed that not only was the pivotal assignment completed incorrectly but I've got to finish the missing element by noon tomorrow.

And thus the camel's back did splinter.

I felt myself tumbling back into that familiar sense of overwhelmedness.
I started to make a mental checklist of all of the things I have looming above me and began to lose myself in the squalor clashing due dates, commitments, and too much to do in one sitting.

And then I started thinking about sunshine, the fast approaching Summer, and the fact that this would not be forever.

And I began to feel better.
Sort of.

I just need to take a deep breath and recognize that this is all going to work out just fine.
I just have to take it one task at a time.

You'd think I would have gotten this thing down by now.

When She Loved She

Margret's mother had no tolerance for tomboyism.
She made a decisive point of applying strong discipline whenever she caught her daughter playing football, wearing pants, or signing up for the army national guard.

Margret didn't really mind her mother's aversion.
She kind of thought her mother was boring.
And she couldn't speak English...or any language for that matter.
(She was mute)

Margret's mother's strong sense of tradition tended to go mostly unnoticed considering that she could do little more to promote it than grunt herself into a ruby-cheeked fluster. And this caused her to look more than usual unappealing. A fact that made her constant social rejection at PTA meetings anything but mysterious.

Margret did her best to steer clear of her mother's watchful eye whenever she dressed in the morning or left on a Saturday afternoon with a pigskin under her arm. But on the odd occasions when her attempts were unsuccessful, Margret simply sat and observed her mother chastising the living daylights out of her via a series of sharp inhales and phlegmy expulsions of hot air.

One Sunday afternoon, following just such a mother-daughter arrest, Margret found herself sitting on the counter in the kitchen nursing a glass of lemonade and playing audience to yet another wordless critique. Only this time she had had about enough.
Her mother's facial flare-up was reaching a wheezy crescendo when, on some unfamiliar impulse, Margret flung the contents of her glass into her mother's face.

Margret's mother sizzled like a freshly quenched flame.
Her redness instantly receded and her once-bulging, bloodshot eyes shrunk back to their normal diameter.
An ice cube resting on her shoulder slid carelessly down the front of her now sopping apron.

Margret looked at her mother and then at the empty glass in her hand and then back at her mother. She couldn't decide whether she ought to be afraid or devout.
But while she thought about her mother made the decision for her.

THWACK!

Margret's mother's swing was completely unexpected.
Margret flew from the counter top preceded by most of her teeth.

Arguments ought to be based on logic, not emotion.

While I am in full support of free expression, I cannot stand to see intolerance dramatized for the sole purpose of dredging up vapid pathos.

This advertisement may seem rife with ingenuous motivation and yet, in response to each of the minimalistic, dire, and gravitas-ridden statements made, I have to ask:

-How is anyone's life exempt from their country's government? If you'd rather not have these issues impact you, depart from engaging the system. In other words, you can't just have your cake and eat it to. Others have a right to a slice of the same desert. (Yes, it's a double entendre.)

-Which of your freedoms will be taken away? Freedom to deny equal rights to an entire naturally-occurring population? Freedom to discriminate against those who hold different tenets of faith and morality than you dictate?

-What kind of a California doctor are you and why are you vilifying gay marriage as opposed to voicing your outrage at being discriminated against in the workplace for your faith? (Might you be seeing just what LGBTQ people across this nation are experiencing on a daily basis?)

-How is it you're being punished and by what form of government? Additionally, as a member of any church group oughtn't you be concerned about the separation of church and state that this country's founding predicated?

-You're not helpless, you're a mother. You have the responsibility and role of being the core of your offspring's education. Have open conversations and answer questions with honesty instead of obsequious and fearful muddlings of the truth. And if it's really all that problematic, send them to private school. And to take it one step further, what is so wrong with gay marriage that you're afraid of your child learning to be accepting and open-minded? Might you be afraid that this horrible, oppressive public school is actually permitting your children to begin to grasp the necessity for seeing life from more than one interest group's persepctive? Namely, the church. And on the subject of this menacing public school, according to current literature it is experiencing the same plummeting academic achievement levels and lowered test scores as schools nationwide. These decreasing academic standards are the result of education setbacks caused by lack of funding due to poorly managed government monies. Monies alocated to prolonging a profit-based war and the public acceptance thereof.

-In pointing out the malcontentment of same sex couples who have been "living as they wish" are you blatantly ignoring the fact that same sex couples are discriminated against on enumerable counts? What of legal release of health care information to a same sex significant other? Yes, it's possible in some cases but the process for obtaining permissions is demonstrably more difficult and includes aspects of inquiry that go far beyond limitations put upon attempts at accessing the same kinds of information by heterosexual significant others. And that's only one example. As for "those advocates [who] want to change the way [you] live", advocacy is meant to be an effort at broadening perspectives. If your perspectives are narrow enough that they limit your life then maybe you ought to contemplate how reconsidering said perspectives might in fact open you to newer, more collectivist understandings of how to coincide with a nation full of different perspectives, a nation heralded for its embrace of people from all walks of life and all cultural and religious and lifestyle backgrounds.

-You also have no choice on whether or not you are legally allowed to own slaves. I'd be quite incited by that too if I were a bigot.

-And finally, you call yourselves a "rainbow coalition"? That's just insulting. It's ubiquitously understood that the rainbow is a symbol of queer interests and while it is still a notion free to be utilized by any and all people, its present status is as a token of acceptance and understanding. Not discrimination, stigmatization, or hate- and fear-mongering.
You say you're coming together in love. Well what kind of love rebukes those who wish to embrace the same traditional demonstrations of that very concept as all other members of their society based solely on an argument of difference in sexual desire.

How is gay marriage hurting you?
How is it hurting your families and your interests?
I'm quite sure tithes will maintain themselves, value systems and morality will still hold true (to whatever degree anyone might already be applying themselves), and if anything, the marriage industry will boom from the gargantuan number of couples suddenly granted the same rights as their heterosexual counterparts.

On an economic note, gay couples have been proven to have higher incomes, less financial requirements, and more expendable cash. Want to stimulate this faltering economy? Then let go of discriminatory and fearful ignorance.

Alright, I'm finished...






...for now.

While everyone is sleeping

Here we are, way too sleep-deprived and way too nervous.

But the question is: why?

We are of high vitality, we are confident.
Perhaps we are just thirsty for the conventional.
Maybe that's what we're all longing for: to be considered conventional.

And while we may find solace in our positions of pride and individuality, there is still and undeniable urge to be among the throngs of anonymous unity.
Where everyone is truly the same.

We call such ideas communist or Utopian but in truth we're just turning what we really and instinctively want into a wrong, a problem, a sin.
We're afraid of what is the best for us!

And I repeat my question: why?

Maybe the answer isn't as straightforward as I would like to believe.
But at the same time, I wonder just how much I really care about believing in something.
Maybe I like the mystery and the curiosity it inspires.

Maybe mystery and curiosity are the things I'm really the most excited about.

No, not maybe.
They are.

And by acknowledging that I am free.

When that one person talks a little too much

I'm all for sharing personal anecdote.
I find them to be both poignant and easy to relate to.

But when anyone takes on the role of real-life-example-provider in a class full of students who are looking for an academic basis for their didactic reception let's just say that they become the primary source of my frustration.

I have to chuckle to myself to realize that I'm probably the one and only scrooge truly that misanthropic about someone just wanting to validate themselves by means of public self-exposure.

Thinking for a moment on that last line I have to admit I am by no means above reproach if I am in fact going to vilify those who are open books for the sake of feeling universally known.
As I recall, that very mindset is a steadfast tenet of my character.

So why am I so blithe to point a finger of heckling at the overweight mother all too eager to tell the class about her 5 year-old, pink-wearing, purse-carrying son?

It's probably due to the fact that I feel like the spot light is being in some way taken from me.
It's all about attention and gratification.

Now to gratify my need to quit the attention binge I've been on...

Hot tea and the fresh feel of cleanliness

I'm off to a lovely start with regards to the day tomorrow.
I've already cleaned myself, practically dressed myself (it's all planned out), and prepared myself for all of the knowledge likely to invade my brain over the course of my classes.

And then it's off to yet another night working for this new machine.
I feel like a necessary gear in the mechanism and yet sometimes it feel so easy to lose myself in the impression I get of the whole crazy mess of this new establishment.
I'm maintaining my optimism with fierce determination and I'm additionally resolute in my will to make life happy for myself and those the closest to me.

I'm just feeling a bit worn down.

Clearly it was time for a change.

He knew it.
His friends knew it.
And more importantly, his lover didn't want to know it.

Whenever he glanced at his own reflection in some shoppe window or unsettled puddle he would hold his own hands back from tearing away his features in hopes of erasing the sad, angry, lost person they comprised.

But then, just like that, his strength left him completely.
His restraint became a thing of the past and all at once his nails dug irreversible gouges into the dark spaces beneath his eyes, his knuckles clenched mercilessly around his tongue, and his dirty fists pounded his ears into a ringing deaf submission.

And then he woke up.



The sun wasn't really shining and it wasn't really not shining. It was just the Sun.
His guilt wasn't really palpable but then it wasn't really without flavor. It was just guilt.

And that's when he first saw them.
The scarring gashes and bruises checkering the place that used to be his character.

If you can imagine the thrill of mystery combined with the angst of realization literally written all across a person's face then you might be able to grasp what he felt.

He was nearly ready to start the battering all over again when he stopped just long enough to read what he'd etched in his own visage:

At least when you're bleeding you know you can heal.

Sorry and Thank You

It seems to me that whenever I say 'I'm sorry' it's inevitably and eventually followed by my saying 'thank you'.

When I think on this recurring pattern I come up with time after time where it's been proven true.

At work: "I'm sorry but we're actually out of the special...thank you for dining with us tonight."

At school: "I'm sorry I missed class...thank you for understanding."

In life: "I'm sorry I did what I did...thank you for forgiving me."

I wonder whether or not this seeming relationship is something that I might have come upon because of its universal nature (doesn't everybody do this?) or if it might just be a mindset (I just tend to say 'sorry' and 'thank you' a lot, of course the two will happen close enough to one another.).

Whatever the case, I'll now attend to my words with an increased fervor in order that when I see myself approaching an area where the space between 'I'm sorry' and 'thank you' might be quite large I can curb my behavior in advance. Thus saving myself and the received of my expressions ample ache and unpleasantness.

That said, I'm sorry to have blathered on and on about this.
And thank you for listening.

Predawn ponderings

It's funny, isn't it?

The lonely seem to get the least sleep.

A quiet and utter lacking

I've been so many things in my somewhat brief lifetime.

Some of them laudable.
Some of them criminal.

And only when I look to the stars do I see the sheer tininess of me and my actions.
Who I am and what I do seemed to have lost each other somewhere along the road stretching behind me.

And now is the season to bring them into accord with one another.

And in being in accord with myself, I hope to be in accord with what was my once and future promise and devotion.

If only to know that he could feel my dwindling energy and hazy terror at every moment I realize just what and who I have lost.
To lose is to be thoughtless.
And I have displayed the utmost of thoughtlessness.

I have been known to make mistakes

Whenever I'm facing something as cripplingly disheartening as my own face in the mirror of hindsight it's a rarity for me to find any really Earth-shattering revelations in those banishing and hateful glances.

But now the glance is the action.
The bullet fired by my own gun injuring me only peripherally but leaving me with the daunting knowledge that I pulled the trigger in the first place.

And like all wounds, self-inflicted or otherwise, the healing is by no means simple or without suffering.

But it is still ultimately temporary.

In a temporary innocence

When moments like this puncture the tarpaulin I've pulled over my rain-streaked and shivering form I stop dreading the inevitable rain and instead realize and enjoy the air seeping through the the new holes in my stifling cover.

Some might propose that I be angry when my safe little space is punctured...


...but I am sick and tired of pretending to agree with them just to feel their false sense of safety.
They have no idea what safety really is anymore because they've fought to forget it. To them, safety is only waiting longer to be hurt.
But I'm not afraid anymore.
After so many merciful tornadoes of guilt and apology- of genuine remorse- only then could enough lovingly chastising branches scrape and invade my little cocoon.

And I have begged for those scrapes and invasions...and now I realize that I needed to be hurt by myself to see that I was holding myself too tightly.

Protecting another is so much more liberating than protecting oneself.
I've had to understand this in the most naked way.

The answers you don't want anymore

Yes, I overreacted.

No, I don't want all of those things I said I did.

Yes, I wish I could take it all back.

No, I'm not naive enough to think that's possible.

Yes, I feel more remorse and pain from my own doing than I ever have.

No, I do not have what is necessary to be good right now.

Yes, I am sure I will one day.

No, I am not superior to anyone.

Yes, I used to think I was.

No, I'm not asking for your attention.

Yes, I'm hoping for it.

The bitterness of grape skins and oaken barrels

Where does a person begin once the tornado they've created finally hurls them to the ground in blustered and bludgeoning disinterest?

Should they start by assessing the damage to their surroundings or the damage to themself?

While it would seem the natural response to take stock of one's corporal being, the fact is that when one breaks their own bones they tend to feel reticent to splint the jagged throbbing for fear of worsening the injury.

And yet if that same person was to try and observe the trail of destruction left in the wake of her or his own selfish broodings, an increasing sense of self-loathing would doubtless circumvent any notions of repair.

The whole situation would become little more than a self-perpetuating mess of more and more razor cuts on naked thighs and quivering arms.

And here I stand, battered, broken and full of absolutely nothing.
To think it was me who created this chaos as some form of crude medication.

I think I've overdosed and now withdrawals aren't an option.
I'm simply left to curl up in a corner and wait for the demons to carry me off to somewhere bad enough to make me feel something once again.

Sleep 'til Dawn

Sleep ‘til Dawn
by: Noah C. Buck

[Verse 1]
When you look up at the sky
and your lucky star turns out to be an airplane,

When you wake up and see your sunrise
is actually sunset,

When you think you’ve got an answer
and it’s only my machine,

[Chorus]
You’ll know you’re lonely.

You’ll know you’re scared.

You’ll know that everything you’ve done
is far too far away to forgive.

If you could only see
that this is what you’d know if you were me,
then maybe I’d be able to sleep ‘til dawn.


[Verse 2]
When every breath you breathe out
stings like a cigarette,

And all of the floating fireflies
burn out like the embers they are,

When every dream prepares you
for a tomorrow that will never come,

[Chorus]
You’ll know you’re lonely.

You’ll know you’re scared

You’ll know that everything you’ve done
is far too far away to forgive.

If you could only see
that this is what you’d know if you were me,
then maybe I’d be able to sleep ‘til dawn.


[Bridge]
How many times did I abandon you when you were lost
How many hours did you spend thinking of me not thinking of you
How many faces did you pretend you didn’t see me make
Just to hold onto the hope that I’d get better.

[Chorus]
I know I’m lonely.

I know I’m scared.

I know that everything I’ve done
is far too far away to forgive.

And now I wish you’d see
that this is what you’d know if you were me.
I hope you will be able to sleep ‘til dawn.

Onto the next adventure

Tonight was officially my last evening working at Saucebox.

I wish I could say it felt bittersweet or something but the frank truth of the matter is that it's just that: frankly true.

It's not as if I'm going to quit seeing my friends from that place or that I'm going to be losing a valued means of income or some vital aspect of social connection.

I'm not too terribly traumatized by this change.
I feel a little numb about it.
I feel a little numb about everything right now.

Perhaps that will change as the weather continues to improve and I continue to finish all of the last bits of required work from this nearly through term of school.

I kind of hope so.

So, with all of the memories, strange occurrences, and mistakes as my souvenirs, I'm shipping off to new places, new people and new endeavors.

We'll see how long until I'm writing this same post about Portland as a whole.

My Cup Runneth Over

SUNDAY, MAY 11, 2008 - Gravida Hills, CA

...In other news, a Southern California suburb received a special Mother’s day gift this morning. Eight of them, in fact. At 6:36am, Gravida Hills resident, Ava Pleonexis successfully gave birth to octuplets via cesarean section at Gravida Hills General Hospital. Doctors present commented that the mother was surprisingly calm and composed during the 45 minute procedure.
A behavior not unprecedented considering Miss Pleonexis has been a frequent guest of the Gravida Hills delivery room, having visited for the births of six preceding children including a recent set of fraternal twins.
Now a mother of 14, 32 year-old Ava says she’s grateful for the blessing of so many healthy children.
Now turning to the local-

BZZZIP

Sally scowled sourly at the blank screen as the last static hum of color and image receded into the dark grey television tube.
“That bitch is going to make millions,” she thought to herself as she pulled her large frame from the wooden rocking chair, “and she’s probably not even a real Christian.”
Tossing the remote haphazardly over the back of the couch, Sally ambled into the kitchen where her husband Richard was sitting at the counter reading the Sunday paper. He was still wearing his sport coat while his favorite tie fell in a lopsided wilt where he had loosened it upon returning from church.
“Hey honey, did you see this article about the woman with the eight babies?”
Sally cringed visibly at his question as she retrieved a box of snack cakes from the cupboard above the sink,
“It was just on the news,” she replied with the enthusiasm of a recently crippled cheerleader, “I don’t think it’s fair! I’ve been wanting a baby of my own for years and she just gets eight all at once?!”
Her exclamation came out louder than she’d intended causing Richard to put down the paper.
“Sweetheart,” his tone was almost as deflated as her uterus, “I’m sorry I haven’t been able give you any children.”
“Well it would help if you actually tried every once in awhile!” she snapped while unwrapping the creme-filled cupcake.

They had the same argument every Mother’s day. When Richard Wiltington had first met Sally Baron the two of them agreed on one thing: Children. And lots of them. However, as a result of their strict adherence to premarital abstinence, neither had been given the opportunity to realize that Richard had a serious problem until after they were signed, sealed and committed.
Their wedding night had been nothing short of a travesty. After hours of coaxing, frisking, and multiple attempts at soggy felatio (she was desperate and she felt God would understand), Sally eventually went to sleep telling herself it was just Richard’s nerves. Richard went into the bathroom and cried.
With every following wedding anniversary and Mother’s Day, Sally and Richard’s hope for offspring diminished faster than Richard’s sperm count. As a means of filling the awkward void left by their painfully lacking sex life, Richard turned to various publications of the men’s study Bible while Sally turned to food. Richard’s avid studies eventually resulted in the publication of his own men’s devotional while Sally’s avid consumption resulted in her weighing over three hundred pounds. And now in their seventh year of being the only couple from their small group without a maternal excuse to miss the usual Sunday evening meeting (everyone else was having Mother’s Day brunch at Denny’s then doing something family-ish like picnicking or watching Veggie-Tales) the two of them felt ever more despondent over their shortcomings as good Christians.

“I’ve tried everything I can, dear,” Richard’s dejection was made all the more palatable by the cracking in his voice, “you know I have.”
Sally had to admit Richard’s efforts had been nothing short of valiant: prayer, counseling, and even a small amount of *gasp* masturbation (again, God would overlook it due to Sally and Richard’s honorable intentions).
“Oh, Richard,” Sally said through a mouthful of greasy chocolate cake, “I didn’t mean to come off so critically.” She had begun to feel terribly cruel for blowing up all over Richard when he was all but desperate to do the same for her.
“It’s just that we’re running out of excuses for the Quiverfull group. What are we going to say the next time they ask us what we’re doing to contribute to God’s army?”
“We can always say just what we’ve said before: we’re waiting until God tells us it’s our time,” Richard offered.
“I don’t think they’ll accept that much longer,” countered Sally, “and soon they’re going to ask us to leave the group. You know sometimes I think I ought to just...”
Sally’s voice trailed off.
“What,” asked Richard somewhat urgently, “you ought to just what?”
After a pregnant pause, Sally spoke, “I’m just saying that it might be a good idea for me to visit Dr. Foreman and discuss my options.” Sally neglected to look at what she knew would be an expression of dented pride on the waxy brow of her now crestfallen husband.
Long ago they had mostly ruled out the option of artificial impregnation. Richard said it felt emasculating. But Sally was desperate.
Another pause allowed Sally a fresh mouthful of frosting while Richard fought the building indignation that threatened to squeeze its way out of his well-used tear ducts. Sally swallowed and then went on, ignoring his display of weakness.
“If only I could just find a baby and bring it with us next week.” Richard shifted uncomfortably on his barstool.
“Don’t you think they’d be a little suspicious if you and I just showed up to group with a baby when you haven’t been pregnant at all up until now,” he asked.
“Not if we tell them we’ve been keeping it to ourselves,” Sally responded with an odd glint in her glassy eyes, the last of the snack cake now framing the corners of her chomping mouth. She continued while reaching for another cellophane-wrapped snack.
“We could say that we weren’t wanting to bring attention to ourselves and we could just tell them I don’t show easily!”
Her excitement was so thorough at this point that the still-wrapped snack cake had been squeezed to a nearly unrecognizable pulp.
“But where are we going to get this surprise baby,” Richard inquired without shielding his incredulity.
“I don’t know,” continued Sally, still elated by her strange plan, “that woman in Gravida Hills has fourteen kids! I’m sure she could do without one.” Sally’s gaze was now straight ahead looking at nothing in particular as she tore off the corner of the once decorative confection and proceeded to shovel the decimated morsels into her plump face.
Richard was beginning to feel slightly alarmed at his wife’s fervor and tried to think of a way to calm her down before she did something brash. The last time she had tried to scheme up a child she had proposed volunteering at the local Zoo’s lost and found and taking home any “leftover babies.”
It had taken Richard nearly two weeks and countless boxes of snack cakes to curb Sally’s “brilliant idea.” And as much as it pained him to suggest, Richard knew that the only way to convince Sally of an alternate course of action was to give her something she wanted.
And he was pretty sure that snack cakes wouldn’t do it this time.
“Why don’t you make an appoint with Dr. Foreman first thing tomorrow?”
Everything in the room stopped for a moment. Richard looked at Sally. Sally looked at Richard. A hefty squeeze of white filling dripped from the corner of Sally’s mouth and onto Richard’s paper.
“Really?” Sally’s inquisitiveness softened her slightly.
“Really,” responded Richard, relieved to see her calming down, “I mean, we don’t need to make any final decisions right away but it would be a good idea to know our options.”
“Richard, I- I-” Sally struggled to think of a way to express her gratitude to the waifish little man in front of her, “Thank you. With everything in me, (“and everything I hope to have in me,” she silently added), thank you.”
With that, she bounded from the room heading to her closet where she hoped to pick out the perfect muumuu for her visit to the Sperm Doctor.
Richard turned back to his paper, wiping the creme off of the photo of Ava Pleonexis adjacent to the article he had been reading.

* * * * *

Sally had arrived at Dr. Foreman’s office twenty minutes prior to her afternoon appointment. Having called just after dawn, she’d left several massages requesting to be put on the wait list in the event that any of the doctor’s Monday appointments happened to cancel stating that she was “very much anticipating him getting her pregnant”.
The receptionist called her just after 9am, immediately asking rather dryly if she knew that Dr. Foreman was a fertility specialist and not a male escort. Sally laughed a gooey and shrill staccato guffaw, informing the woman that she was fully aware of the doctor’s profession. If there’s one thing Sally was never called, it was quick.
The receptionist grudgingly proceeded to make an appointment for Sally in the early afternoon and then promptly hung up, bringing the call to a curt close by hurriedly informing Sally that the doctor would answer any questions she had during the appointment.
After two sizable breakfasts, a donut break, lunch, and an early first dinner, Sally didn’t have any other meals to distract her before the appointment so she ate some snack cakes and then drove herself downtown to the doctor’s office.
She busied herself in the waiting room by looking through the baby magazines she’d purchased along with her box of chocolate covered donuts from the gas station on the corner.
By the fourth time she approached the receptionist’s desk to ask about how soon the doctor would see her, the receptionist refrained from responding in speech and simply handed her a tissue from the box on her desk.
Sally took it gratefully, using it to noisily blow her nose. The receptionist had intended it for the donut crumbs on her cheeks.
Just then Dr. Foreman stepped through the door behind the desk and Sally’s already overhauled heart went into turbo as the anticipation overtook her massive form.
“Sally Baron-Wiltington,” his voice was immediately drowned out by the overzealous noise made by Sally. What was originally intended to sound something like “yes” or “here” came out as an elephantic trumpet blare of thrill and exuberance.
Dr. Foreman looked over his clipboard first at Sally and then at the receptionist with whom he shared a “what in the bloody Hell is this monolith doing in my waiting room” look.
He then escorted Sally with a saccharine smile into the first examination room where he stated that he would be with her shortly. Sally was so elated that she couldn’t sit still. She then decided it better if she get ready for the doctor before he returned in order to save time.

Dr. Jorge Foreman was an average man. Five foot ten, just under 190, full head of greying brown hair, and a job he really hated. With every new day he came into contact with more and more people so mindlessly oversexed and hopelessly irresponsible that he wished he could just diagnose them all as infertile and feed them cyanide tablets. If it weren’t for the fact that these greedy breeders paid his way to Hawaii and back twice a year, he would have quit years prior and tried his hand at acting.
No amount of acting could have disguised his reaction upon entering Sally’s room.
She stood in the middle of the white-walled space with her arms out stretched and her legs spread like a Staypuft marshmallow version of DaVinci’s man. And she was completely naked.
Jorge wanted to shut his eyes and turn around but it would have been no use. The ghastly image of Sally’s gargantuan form would be forever burned into his memory. He wanted to vomit.
“Miss Wiltington-”
“It’s Baron-Wiltington. There’s a hyphen,” interrupted Sally with an eager smile. Jorge was surprised she knew what a hyphen was.
“Miss Baron-Wiltington-”
“Misses Baron-Wiltington. I’m married. See?” She said, gesturing toward the ring on her left ring finger. Jorge noted that it was the only article she’d kept on. Most likely because she couldn’t remove it from her pudgy finger.
“Misses. Baron. Wiltington,” Jorge tried to maintain himself, “please put on your clothing. This is not a physical examination. I’m simply administering an intake.”
Sally’s whole demeanor shifted and it seemed like the cheer drained from her and she appeared to momentarily sag a bit more than usual. Jorge stepped out in order that she might sheepishly redress. Once she was finished and he reentered, the remainder of their interaction was terse and brief.
“Have you ever seen a fertility specialist before?”
“No.”
“Are you having a regular menstrual cycle?”
“Yes.”
“Does your family have a history of infertility?”
“No.”
“Are you presently sexually active?”
Silence.
Jorge looked up from his notes and realized that Sally was staring quite intently over his shoulder. Checking behind himself, Jorge noticed that the chart where she was looking depicted a cross-sectional rendition of a penis penetrating a vagina.
“Miss-” Jorge caught himself, “Mrs. Baron-Wiltington?”
Sally started slightly and looked at Jorge as if he’d just woken her from a light nap.
“I’m sorry, I must have gotten distracted,” Sally laughed nervously following the excuse and immediately began fumbling through her purse, retrieving a candy bar.
“Look,” began Jorge, “why are you really here?”
“I’m here for the same reason as anybody,” replied Sally overly cheerily as she focused on tearing open the wrapper, “I want to have a baby!”
Jorge thought carefully before responding, “Sally, have you thought about just why you want to have a baby?”
“Dr. Foreman,” said Sally with a tone of familiarity (he had seen her naked after all), “I don’t expect you to understand this but God wants me to have a child- well, children, really. We’re all called to have children in order to add to His holy army!”
Jorge was dumbfounded. Sally continued, “In the Bible, God calls us to have a family like a quiver full of arrows. Always at the ready to uphold His name.”
The contrast between the gravitas in her voice and the smile on her face made Jorge mildly uncomfortable. What had originally been meant as a heartfelt line of questioning had now become a venture into yet another form of the twisted psyche that made abortion clinics across the nation install bullet proof windows and escape tunnels. And Jorge was no longer interested in playing audience to an obese fundamentalist’s views on the holiness of parenthood.
“Well Mrs. Baron-Wiltington, that’s all well and good but I’m not sure if you’re at a point physiologically where it would be wise to attempt pregnancy. I’m recommending you receive a full physical- and psychological assessment from your family physician before I take you on as a prospective patient.”
Sally’s smile disappeared completely. She shoved the partially opened candy bar back into her purse.
“What do you mean I’m not at a good point? Are you saying I can’t get pregnant because I’m fat?!”
“Of course not,” Jorge responded quickly, “I’m simply stating that your body would be put through a great deal of additional duress if you were to conceive and it would be a good idea to understand how ready you are to sustain such rigors.”
Sally stared at Jorge’s face, blinking in surrender.
“I’ll have my receptionist make you a followup appointment for a month from now. Visit your personal practitioner for a check up and have him compile your results and send them to my office.”
Jorge removed a small set of stapled sheets from his clipboard.
“Give this examination sheet to your doctor and have him fill it out and send it back to my office. It will let me know whether or not I ought to continue with this procedure.”
Sally took the stack of paper cautiously and was about to place it in her purse as well but thought better of it and tucked the sheets beneath her arm instead.
“Thank you Doctor,” she said crisply as she stood to leave, “I can assure you that I am in excellent health and I’ll look forward to seeing you in a month.”
And with that, she left. Jorge sighed heavily and then went promptly to his desk to look up flight schedules to Hawaii. Just after he instructed the receptionist to have calls from Sally’s home number blocked.

* * * * *

Arriving home, Sally felt humiliated. The dream doctor she had cooked up in her head was nothing like the hateful little prick she’d just experienced. Not at a good point? Who the Hell was he to tell here whether or not she should have a baby? His job was to give her one and then step off. At present, she felt he had failed on both counts.
The real truth of the matter was that she knew her physician would say just what he had been saying for the past seven years: “You need to stop the compulsive eating, do some serious cardio, and embrace your sex life.”
Embrace her sex life? She might as well have been telling Sally to go buy a vibrator (something Sally had seriously considered on multiple occasions but never gone through with on account of God’s frowning on the idea). And that made Sally think of Richard. What would she tell him? She couldn’t bear to admit after all of the nagging and pleading that finally visiting the fertility doctor had yielded little more than a much needed membership to Weight Watchers.
As it was, she was home and so was he. The men’s devotional had garnered them a series of handsome royalty checks which permitted Richard to work only part time while spending the rest of his week hunched over the computer composing his next brilliant gem of Christian self help literature. She would need to tell something. Preferably something impressive.
“I’m pregnant!” She squealed.
It just popped out.
“You’re what?!” Richard nearly fell over from standing so quickly.
There was no going back now, Sally was stuck in this one.
“Yeah, pregnant! I, uh, I need to, uh, go in for a, um, series of hormone treatments over the next few months. Yeah, and, um, well...” Sally was unsure how to continue so she just decided to stop there.
Richard slowly sat back down, lowering his head into his hands. Neither spoke for several minutes. Richard just kept raising his head and opening his mouth like he was ready to say something only to close it and lower his head again. Finally, he spoke.
“How could you do this without me?” There were years of hurt and volumes of disbelief in his disparaging voice.
“Oh, Richard,” Sally was caught somewhere between comforting and conniving, “it wasn’t without you. I, um, I felt like I would have your blessing on this. It’s for our quiver.” She finished in what she hoped he would take to be a complimenting and fulfilling tone.
“Whose sperm was it? How do you know for sure? Why do you need more hormones? What about my hormones? Will it even be my baby?” The questions flowed out of Richard like bathtub faucet water.
“It was an, um, anonymous donor,” Sally began to realize that she was in way over her head.
“An anonymous donor?!” Richard’s volume shot into unpracticed heights, “how in the world could you accept the seed of some man you’ve- we’ve never met?!”
“Doctor Foreman assured me that it was a good choice!” Sally knew she was going to need to do some fancy footwork to get out of this. And for someone who had difficulty navigating stairs due to sheer tonnage, the prospect was daunting at best.
“Doctor Foreman? I’ve never even met this Doctor Foreman. What’s the number to his office? I’m calling to talk to that sonuvagun right now!”
Sally suddenly saw the end of her pride (and possibly her marriage) in shockingly close proximity and began to panic.
“But- but-” Sally knew her number was up. Sighing, she resigned to imminent defeat. She handed Richard the stack of papers from Doctor Foreman’s office and he snatched them from her with the passion of a man on a mission.
Riffling through the stack, he quickly found the page with the office’s contact information and tore it out allowing the remaining sheets to fall on the floor.
As he dialed Sally held her breath. There was nothing she could do now. She was so worried she didn’t even want to eat. Richard waited with the receiver to his ear, his face scrunched into a vengeful grimace.
He waited.
And waited.
“There’s no ring,” he finally said. Sally let the breath she’d been holding out. She was safe for a moment.
“I’ll try again,” said Richard with determination. And once again Sally was rocketed into the tension only someone caught in their own trap can experience.
And again there was no ring. Sally knew better than to think it was all over just like that. As Richard reached for the received to dial a third time the digital tone of an incoming call startled both of them causing Richard to actually fall down this time taking Sally with him (no easy task considered her weight being twice his).
While Richard struggled to snatch up the call, Sally had begun to pick herself up when something caught her eye. What was left of the stack of papers from the doctor’s office laid in a disheveled pile just beneath the chair Richard had been sitting in. Sally overheard him standing above her speaking with some level of returning calm and realized that the caller was Andy Watersworth, the leader of their Sunday small group. Neither Richard nor Sally could afford to have their church group know they had been fighting, much less about pregnancy. What would the group think?
Sally was temporarily relieved, assuming that the men would be talking for awhile. This allowed her to direct her attentions to the papers on the floor. As she reached her husky forearm through the legs of both her husband and the chair, she made sure not to disturb him so as to cause his attention to be drawn downward.
Pulling the leaves of wrinkled print to where she could better decipher them, she saw that there was handwriting on the back side of the second sheet from the top of the stack. As she read over it she felt a shiver of excitement and disbelief all at the same time. The writing read:

Ava Pleonexis
1649 SW Clearhaven Ct.
Gravida Hills, CA 91341

* * * * *

(To be continued)

When one makes oneself lonely

I'm tired of banishing everyone and everything to Hell.

I feel like a heinous and critical bastard.

I'm realizing with each new day that I'm seeming like more and more of a hateful and judgmental fiend and I'm begin to reap the crop of self-sustained bitterness I've been sowing.

This is something that I've always feared.
This feeling that I'm unintentionally pushing everything away from me at the behest of my disparaging review of the world at large.

Why can't I just shelve some of this incredulity and be happy?
But even when I pose such an open ended question I'm reminded that I don't want others in my age to "just be happy", I want them to be incited!

I want them to be angry with the contorted way in which this country is being operated and the idiotic priorities we've all been bred to embrace.

And yet I don't want to be miserable.

What the Hell do I do?

A short, short story

Claiborne wanted nothing more than to eat.
But he couldn't because he was allergic to most sugars and a number of wheats as well.
He was also destitute.
When he happened upon either money or moderately fresh dumpster foods he was doomed to the leafy boredom of mixed greens and the occasional dance on the wild side with a bit of tasty (although gas-inducing) cheese.

One day he found a marvelous hunk of lavender bread in the wicker garbage bin behind the local boulangerie. And although he knew full well that it would be a nearly suicidal thing to consume, he raised the slightly crusty baguette to his lips and was shot in the back by a passing policeman who thought he was strangling a snake.

He died in a pool of his own blood.
But not before eating the entirety of the lavender loaf with what little life he had left after the negligent and trigger-happy officer did him in.

The End

Oh, the (strange) cleverness of me

I've only just arrived from a thrilling walk home from work.
I say thrilling with every intent of corroboration.

I was alone. Truly alone.
I had my music and the knowledge of a warm, secluded space of my own to comfort me as I fought the bitter cold.

And step after step, song after song,
I arrived safely at my perch.

Here I sit, realizing with a warm gratitude, the things I have to be incredibly thankful for.
I have a home, a wonderful, perfect home with a loving and trustworthy best friend.
I also have a comfortable bed and glorious IKEA sheets that always remind me of Michelle.

On that note, I have Michelle.
She's kind, caring, full of honest and uninhibited love, and she's so heartbreakingly beautiful.

Following in like manner, I have Sean.
He's in every way the man of my dreams.
(Don't scoff at either the cliche nor my unhindered fawning).
He's so understanding and patient. He's so bravely vulnerable and willfully thoughtful.
He's humble and witty, handsome and sweet.
And I love him.

So much.

Sometimes, when I'm alone and all around me still seems to be in the midst of chaos, I just think of the times we've been asleep on each other's limbs. The calm and quiet of lessened bloodflow can lead to a queer and riveting sense of euphoria.

And to think we've only just begun to discover it.

And what a journey it promises to be.

Goodnight.

Round 1b

After having bumbled my way through the intake assessment at the PSU Center for Student Health & Counseling (or SHAC as it is commonly referred to) I have to say that I felt a little trepidatious about going back for a second appointment with a new counselor.
The prospect of re-introducing my self-diagnosis as a bitter misanthrope was less than appealing.

However, upon stepping into the SHAC waiting room I began to feel the knots in my shoulders loosen a bit. Little did I know that the soon-to-begin session would provide an even grander denouement.

I was greeted a few minutes after my scheduled time by David, a shorter graying man with a light beard that resembled lambswool. He had crystal blue eyes that revealed a youthfulness and honesty which I immediately found welcoming.

He seemed like one of those guys who kind of always knew that he was cool even though no one necessarily nominated him for prom king. Like he didn't even think of needing anyone. He even swore a couple of times during our session which only added to my collective liking for him. And yet throughout the entire interaction he maintained such a patronly and available nature.

He was like salted caramel: sweet and soft with a savory, serious edge.

After our greeting, David and I strolled down the open hallway between the various offices and potted plants until we reached his door halfway down on the right. He had a geometric rug and two comfortable but subdued chairs in a well lit office with vaulted ceilings and a sizable window. I was glad to have the natural light.

The session itself commenced with David asking me to describe to him why I decided to request counseling at this time.
I was off like a shot.
I spoke of school's innocuousness and the belabored efforts of making enough money for rent and bills in light of this purportedly problematic economy and then transitioned into my underwhelming impression of the United States as a whole.
After continuing on in like fashion for the duration of the hour-long meeting (punctuated consistently by David's polite interjections and reflections) I realized that I felt incredible.
Everything in me was opening up and breathing and I felt fully porous, like air could move through my entire body cleansing the built up residue of anger and indignant dissatisfaction with the status quo.
Granted, it's not all gone just yet. However I feel a strong sense of optimistic and anticipatory potential about this guy, this process.

In hopes of gaining still more of said optimism, I plan on maintaining this counseling relationship and writing about it along the way.

At least something in my organic life is interesting enough to garner my attentions and written reflection.

Photo Flashback

In a surprising and cheerful recent instance of serendipity, I happened to come back into contact with the woman who played witness to the valiant reclamation of my absconded bicycle last Summer.

She is mentioned in the entry where I detail the event because she happened to take my picture that day and, since it was something of a random request, it stuck in my mind gaining placement in the formal storyline.

Well it just so happens that this charming and lovely woman still had the photos she'd taken of me that day and was kind enough to send them to me in order that I might document them for all cyber-eternity.

These skimpy shorts are what allowed me the speed necessary for abducting the thief.

This look of prideful
charm and boyish confidence
is actually farcical
considering that just behind
me is a neglected bike about
to be made off with by
some drunken crook!

And once again,
hubris incarnate.

I promise I did learn
not to be so ridiculously
full of myself as a result
of the trauma sustained
from this adventure.

The Sad Case of a Much-Needed Separation

Judy Peal never really believed in God. She played church so well that she married a preacher and lasted a whole 11 years with him before she ran out of energy and will. You can imagine what a depression might come with the realization that you had just divorced the self induced-poison of faith in false conventions such as prophecy. She still managed to get herself through a dark phase of loneliness and confusion with the determination of someone whose prophetic faith in nature could trump the status quo.
It was like being a non-weight bearing beam in a frivolously gaudy steeple and cross; you ran a thorn of pointless venom through the otherwise elegant and necessary structure. And one might only imagine the drawings of such wasted plans to be a thing of sheer squalor and deeply set ink from a lengthy and belabored concocting of such shameless indulgence. Judy tended to think of herself as shameless and indulgent, too.
The idea that she was leaving a man and a marriage which were both rooted to an unwavering piety soaked through her like spilt coffee through a thin cloth napkin.
There would be metric weight for a guilt of that inescapable magnitude. In fact, the ripple effect that such a sensation would wrack upon the surface any mistaken perception would issue tremors of the the most thoroughly unfamiliar and puzzling new kind. It would be a masochistic thirst. Like stealing a firm press on a dark bruise just to feel alive. So alive that it might be called thorough. What a beautiful detail indeed.

And in this was found the moment outside of a moment...




...but not really.

A Magnificent Death of Perfection

There’s a childish romance to be had of the world. If not us then who? If not now then when? The beauty of such immediacy is in its drive. And from that we derive our daily enthusiasm.
Why have we pushed so far away from the simplicity of innocence and naivety? The answer would seem simple- “we wanted to” - but there are some things that just beg for explaining.
Yes, we wanted to. But it’s just not as cut and dried as all that. Why did we want to? If you’re growing weary of all of the open ended questions I’ll do my best to put them at a halt from here on out.
Back on topic: We wanted to because the idea of imperfection was enticing. It was juicy and annoying like your fingers just after eating an orange. But we always thought we could just lick our hands cleaned and they would dry soft and dexterous just like before. We didn’t know, we’re at present having a hard time understanding, that none of this bland and massive stress is actually as overbearing as we’re permitting it to be with our greed, selfishness, and misguidance.
We wanted to because we thought that breaking status quo would in some way paint our lives just a little brighter instead of being placated by the peace of normalcy.

Now is not normal.

Now is when we do have to start making an effort to break trends and stray from our current path. We do have to rebel against the conventional. Because conventional as we know it is in an irreversible state of entropy and painful decay.
Stray from material things. Stray from a need for money. Stray from the idea that you’re better than someone based on your belongings. These are the ropes that lash us to our downward spiral fate. We must act out and cut ourselves away with the blade of a keen new vision.

We must return to a state of community and cooperation. This is quite a euphoric notion and yet I assure you, for some it is quite possible. Likely, even. But right now is our final stage of struggle before truly embracing peace. Be intentional about your contribution to the convalescence of our age. Love and cherish. Be free from the weak yet blinding constructions of a scared and enmeshed worldview. Open yourself to the fresh air of critical thought and thorough examination. We are a future of change and progress.

If only we choose to be.

How did I know?

Whenever I feel like things are getting so terribly rotten that I won't be able to stomach eating my way out of them, some random happenstance affects my whole perspective and I'm allowed to let go of the ever-present tension in my stomach and just relax into the normalcy of life.

And then something poisons that and I'm flung into despair all over again.

And then I'm happy.

And then I'm sad.

Are you seeing the same innocuous pattern I am?

I guess what's becoming so overwhelming is the idea that this rise-and-fall roller coaster won't ever stop. And once you've been on the same ride for, oh, I don't know, let's say 47 go-arounds, it sort of loses its thrill.

I'm at the point where the sharp drops and dizzying spins no longer hold any anticipatory excitement for me.
I just dread the next nice day for whatever horror will doubtless follow.

This is getting silly.

Just one more day

I'm heading to bed after a full day and evening.

Following yet another lengthy session of discussing just how much garbage we all ought to be filtering to try and maintain a generally balanced idea of the world at large, I came into a somewhat comprehensive sense of exhaustion.

Thus, I stopped by work to bid Matt a farewell (yes, I feel like a big person for having done so) and then I kissed and hugged Sean and made my way home.

En route I stopped at Safeway where I procured a number of necessities such as several cans of tuna, two gallons of discount ice cream, and a plethora of avocados.

No, I'm not planning on eating them all at the same time.

I then hiked the 10 or so blocks back to my apartment, laden with the trappings of school and nourishment (a heavy book bag and an equally heavy paper grocery sack).

Upon arrival at my home, I unloaded the unnecessaries and set to work in the kitchen making myself some delicious chicken noodle soup with dill dumplings.
As much as this might sound like the title to an episode of Little Rascals, it was actually quite sumptuous and I drank my weight in water throughout the course of the day so I rushed to slurp down the last few doughy blobs before jetting to my semi-archaic (two light bulbs burnt out) bathroom to relieve myself.

Once THAT was done I continued watching Stardust which I had started when I first sat down to my oh so filling dinner. And then Tommy showed up with his own entertainment contribution: Zach and Miri Make a Porno.

I was expecting something quirky and a bit mediocre and I'll note that I was neither impressed nor disappointed.

Now, following the completion of the dishes and a thorough bout of oral hygiene, I am slowly fading into pre-sleep which I will further strengthen by reading Watchmen.

God, I miss reading.

Right around the corner

Having just finished perusing NPR's article on the drastic lows in Wall Street, I have to say I'm growing more and more worried about the state of my current inability to garden effectively.

I feel like I ought to have been fostering the growth of a smattering of nutrient-rich vegetables and perhaps even raising some chickens what with the soon-to-burst balloon of debt this whole country seems all too blithe to keep inflating.

I'm just waiting for the day that I wake up to find that there have been countless runs on the banks and all of the numbers in my online bank accounts are simply that: numbers.
Meaningless, valueless, pointless numbers.

Then again, maybe that's just my problem: I'm just waiting.
Maybe that's all of our problem.

Seriously though, when I ask myself what it is I'm actually doing to counteract or at least prepare for these declining times I come up with precisely squat.

This is simply not acceptable.

Sitting in a class where we talk about media

I'm finally jumping into a class that compels me (just a little).

Me and a small cadre of my die-hard Speech Comm friends are currently sitting in our favorite basement dungeon classroom getting ready to embark on a weekend crash course in journalistic bias and contemporary media literacy.

This may sound like a mouthful but the truth is that it's an amalgamation of many topics we've all already addressed in individual form via various and sundry other courses.
Needless to say I'm very much anticipating what these next three days are going to have in store for us.

For once I'm excited about school.

And just when things couldn't get any bleaker

In the last week I've spent a few nights battling insomnia, a few mornings battling anxiety, and an afternoon or two wishing I could just ditch this conventional little life and run off to Barbados.

Seeing as how that's not likely to present itself as a realistic option at any point in the near future, I've decided to stop being unhappy for awhile.
Lord knows I deserve the break.

Not to mention I'm less than 5 months away claiming my hard earned degree, I have a beautiful and enriching group of close friends, I'm in an incredible relationship with one of the most handsome and adoring people I've ever encountered, and I still have all of my fingers and teeth...unless you count the curiously named wisdom molars.

All in all I don't have it too bad.
Sure, I have some debts (who doesn't and no, I wasn't asking you Amish people), I have a less than ideal job, and my iPhone freezes up sometimes.
Boo-hoo, I'm a such a martyr.

The fact is that I allow myself to become entirely too ensnared by the complications of wanting something I don't have, not wanting some I do, and wishing that I could gratify my desires in the blink of an eye.
I'm pretty sure prolonged attitudes like these will give you cancer.

I don't want cancer.

I like my hair.

A lot of people like my hair.

Like senior citizens.

And I would feel horrible disappointing them.
They lived through the depression.

I'm simply stating that I need to stop being such a wet blanket and live a little more fully.
That said, it's time for me to sleep.
Pleasant dream, me.

Sitting in a class where we talk about beer

I'm getting really tired of how much class time we spend just for the sake of filling up a period.
If there is anything I really cannot stand it's unnecessary use of time.

Why waste my effort, attention, and valuable time? (Yes, I would consider my time to be a very valuable thing.)

I'm not saying that what we do with the nebulous time is always of no value whatsoever, and yet I feel as if I ought to be allowed to choose whether or not I am willing to partake in the non-salient discussions.

I'm almost finished for God's sake.
I'm tired of merely meeting criteria.
My college experience is supposed to be saturated with learning new and innovative ways of thinking by being presented with scintillating concepts.

This is inanity.
(Ever notice how that word is one "s" away from "insanity"?)

Perhaps I'm just jaded.
Scratch the perhaps.
I am.

In a time of trial and apology

I've received two rather noteworthy apologies today.
And after spending the last several months constantly being the one doing the apologizing, it's a very refreshing and enlivening position to hold.

That said, I just finished a response to Maekol's ex-boyfriend, Sam's note of apology for some rudeness on his part during last week and I felt it warranted placement in my blog along side my other documentings of time's passage.


Sam,

I accept and appreciate your apology.
I'll admit I was made slightly uncomfortable by your insistence on coming over the other night mainly because I don't ever like being put into a situation where I have little to no choice in the matter.
I just find it to be without consideration on the part of the one making the demand and it is quite rude.

That said, I wanted to extend my own apology for saying that you were drunk. I must have misunderstood you during our phone conversation that night. There was a point in the discourse where I believed you to have mentioned that you were "trashed."
You very well might have said something like "trapped" or been commenting on everyone around you. Whatever the case, my misunderstanding led to me conveying an untruth to Maekol in my discussion of the situation.
For that, I am sorry.

I'm happy to know that you're looking to be civil and can see it in your message. However, considering the present situation in regard to your talking with Michaela about Maekol's and Tommy's frustrations with her, I must admit that I have begun to consider you with a moderate amount of wariness.

I'm glad to hear that you apologized to Tommy for speaking out of turn but at the same time, Michaela is still refraining from speaking directly with the boys as a result of your unnecessary input and that frustrates and disappoints me on behalf of all 3 of my friends who are now hurting because of the complexities of the situation.
This is not meant as a roundabout way of placing some kind of blame on you by any means. This is me making sure to let you know why it is I have grown more standoffish toward you of late.

I haven't harbored ill will for you in any fashion previously and this time period is more sensitive because of how much I am seeing what's conspired as a result of gossip hurting Tommy and Maekol.
As you are well aware, Maekol is my best friend.
I love him very, very much and hate to see him hurting.
Thus, when he is hurt, I am very protective and defensive against those involved in inflicting the upset.

Unfortunately, in this situation you happened to be a part of the source of that upset warranting the raising of my guards.

I, too would like to be civil in this but simultaneously I think it's understood that while we are able to get along, we've got conflicting positions with regard to what's best for this group of friends.

I understand that you're in something of a strenuous time of life what with relocation, joblessness, and a general sense of lacking direction. There are numerous external factors contributing to your difficulties right now and those things are acknowledged as being out of your control.
And yet, in lieu of working out a definite plan of long term action for yourself, I would advise that you focus on the small victories.

-Find some kind, any kind of employment (I know it's incredibly difficult to do so in the current state of things but it's not impossible and the ability to support yourself will be rewarding and maturing.)

-Find housing outside of your present situation (From what I've been told by both you and those around you, you're far from happy there and the people who reside with you sound as if they're heavily detracting from your ability to find success.)

-Assist in the diplomatic repair of Michaela's relationship with two of her closest and dearest friends (Whether this means re-couching the things you imparted about Tommy's and Maekol's opinions or simply stepping out of their triad long enough for them to clarify and heal everything solely within themselves.)

These things will each provide you with an individual sense of completion and accomplishment. Thus, you'll find yourself working toward realistic goals and ensure your own growth of inward peace, self-satisfaction, personal security, and maturity of behavior.

Considering the fact that we are all on the same path toward these common goals, understand that I'm not singling you out by advising these things. I'm doing the same for myself, as it Maekol, as is Tommy, as is Michaela.

Be intentional, be considerate, make a point of thinking carefully about the ways in which your actions consequentially affect those around you. And avoid inflating anything to a higher level of sensationalism than necessary. Just take everything you encounter with a grain of salt and focus on the essentials as opposed to making light of the frivolousness of gossip and melodrama.

I think you'll find yourself in a much happier place.

I have no qualms about being your friend but you must understand that I've made a decisive point of surrounding myself only with people who edify and encourage me and those I love.
If ever a person begins to detract from the well being of those I care about and/or myself, I hold them at an arm's length until they either make amends for wrongdoing or prove their integrity consistently improving their behavior.

I know I've left you with quite a lot to consider.
Just think on it.

Please feel free to ask me any questions you might have.

Sincerely,
Noah

The end of a very long day

Here I sit in somber dejection.

I told myself that today would be surprisingly productive and that I would feel surprised by the fact that I'd accomplished so much.

Well, I got my wish...and I missed the concert I've been looking forward to for weeks.
Granted, I did get a fair amount of random shit dealt with and finished.
None of it was terribly well done, but at least it's done.

So bleak, the revelation

I came to a solid conclusion this evening:
I've set unrealistic goals for myself and they are bringing me down.

In perusing the scraps of information I have concerning my future, I'm constantly gripped with a paralyzing sense of suspension.
It's like I'm dangling in some transparent vacuum space above and between all that I want to be and do, and yet without ground or walls off of which to propel myself I am left to unceremoniously look at everything I hope for without any conceivable momentum toward its obtainment.

One would think that making this statement about my own future would damn me to a self-induced sense of victimhood, and yet that's just the answer.
I would be the cause of it.
In this same vein of thought and flow of logic it would only be sensible to think that I could just as easily be the cause of my own success, of my own attaining of high merit, my own victory.

I long for championship.

And now, as my own propellant I can release myself from the arbitrary bonds of flawed plans rife with expectation and obligation.
I can be free to redefine my goals and ultimately myself.

This is a time for shaping and shaving.
Chipping away the larger portions of my accrued worry and self-doubt, I'll then begin to sand my new shape into smooth satisfaction by means of the sanding of flexibility and will to accept all that is unchangeable and a hope to discover just what can be altered.

Limits only exist where failure is perceived.

That's my new maxim.
Get it tattooed.
Just credit me.

In bed under the covers at 11:06am

Morning.
A time for worry,
when the dog's weight on blanketed feet feels so confining.

No amount of pulling will
raise the neatly tucked sheets
over my head.

Yes, my eyes are open.
No, I am not awake.
But I am not sleeping.

I am worrying.

Worrying over my worrying.
A vicious cycle.
And I am pinned beneath the comforter
like a teddy bear who is missing his button eyes.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.