content

I've been thinking about rebranding my blog, possibly even renaming it.  I've had this thing for close to four years now and I get very little traffic and few comments so I must be doing something wrong.

My number one mistake is that I don't advertise my blog.  I could use Facebook and Twitter but I haven't done that yet.  The main reason is because the blog is too personal for people I know in real life to read it.  Isn't it funny how I'd rather perfect strangers read my most intimate thoughts rather than friends and family and coworkers?  Well, I guess it's not that funny because I talk about most of them.  It makes sense that I wouldn't want them to read it.

I also think about how awkward it is having other people I know reading about my business.  I give the entire world access to my mind but that's only if they can find it.  If people stumble upon my madness, that's fine.  I'm just not handing out invitations.

So, where does that leave me?  I could start another blog that's not as personal, one where I talk about my writing and future books and throw in some sporadic introspection.  Or, I could take this blog and scale back on the personal stuff and focus more on promotion.

I hope to release my first book by the end of the year and inside I'd like to put a link to this blog.  I hope that will bring some traffic here but I just don't know if I want to keep my blog name.  It expires early next month so I have a chance to change it.  If I'm going to, this is the time to do it.

The name of my blog and the blog itself was spawned from my death.  The name was good because to me, it surmised what the blog and my life/death was all about, which was constant decay day after day.  But now that I'm alive again, it feels like time for a change.  And I think I need to change my blog name to something a bit less gloomy.  While I think the everyday entropy concept still applies, I'm not sure of the accessibility of the name.

But there are some problems with changing the name/site.  First of all, I write because I have to get things off my chest.  It's my therapy and if I have to hide things or pull back on certain aspects of my writing to protect the feelings of those who might read it, then the writing wouldn't be as effective to me.  I don't want to have to censor myself because that is too much work.  It's hard enough organizing my thoughts into (hopefully) coherent writings so I couldn't imagine having to take said writings and then edit them for content.  It wouldn't feel genuine.

I write about so many dark things and I just don't want people to think I'm morbid.  Oh wait, I am.  So I guess it doesn't matter what they think 'cause they'd be right. 

There's also the worry that by changing my name and/or content, I might lose the small readership that I do have.  What if people can't find me anymore?  Naturally, I would give ample notice to the changes but what if the casual reader who doesn't come by that often doesn't get that notice?

As I was writing this, I tried researching how easy it would be to change my name and it seems a lot more complicated than I thought.  You've got your dead links and affiliate domains and other cyber language I cannot understand so I'd rather just keep the name until I'm more educated with this whole interwebs thing.

I still have the content to contend with, though.  Should I pull back or push forward?  Should I take a giant leap and put all of myself out there or keep some of the privacy?  Or should I do nothing and not advertise through social networking sites and just let people come to me?

connection

I've always been a lonely person.  My secluded childhood coupled with my crippling insecurity has carved out a hole for me that I've lived in for far too long.  But there have been times when I've popped my head up out of the ground and found people I considered interesting, people I wanted to connect with and befriend.  And in my own ways, I've tried.  Fighting against my lack of sociability, I've made attempts at connecting with people, whether it be professional or platonic and it seems like nothing ever materializes.

Throughout the years, I learned that I can't just hope for people to come to me.  I have to reach out more and more.  I have to put myself out there, as scary as it is, to make myself known.  And I've done that.  The results have been less than spectacular.

One of the benefits of social networking websites is that I am able to discover people with similar interests, people that just do not live in my area.  I've found creative people with a passion for art and it's refreshing and at times even comforting to go to their page or blog and read about them and realize that there are other people out there who strive to deliver art and beauty and a message to the world.

But discovering these people puts me in a vulnerable position.  When I find talent, I usually find those who are more talented than I am. Naturally, I think I'm dreadful but talent is mostly subjective, no?  I might be every bit as good or at least good in a different way than these people but all I can see is the glaring gap between what they are capable of and what I can do.  And that makes it hard to reach out.  I fear being rejected or outright ignored.

The worst part is my fears usually come true.

When I do manage to muster up the strength to put myself out there and make myself known to someone I admire, it usually starts off well enough but eventually tapers off into the person either dismissing, replacing, or ignoring me.  Sometimes the connection is strong, while other times it's tepid at best.  Sometimes it lasts for years and sometimes just a few months.  But it all ends the same.  They move on and I'm left wondering why.

My insecurity has to play a major factor.  How many times can people hear about someone being so down on themselves?  For me, I just feel like I need to point out my inadequacies before anyone else can.  I need people to know how aware I am of my talents and limitations.  For me, that gives me some sort of control over what people think of me because I am preoccupied by what others think.

I do this with both my physical appearance and artistic talents.  I have to beat people to the punch when it comes to judging me.  If I point out my big belly or balding head before anyone else can, it makes me feel like they know I'm not oblivious.  It makes me feel a little less stupid because they don't have one over on me.  They can't say "who does this guy think he is?" because they know exactly who I think I am.

I was always shy and reserved about  my abilities because I knew there were people out there so much better than me.  It made me wonder what the point of my abilities were when there were people out there who did it so much better.  For example, why read Twilight when you have Dracula, know what I'm saying?

But I suppose I just answered my own question.  Everyone has their own tastes and maybe Twilight appeals to something in people that Dracula can't reach.  Maybe that's the way it is with art in general.  Different formats and styles work for different people.  I might not be as sophisticated of a writer or as realistic as some artists but that doesn't mean I can't appeal to some people, right?  But because I am so down on myself, I can't seem to be fine with just average talent, even if I do reach an audience.  Do I want to be popular or prestigious?

Any time I get involved with someone artistic, I always like to make sure they know I'm not flaunting myself as the next big thing, or anything at all, really.  I know what I can and cannot do, my limitations and the contributions that I think I can make when it comes to creative endeavors.  I need people to know where I see myself in the art world so they don't think I think I'm better than I am because that just seems embarrassing.  I don't want to endorse garbage or claim to be an amazing writer or artist and then ultimate disappoint when it comes to my actual work.

That insecurity might be my undoing when it comes to forming professional relationships.  I can't be relied on to contribute a competent critique or give a unique perspective on a project.  Most artistic people want to be surrounded by those who are like-minded, by people who can help them grow, who, even if they might be not as talented or even talented in a different kind of way, can at least hold their own.  Artists, and people in general, have no use for the insecure who need a pat on the back and a quick ego stroke to move forward in life.

Hm.

I've realized that I've lost a lot of people who have mattered to me.  I've managed to keep some acquaintances over the years but it's only because I was never that invested, always kept them at arm's length, never opened myself up in such a way as to allow them to get to know the real me, or rather the realest me that I can come up with because I don't even know who the real me is.

It's the other people, the ones I opened myself up to, the ones I slowly learned to trust, who have gone away and I can't blame them.  When someone gets closer to the heart of me, it becomes scary.  It becomes frustrating having to constantly soothe and satisfy and it's all together not fun to deal with.  And so they get busy or slowly taper off the conversations until things have flickered out. 

And that's fine. 

If I could end the relationship I have with myself, I probably would as well.

my crotch looks like pinhead

While at work the other day, I came back from lunch and used the bathroom.  I looked down to unzip and realized I was already unzipped.  I thought it was kind of odd but assumed I must have forgotten to zip up the last time I went to the bathroom.  When I was done, I went to zip up and realized my zipper was down not because I had forgotten to zip up but because it was broken.

I darted to the desk behind my counter and called every department I could think of and asked them if they had any safety pins.  No one did.  I sneaked over to the break room where all the managers were having a conversation.  I didn't want to call to everyone's attention that my fly was wide open so I went back to the desk and found some straight pins.

Knowing it was a long shot, I weaved the pin between the two pieces of fabric, hoping it would keep my fly closed.  Not only did it not work but I poked...uh, myself...several times.

I had to go back to the conversing managers and ask them if they had any safety pins.

"Did your pants split?" one of the managers asked.

"Not exactly," I said.  "I did have a wardrobe malfunction, though.  My zipper just broke."

"Oh, gosh, yeah, let's see if we can find any."

A few minutes later, they scrounged up some safety pins for me and someone even found some needle and thread.  I went back to the bathroom to apply the pins.  I didn't know how hard it would be to pin my pants back together while wearing them.  It took about twenty minutes for me to put in four safety pins.  Plus, I did a lot more accidental poking.  Ouch!

By the time I was done, it looked terrible.  Not only did my fly not lie flat but you could see the safety pins poking out, especially from the side view.  It was not going to work.

I went and grabbed the needle and thread, and with no idea how to sew anything, went back in and hunched over to my crotch and began the delicate and tedious work of sewing up my fly.

My back began to ache and the bathroom started to grow hot and muggy.  The thread either kept snapping off or came out of the eye of the needle.  I spooled out a bunch of thread to make sure I had enough to sew but I unraveled too much and the thread got all tangled up in the teeth of the zipper.  Sweat dropped off my nose and I felt a shooting pain down my back.

It was not going well.

Eventually, I thought I had sewed up the fly pretty well.  But I had a spool of thread hanging out of my crotch.  I didn't know how to cut the thread without loosening it so I just cut it and sure enough, after my first couple of steps, the thread loosening and my fly was just as open as it was before I began the laborious process of sewing that sucker shut.

I gave up.  I only had a little over an hour of work left so I just hid behind the counter to mask my exposure.

Check out this mess.  With all that  mangled metal so close to my scrotum, it looks like I'm emulating Albert Fish. 

hands to grow

I'll admit I'm quick to judge others but I also judge myself quite harshly.  I think a part of my constant frustration with myself and my constant annoyance with my life in general is just the fact that I cannot be content with anyone's character, including my own.  I tend to pick up on (what I think is) everyone's flaws.  I have this idea in my head of how everyone should act and no one quite lives up to my expectations.  But I can't blame anyone because I can't live up to my own, either.

One of my big problems is I'm incredibly selfish.  Yes, I'm constantly considering others and their feelings but only because I know I'm supposed to, that it's the Christian thing to do, that it's what is right.  But I don't naturally move in that direction.  In fact, one of the only reasons I do consider other people's feelings is because I know I will feel guilty if I don't.  So even the kindness is driven by selfishness.

But I don't want to be selfish.  I want to help people because I feel they deserve it, because I genuinely want to, because I want them to be happy, not because I'm trying to spare my own feelings.

But more than that, I wish I could find someone in particular to help.  I want to have someone I genuinely care about more than myself.  I want to find someone to love and take care of, someone I could offer myself to, give my head and my heart and my hands to help them grow.  I want to find someone I'd be willing to die for, but maybe more importantly, someone I'd be willing to live for.

Of course there's the bonus of having that person make me feel good, too, but I don't think I'm even looking for that.  Sure, it would be great to feel special but I want to be the one to make someone else feel special.  I need to know I actually do possess the ability to care and to feel like I can make a difference in someone's life.  That I might just mean something to someone.

When I was younger, I used to feel I needed to be loved.  Now, I just need to feel human.  But what comprises a human?  Love must play some part.  But is it more important to be loved, to be shown that you're not the monster you've been led to believe you are?  Or is it more important to be the one to love, to see that there is a heart inside your chest that can actually operate just like any other?

I just think it would be nice to take care of someone.  It would be nice to be needed.  It would be nice to know I made a difference, an impact, or even some semblance of an influence.  It's my way of finding meaning.  It's my way of trying to make some kind of sense out of my existence.  I don't think I'll ever change the world so I'm trying to set my goals a bit smaller.

When I was young I wanted to change the world but now I see the world is too far gone.  It's nothing more than a ball of chaos held together by gravity.  I don't think I'll ever change the world.  My reach is too small, my words to faint, my ideas too frail.  But people can be different.  What if I could change the chaos inside them?  What if I had the means to move someone?

Maybe that would finally move me as well.

aspirate

"And this is a cruel attempt at my lonely heart
And I'm loving it
But don't think for a minute that I'm falling..."
-Sacha Sacket, Cruel Attempt

I don't want to say a girl brought me back to life because that's just gross.  It sounds sappy and romantic and homey don't play that.  It goes against everything I believe in.  You shouldn't have to rely on someone else to make you feel a certain way.  And when I sit back and try to access my resuscitation, I realize it's not so much that she did anything to make me feel alive again but, through her, I saw I could feel something for someone, even if it is just the platonic pleasure of someone's company.

Before her, I didn't feel much of anything for anyone for a long time.  No happiness in conversations.  No peace with other people.  No comfort simply being with someone.  And now that things are happening inside me, I don't know what the feelings are.  They are so new and foreign that I don't know how to sort them out.  But that's okay.  I should be grateful to feel anything at all, even if it's not romantic (which it isn't).

The funny part is I don't even want to like her.  It would complicate the casual ease of our relationship and plus, she's seeing someone else so it doesn't even matter if I were to have feelings for her.  I wouldn't be able to do anything about it.  I'd just ache for her and I don't want to have to deal with those kind of emotions.  I already don't like the fact that she's seeing someone and I don't even have a crush on her so imagine how bad off I'd be if we did get together and then she dumped me and moved on to someone else and I had to see that.  It would not be good.

No, it's best not to feel anything deeper for her than I already do.

demote control

About two weeks ago, I got a raise at work.

A few days later, my boss called me into his office to tell me my job had been eliminated.

He said the only thing he could do for me was to send me back to my old department and go back to part-time.  Just when I thought I'd be making decent money (still not great, but decent), I get demoted.  Although I'm glad I didn't lose my job entirely, it still sucks.

Sucks for everyone else, too.

Everyone in the store is getting their hours cut.  One department is losing their commission.  One lady who was getting set up to replace one of our retiring supervisors was told the supervisor wasn't going to be replaced so she got screwed out of a promotion, too.

No one is happy about these changes and it makes us all dread working there even more than we already did.  But it's work and work is hard to come by in this town so we'll all stick around until something else comes up.

People keep telling me I'm going to have to move away to find good work and while I agree, I can't afford an apartment.  If I do take the leap to move away, I'll have to find a roommate.  I'm not too keen on the idea of roommates.  I'm still haunted by the crappy experience I had with my first roommate.  You never forget your first (horrible) time, as they say.  The next set of roommates I had in college were much better and I know that I can live with people and even enjoy it but I also know that I am just a loner and do better when I'm by  myself.

But if there's any chance of me getting out of this crappy job and this crappy town, I'm going to have to get a roommate to help with living expenses.  But I don't know anyone and I'm not thrilled to room with a stranger.  Where would I even go about finding someone to live with?  Craigslist?  I think not!

It's just a thought I'm tossing around in my head.  Nothing serious.  Not yet.  But it might get that way.  So, if you're not crazy and you don't mind living with a crazy person, then you should let me know.

We can run off together.

dead alive

"All I want is to feel alive, but I'm dying on the inside
And I've wasted all my time just waiting..."
-Attack! Attack!, Honesty

"They're not dead exactly.  They're just...sort of rotting."
-Dead Alive

Does anyone ever become completely hollow?  Who ever reaches that point and what becomes of them afterward?  I often wonder what has become of me and if I still have some emptying out to do.  It feels like every time I have nothing left to lose, something comes around and takes more from me, whether it be my job situation, losing my looks and my faith or struggling to just feel good enough to mean something to someone.  Have I finally been hollowed out and if not, how much farther until I fall?

Lately, I've been vaguely away of something stirring inside me.  It's not quite a heartbeat but perhaps the hope for one.  It's a residual pumping of blood and better times that echo inside the wasteland of my ribcage.  It's a feeling of skin splitting from sinew, a separation of flesh.  It's an aching in the bones like something gestating.

Have you ever felt simultaneously dead and alive, like your heart is pumping mud and your lungs are housing stale air?  That's where I am.  There are days when I want nothing more than to complete my macabre metamorphosis and rest in the dirt and then there are days when I feel it's possible to come alive again.

And there are days I actually want to.

But all of this back and forth between bereavement and breathing makes me feel bipolar.  I'm tired of my body being blurred between the black and the brightness.  It's annoying and another testament to my indecisiveness.  I can't even decide if I'm dead or just depressed.