My mom called me at work one day and said a family friend's boss's son
needed an assistant for three businesses he was juggling. The family
friend put in a great word for me (and they respect her so her
recommendation is gold) and he agreed to meet with me. Bam. Just like
that. The work seemed decent and best of all, no more working with the
public. The only drawback was the pay wasn't great and there were no
benefits. But I kept leaning toward no more working with the public.
I kept thinking how it all worked out so well. An office
job with recommendation from an insider. And I had a day off from
working coming up so I could take that day to do the interview and it
wouldn't interfere with my current job. Perfect.
I met the man at his father's restaurant. It was
empty because they weren't open for lunch yet. The man, M, was short
and overweight, a roly poly kind of guy with a round, young face and
closely cropped gray hair. His cheeks and chin jutted out when he
smiled. His skin was shiny and ruddy around his hazel eyes. He did not
walk but waddled. He wore a shirt and jeans and dirty white sneakers.
We sat down and he told me a little about his
businesses. He has three and he also deals with his family's personal
finances. His family is rich and they have several sources of income
and I guessed he needed someone to help him keep everything in order.
It was apparent from the beginning of our conversation
that M wasn't articulate but he was extremely southern. He spoke with a
grating country cadence and often raised his voice toward the end of
his sentences. He paused several times as if he were trying to collect
words from his head before he said them. He mentioned the job didn't
necessarily have a title since I would be doing a little of everything.
I wasn't worried about job titles, only the duties. Fortunately, they
were duties I had done during previous jobs or duties I felt confident I
could do if given the proper instruction. It wasn't neurobiology we
were dealing with here. I was going to be faxing and using Excel and
taking out the trash.
He asked me to tell him about myself and I did and
then he sat back, his squat, chapped face stretched into a mischievous
grin. He stared up at the florescent lights, again trying to find his
words.
"So, tell me this...hm...so basically...well, let me
tell you where I'm coming from...what my concern is...it seems to me
like you're going from A to Z. You went to college to be an artist and
you've got this degree. And now you wanna be a secretary. You see what
I'm sayin'?"
I basically explained the best I could, downplaying my
crazy, that I had a change of heart after I graduated and wasn't sure
if I wanted to pursue art and decided to change my direction. He said
he encountered a similar situation after he graduated from college so he
understood but he was concerned, if I took the job, I would pack up and
leave after two months or so. I assured him I wouldn't do that. I
pointed out I've been at my current job for three years now. And if I
didn't get that job, I'd probably have to stick with it for another
three years because these opportunities rarely come along.
In some ways, I could understand his concern or just
curiosity over why I made such a radical change. But in other ways, it
made me feel bad, as if he were implying that I was downgrading myself
or that the job was beneath me. First of all, nothing is beneath me.
The job might be beneath my education but not beneath me. I'm just not
uppity like that. And I told him I enjoy being organized and doing
office work. It's easy and I don't have to deal with the public and it
wouldn't be so stressful that I couldn't work on my writing or even pick
up art again on the side.
The problem with my job now
is that it's so stressful and dealing with the public gives me such bad
anxiety that I'm emotionally and mentally exhausted at the end of the
day and have no creative output within me. I wasn't necessarily aiming
to move up as far as a job goes, but just to find something to lower my
stress levels. And that seemed like the kind of job to do it.
And then he said if I were hired, he'd have to get
into the mindset of a man doing the job because he envisioned a woman
filling the position. I was slightly irritated by that but it wasn't a
deal breaker.
The deal breaker came a week later.
Showing posts with label disappointment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label disappointment. Show all posts
Sunday, June 30, 2013
Saturday, June 22, 2013
art
"'Cause we all know art is hard
young artists have gotta starve
Try, and fail, and try again..."
-Cursive, Art is Hard
"Art is not the world, art is in our hearts..."
-Showbread, Stabbing Art to Death
"Let me ask you something, what is not art?"
-Unknown
I used to draw. A lot. My childhood was spent with a Slim-Fast in one hand and a pencil in the other. I often sneaked into my sister's room and pulled out her charcoal sketches of dragons and Axl Rose she kept underneath her bed. And I copied them. I learned about lines and shading sitting on the floor of her room, surrounded by the waxy smell of drugstore makeup and wall-to-wall posters of hair metal bands.
An artist was born.
I devoured sketch pads and ground colored pencils into stumps. As much as I loved toys, I loved drawing utensils equally. I couldn't wait to try a new type of marker or a new color of crayon. I drew my favorite superheroes and created my own action figures out of paper. But I was never incredibly creative. My artistic endeavors were derivative of the enormous amount of Saturday morning cartoon I consumed and my eventual discovery of anime, which I was into way before it became so huge here in America. I was ahead of the game back then.
I learned to shade and highlight. I learned about depth and perspective. All from doing it on my own, from observing, from drawing, from constantly creating.
I was good at copying. Any attempts to be original were mediocre at best. But when I was younger, I wasn't preoccupied with being original or unique. I just genuinely enjoyed drawing and having fun with it. I was good. It gave me pleasure.
But sadness and insecurity crept in and my mind became poisoned and I became a perfectionist. People noticed my talent and were impressed. And somehow, people began to inflate my abilities.
"Brannon drew a picture of my daughter and it looks just like her!"
"Brannon doesn't even use an eraser!"
"I heard Brannon doesn't need to draw from pictures, or from life. He can draw from memory!"
"One time, I saw Brannon sneeze on a piece of paper and then when I looked over his shoulder, his snot was in the shape of Mona Lisa!"
None of this is true, of course. But for some reason, in some people's minds, I'm better than I actually am. And that was a part of the insecurity. I felt I could never measure up to people's outlandish expectations. I was my biggest critic. Eventually, nothing I drew matched the image I had in my head and it frustrated me. I knew I was better, more capable, but for some reason, I couldn't translate the image from head to paper.
There were times when I got away with reaching people's expectations, or at least that's what they told me. I did a few commissioned drawings. But eventually the stress became too much and I stopped charging because my art was not worth anyone's money. And eventually I stopped doing drawings for people all together because I couldn't afford to jeopardize the reputation bestowed upon me by others. I never lived up to the hype, never went along with the adulation and as much as I tried to downplay what I could do, no one believed me and I suddenly I was a small town art prodigy. And wanting to please everyone, I didn't want to produce low-quality work and prove everyone wrong.
I had been painted into a corner, so to speak.
Art became a source of frustration instead of pleasure and so I stopped drawing as much. And then I went to college to study art. No one had any preconceived notions of who I was or what I was capable of and suddenly I was a clean slate, an out of practice clean slate. And I felt like I was starting from zero while all my classmates were already prodigies themselves. I was in over my head and terrified I had made a huge mistake.
But I finished college, got a degree, and graduated with honors. I guess that means something to someone but it doesn't mean anything to an animation company. They want to see your demo reel and it doesn't matter how great your grades were in college, if you don't deliver mind-blowing art, you're done. There's hundreds of other wide-eyed kids in line behind you who have dedicated themselves to their art. They didn't hide behind rumors of grandeur.
I abandoned art after college. I didn't feel good about my abilities and wanted to go in a different direction. I just wasn't sure about the direction I wanted to go in.
Let me let you in on a little secret I've been keeping about my relationship with art: I DON'T FREAKING GET IT.
young artists have gotta starve
Try, and fail, and try again..."
-Cursive, Art is Hard
"Art is not the world, art is in our hearts..."
-Showbread, Stabbing Art to Death
"Let me ask you something, what is not art?"
-Unknown
I used to draw. A lot. My childhood was spent with a Slim-Fast in one hand and a pencil in the other. I often sneaked into my sister's room and pulled out her charcoal sketches of dragons and Axl Rose she kept underneath her bed. And I copied them. I learned about lines and shading sitting on the floor of her room, surrounded by the waxy smell of drugstore makeup and wall-to-wall posters of hair metal bands.
An artist was born.
I devoured sketch pads and ground colored pencils into stumps. As much as I loved toys, I loved drawing utensils equally. I couldn't wait to try a new type of marker or a new color of crayon. I drew my favorite superheroes and created my own action figures out of paper. But I was never incredibly creative. My artistic endeavors were derivative of the enormous amount of Saturday morning cartoon I consumed and my eventual discovery of anime, which I was into way before it became so huge here in America. I was ahead of the game back then.
I learned to shade and highlight. I learned about depth and perspective. All from doing it on my own, from observing, from drawing, from constantly creating.
I was good at copying. Any attempts to be original were mediocre at best. But when I was younger, I wasn't preoccupied with being original or unique. I just genuinely enjoyed drawing and having fun with it. I was good. It gave me pleasure.
But sadness and insecurity crept in and my mind became poisoned and I became a perfectionist. People noticed my talent and were impressed. And somehow, people began to inflate my abilities.
"Brannon drew a picture of my daughter and it looks just like her!"
"Brannon doesn't even use an eraser!"
"I heard Brannon doesn't need to draw from pictures, or from life. He can draw from memory!"
"One time, I saw Brannon sneeze on a piece of paper and then when I looked over his shoulder, his snot was in the shape of Mona Lisa!"
None of this is true, of course. But for some reason, in some people's minds, I'm better than I actually am. And that was a part of the insecurity. I felt I could never measure up to people's outlandish expectations. I was my biggest critic. Eventually, nothing I drew matched the image I had in my head and it frustrated me. I knew I was better, more capable, but for some reason, I couldn't translate the image from head to paper.
There were times when I got away with reaching people's expectations, or at least that's what they told me. I did a few commissioned drawings. But eventually the stress became too much and I stopped charging because my art was not worth anyone's money. And eventually I stopped doing drawings for people all together because I couldn't afford to jeopardize the reputation bestowed upon me by others. I never lived up to the hype, never went along with the adulation and as much as I tried to downplay what I could do, no one believed me and I suddenly I was a small town art prodigy. And wanting to please everyone, I didn't want to produce low-quality work and prove everyone wrong.
I had been painted into a corner, so to speak.
Art became a source of frustration instead of pleasure and so I stopped drawing as much. And then I went to college to study art. No one had any preconceived notions of who I was or what I was capable of and suddenly I was a clean slate, an out of practice clean slate. And I felt like I was starting from zero while all my classmates were already prodigies themselves. I was in over my head and terrified I had made a huge mistake.
But I finished college, got a degree, and graduated with honors. I guess that means something to someone but it doesn't mean anything to an animation company. They want to see your demo reel and it doesn't matter how great your grades were in college, if you don't deliver mind-blowing art, you're done. There's hundreds of other wide-eyed kids in line behind you who have dedicated themselves to their art. They didn't hide behind rumors of grandeur.
I abandoned art after college. I didn't feel good about my abilities and wanted to go in a different direction. I just wasn't sure about the direction I wanted to go in.
Let me let you in on a little secret I've been keeping about my relationship with art: I DON'T FREAKING GET IT.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
heterotaxia
"You love, love, love
when you know I can't love
you love, love, love
when you know I can't love you
so I think it's best we both forget
before we dwell on it..."
-Of Monsters and Men, Love Love Love
If someone says they love you but they don't show it, does it really count?
It's like living in poverty with a million dollar bank account no one told you about. You're rich but you're not rich. You're blessed but you're not blessed. You're loved but you're not loved.
I don't want to say not being in a relationship has been detrimental to my self-worth but I don't think it's helped. I just keep thinking how I'm 27 and have never connected with anyone on a deep, meaningful level. And the one time I thought I did, well, it disintegrated and completely changed the way I saw people. If that strong of a friendship could crumble, there was no hope for me and anyone else.
But stuff happens. People form relationships and those relationships sometimes end due to any number of circumstances. And sometimes you're left wallowing in your own cesspool of self-doubt because no one else comes along to help you correct your interpersonal errors. Sometimes locations and circumstances make it hard to hone in on a partner. Or even a friend.
There must be some benefit to being told your loved by someone outside your bloodline. They can be with anyone but they choose to be with you. They open their hearts to the possibility of pain and see through the marks on your skin and the mistakes in your mind. Someone out there came to you and decided to stay because you were worth getting to know. For me, people have come into my life but it's the staying part that seems so difficult. Do I subconsciously drive people away? Do they just get tired of my incessant self-deprecation? Or do they get bored with my personality?
I often feel like a novelty act, a brand new Brannon still in the cellophane and once the protective casing has been cut away and I've been squeezed of jokes and encouragement and conversation, I am discarded. The newness wears away as the imperfections poke through the shellacked surface that's eventually worn away through long exchanges and lots of laughs and eventual awkward pauses. Then missed e-mails. Unanswered text messages. Phone calls not returned. There's something about me that hooks people in but once they've penetrated whatever "thing" magnetizes them to me, they realize I am too flawed, too flat, too frail to stick with and they eventually pull out.
I'm not trying to make myself look like a victim. I know you think I am. But I'm not. And I am not blaming anyone who has gone away. I wouldn't want to put up with someone like myself either! The novelty becomes a nuisance after a while. And everyone says they aren't like everyone else. They'll stick around. They never do. Some stay longer than others, but for me, it's just a waiting game. Classmates never called when class was over. Co-workers never kept in contact when they found better jobs. Old roommates haven't written. It hurts. It hurts so bad. But I'm not bitter about it and I don't blame them. I just take it for what it is: another form of rejection, just a slow kind, a knife plunged inside by inches.
when you know I can't love
you love, love, love
when you know I can't love you
so I think it's best we both forget
before we dwell on it..."
-Of Monsters and Men, Love Love Love
If someone says they love you but they don't show it, does it really count?
It's like living in poverty with a million dollar bank account no one told you about. You're rich but you're not rich. You're blessed but you're not blessed. You're loved but you're not loved.
I don't want to say not being in a relationship has been detrimental to my self-worth but I don't think it's helped. I just keep thinking how I'm 27 and have never connected with anyone on a deep, meaningful level. And the one time I thought I did, well, it disintegrated and completely changed the way I saw people. If that strong of a friendship could crumble, there was no hope for me and anyone else.
But stuff happens. People form relationships and those relationships sometimes end due to any number of circumstances. And sometimes you're left wallowing in your own cesspool of self-doubt because no one else comes along to help you correct your interpersonal errors. Sometimes locations and circumstances make it hard to hone in on a partner. Or even a friend.
There must be some benefit to being told your loved by someone outside your bloodline. They can be with anyone but they choose to be with you. They open their hearts to the possibility of pain and see through the marks on your skin and the mistakes in your mind. Someone out there came to you and decided to stay because you were worth getting to know. For me, people have come into my life but it's the staying part that seems so difficult. Do I subconsciously drive people away? Do they just get tired of my incessant self-deprecation? Or do they get bored with my personality?
I often feel like a novelty act, a brand new Brannon still in the cellophane and once the protective casing has been cut away and I've been squeezed of jokes and encouragement and conversation, I am discarded. The newness wears away as the imperfections poke through the shellacked surface that's eventually worn away through long exchanges and lots of laughs and eventual awkward pauses. Then missed e-mails. Unanswered text messages. Phone calls not returned. There's something about me that hooks people in but once they've penetrated whatever "thing" magnetizes them to me, they realize I am too flawed, too flat, too frail to stick with and they eventually pull out.
I'm not trying to make myself look like a victim. I know you think I am. But I'm not. And I am not blaming anyone who has gone away. I wouldn't want to put up with someone like myself either! The novelty becomes a nuisance after a while. And everyone says they aren't like everyone else. They'll stick around. They never do. Some stay longer than others, but for me, it's just a waiting game. Classmates never called when class was over. Co-workers never kept in contact when they found better jobs. Old roommates haven't written. It hurts. It hurts so bad. But I'm not bitter about it and I don't blame them. I just take it for what it is: another form of rejection, just a slow kind, a knife plunged inside by inches.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
duck, duck, noose
"I'm sorry for the way I am
I'm tired of waiting for the past
I'm lookin' for a better place
I'm longin' for findin' my way around..."
-Groove Armada, History
I feel like we are living in an age of one-sided relationships. We as social network users put ourselves out into the world and allow anyone with an Internet connection to get to know us through our words or art or music or favorite movies, etc. And we never know who's watching, who has taken an interest in us, who forms feelings for us based on mutual love for zombies or writing or puppies or Sweet Brown memes. We build our personalities through our blogs and Tumblrs and other sites and that creates the potential for trouble.
The problem with following someone through their social networking sites before you get to actually know them is you've already taken the time to shape who you think they are in your head, forming a one-sided sense of who they are through their words. And you see these commonalities and connections and when you finally talk to that person, you expect the two of you to click and hit it off right away. Sometimes it actually happens. Sometimes it doesn't. And in the times it doesn't, you feel disappointed. I've been let down. I wonder how it didn't work out. We have so much in common. We've walked the same paths. Maybe I'm ugly. Maybe I try to hard. Maybe the other person is just looking for a certain type of person to befriend. Maybe the other person just doesn't have room for one more friend.
I think we've all been through this. We all know how it feels to follow someone who doesn't know we exist or couldn't care less if they did. It's definitely disheartening and as painful as it can feel, we shouldn't take it personally.
I try to remember it's not my fault and it's not the other person's fault. Sometimes two people just don't connect. Sometimes you're the one with no interest and sometimes the other person has no interest in you. I've been on both sides of the situation and both are difficult but at least I can understand when someone does not want to talk to me and I can leave it alone and deal with my issues without pulling the other person into my muddled mind.
Those polar opposite examples sum up my relationships with everyone throughout my life. It's almost always been one-sided. Any mutual interests have been superficial friendships or genuine good relationships I eventually wrecked due to my insecurity and selfishness. But despite these many mishaps, I feel like I've tried to continue to branch out, connect, and make new relationships. I have not been very successful.
The only problem is when I meet someone new, especially someone I admire or respect as an artist, I over think and over analyze my words and actions. I want to be cool and smart and easy to talk to. I want to be funny. I want to be liked. And sometimes I think the stress of trying not to show my craziness becomes more trouble than the relationship is worth. I just don't know how to interact with people in a natural, effortless manner. I feel like every move and word is calculated and it's exhausting.
The stress makes me want to withdraw. I don't feel cut out to be a sociable creature. Nice effort, Bran, but no success. It messes me up because I don't want to be isolated. I want to be able to reach out and have someone there. But am I deserving of it? Can I handle it? Have I been mishandling all my relationships and that's why I don't feel fulfilled by any of them? Or am I just over thinking again?
There is an ebb and flow to every relationship. I'm not going to be great all the time but I'm just so terrified of losing people that I feel like one awkward moment or social slip would mean the demise of the relationship. And as lonely as I might feel, the frustration of dealing with forming a fellowship doesn't feel worth the hassle anymore. Maybe I'm alone for a reason. Maybe I'm mean to be a loner. I can talk with people and share and give and take but at the end of the day, all I have is myself, which would be fine if I liked myself, but you've got to like yourself before anyone can like you. Or some horse crap like that. I always end up feeling empty.
I walk around this circle of people and inspect and analyze and hone in on those I feel have potential and when I choose, the race is on and they chase me down and knock me over the head with my own insecurities. But they aren't really doing anything. I think I'm in control, that I'm choosing carefully, that I don't just let anyone in. I think I'm being particular in picking these people out but I'm really just picking myself apart.
I'm tired of waiting for the past
I'm lookin' for a better place
I'm longin' for findin' my way around..."
-Groove Armada, History
I feel like we are living in an age of one-sided relationships. We as social network users put ourselves out into the world and allow anyone with an Internet connection to get to know us through our words or art or music or favorite movies, etc. And we never know who's watching, who has taken an interest in us, who forms feelings for us based on mutual love for zombies or writing or puppies or Sweet Brown memes. We build our personalities through our blogs and Tumblrs and other sites and that creates the potential for trouble.
The problem with following someone through their social networking sites before you get to actually know them is you've already taken the time to shape who you think they are in your head, forming a one-sided sense of who they are through their words. And you see these commonalities and connections and when you finally talk to that person, you expect the two of you to click and hit it off right away. Sometimes it actually happens. Sometimes it doesn't. And in the times it doesn't, you feel disappointed. I've been let down. I wonder how it didn't work out. We have so much in common. We've walked the same paths. Maybe I'm ugly. Maybe I try to hard. Maybe the other person is just looking for a certain type of person to befriend. Maybe the other person just doesn't have room for one more friend.
I think we've all been through this. We all know how it feels to follow someone who doesn't know we exist or couldn't care less if they did. It's definitely disheartening and as painful as it can feel, we shouldn't take it personally.
I try to remember it's not my fault and it's not the other person's fault. Sometimes two people just don't connect. Sometimes you're the one with no interest and sometimes the other person has no interest in you. I've been on both sides of the situation and both are difficult but at least I can understand when someone does not want to talk to me and I can leave it alone and deal with my issues without pulling the other person into my muddled mind.
Those polar opposite examples sum up my relationships with everyone throughout my life. It's almost always been one-sided. Any mutual interests have been superficial friendships or genuine good relationships I eventually wrecked due to my insecurity and selfishness. But despite these many mishaps, I feel like I've tried to continue to branch out, connect, and make new relationships. I have not been very successful.
The only problem is when I meet someone new, especially someone I admire or respect as an artist, I over think and over analyze my words and actions. I want to be cool and smart and easy to talk to. I want to be funny. I want to be liked. And sometimes I think the stress of trying not to show my craziness becomes more trouble than the relationship is worth. I just don't know how to interact with people in a natural, effortless manner. I feel like every move and word is calculated and it's exhausting.
The stress makes me want to withdraw. I don't feel cut out to be a sociable creature. Nice effort, Bran, but no success. It messes me up because I don't want to be isolated. I want to be able to reach out and have someone there. But am I deserving of it? Can I handle it? Have I been mishandling all my relationships and that's why I don't feel fulfilled by any of them? Or am I just over thinking again?
There is an ebb and flow to every relationship. I'm not going to be great all the time but I'm just so terrified of losing people that I feel like one awkward moment or social slip would mean the demise of the relationship. And as lonely as I might feel, the frustration of dealing with forming a fellowship doesn't feel worth the hassle anymore. Maybe I'm alone for a reason. Maybe I'm mean to be a loner. I can talk with people and share and give and take but at the end of the day, all I have is myself, which would be fine if I liked myself, but you've got to like yourself before anyone can like you. Or some horse crap like that. I always end up feeling empty.
I walk around this circle of people and inspect and analyze and hone in on those I feel have potential and when I choose, the race is on and they chase me down and knock me over the head with my own insecurities. But they aren't really doing anything. I think I'm in control, that I'm choosing carefully, that I don't just let anyone in. I think I'm being particular in picking these people out but I'm really just picking myself apart.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
special
"So one last touch and then you'll go
And we'll pretend that it meant something so much more
But it was vile, and it was cheap
And you are beautiful but you don't mean a thing to me..."
-The Postal Service, Tiny Vessels
I keep thinking if I can just make good art, someone will notice. Someone will appreciate. Someone will understand. Someone will care.
I'm always looking to be validated based on a product, not personality. I'm not too fond of myself so I look to my art in hopes of garnering attention. Sometimes I think it's easier to dress up my writing rather than my mind.
But even trying to do that feels terrifying because art is an extension of one's self and if my art is rejected, so am I. I'm not ready to face that kind of pain so I don't finish projects. They stay in a work-in-progress limbo to hold off the possibility of finishing, then failing.
I want my work to matter. I want to matter. And yet I'm scared of finding out neither one does.
If I don't have my work or myself, what do I have left to offer the world? If I have nothing then I am nothing and if I am nothing, why am I here?
I'm no one's number one and it's disheartening. I know a lot of people care about me but nothing feels like it runs deep enough to fulfill me.
The majority of us have people who care for us. But it doesn't make us feel any better. It doesn't ease the loneliness or the separation. Why? I wonder if it's because we only have certain people we've deemed appropriate to assuage the agony. Maybe some people just don't count because we don't care for them as much as they care for us.
That sounds kiiiind of horrible.
But I think a lot of us feel that way. Otherwise, any person who came along and offered a friendly hand would fix the frustration. But we still feel bad.
Maybe it's just more gratifying getting recognition from those we admire. The problem with that is the people I admire usually don't admire me. Or sometimes I admire them from afar and make them out to be grander than they really are. And then I feel inadequate around them, like I'm not good enough, like they couldn't possibly be interested in me. I'm a fan. I'm a faraway admirer. I can't be their friend.
Sometimes they do like me. Sometimes they don't. And the ones who don't are the ones I want approval from the most. A lot of us probably feel that way from time to time. It's like having a crush. We want the ones we want to want us. Unfortunately, we tend to discount the ones we don't want who want us.
It's the way relationships work. It seems most of them are one-sided. How many times have we had a crush on someone who wasn't interested or never even noticed us? It applies not only to romantic endeavors but to all relationships. We have co-workers who didn't give us the time of day or teachers who wouldn't talk to us or cousins who chose not to play with us. We meet writers who write us off, girls who gag in our presence, boys who bruise our egos.
Sorry, I'm just not that interested in you.
But I could be a good friend. Someone you can confide in. Someone who will make you feel good.
Nah, that's okay. I have my sights set on something else (i.e., someone better).
I'm guilty of this myself. And I've been a victim of it.
We want to feel special and there are people out there who are capable of making us feel special so why don't we let them help us? Is it superficial like some mental caste system in our minds? Are we categorizing people, sorting them out, putting them in files in order of importance? Or is it something deeper, something harder to explain? How do we get to the root of relationships and what we want out of them?
Do we simply want attention or do we sometimes strive for symbiosis? Do we want to help them as much as they want to help us? And do we decline their offer of assistance and discount their support and encouragement because there is no perceived balance? We can't help them so they cannot help us? Sure, some would eagerly eat all anyone had to offer without thinking of giving back. But I also think other people do genuinely want to give as much as they take.
I can't help but wonder if I really want to give as much as I want to believe I do and that's the reason I can't accept the affection of others or if, in reality, I'm just a snob about who I take it from.
Are you special enough to help me? Am I special enough to deserve it?
And we'll pretend that it meant something so much more
But it was vile, and it was cheap
And you are beautiful but you don't mean a thing to me..."
-The Postal Service, Tiny Vessels
I keep thinking if I can just make good art, someone will notice. Someone will appreciate. Someone will understand. Someone will care.
I'm always looking to be validated based on a product, not personality. I'm not too fond of myself so I look to my art in hopes of garnering attention. Sometimes I think it's easier to dress up my writing rather than my mind.
But even trying to do that feels terrifying because art is an extension of one's self and if my art is rejected, so am I. I'm not ready to face that kind of pain so I don't finish projects. They stay in a work-in-progress limbo to hold off the possibility of finishing, then failing.
I want my work to matter. I want to matter. And yet I'm scared of finding out neither one does.
If I don't have my work or myself, what do I have left to offer the world? If I have nothing then I am nothing and if I am nothing, why am I here?
I'm no one's number one and it's disheartening. I know a lot of people care about me but nothing feels like it runs deep enough to fulfill me.
The majority of us have people who care for us. But it doesn't make us feel any better. It doesn't ease the loneliness or the separation. Why? I wonder if it's because we only have certain people we've deemed appropriate to assuage the agony. Maybe some people just don't count because we don't care for them as much as they care for us.
That sounds kiiiind of horrible.
But I think a lot of us feel that way. Otherwise, any person who came along and offered a friendly hand would fix the frustration. But we still feel bad.
Maybe it's just more gratifying getting recognition from those we admire. The problem with that is the people I admire usually don't admire me. Or sometimes I admire them from afar and make them out to be grander than they really are. And then I feel inadequate around them, like I'm not good enough, like they couldn't possibly be interested in me. I'm a fan. I'm a faraway admirer. I can't be their friend.
Sometimes they do like me. Sometimes they don't. And the ones who don't are the ones I want approval from the most. A lot of us probably feel that way from time to time. It's like having a crush. We want the ones we want to want us. Unfortunately, we tend to discount the ones we don't want who want us.
It's the way relationships work. It seems most of them are one-sided. How many times have we had a crush on someone who wasn't interested or never even noticed us? It applies not only to romantic endeavors but to all relationships. We have co-workers who didn't give us the time of day or teachers who wouldn't talk to us or cousins who chose not to play with us. We meet writers who write us off, girls who gag in our presence, boys who bruise our egos.
Sorry, I'm just not that interested in you.
But I could be a good friend. Someone you can confide in. Someone who will make you feel good.
Nah, that's okay. I have my sights set on something else (i.e., someone better).
I'm guilty of this myself. And I've been a victim of it.
We want to feel special and there are people out there who are capable of making us feel special so why don't we let them help us? Is it superficial like some mental caste system in our minds? Are we categorizing people, sorting them out, putting them in files in order of importance? Or is it something deeper, something harder to explain? How do we get to the root of relationships and what we want out of them?
Do we simply want attention or do we sometimes strive for symbiosis? Do we want to help them as much as they want to help us? And do we decline their offer of assistance and discount their support and encouragement because there is no perceived balance? We can't help them so they cannot help us? Sure, some would eagerly eat all anyone had to offer without thinking of giving back. But I also think other people do genuinely want to give as much as they take.
I can't help but wonder if I really want to give as much as I want to believe I do and that's the reason I can't accept the affection of others or if, in reality, I'm just a snob about who I take it from.
Are you special enough to help me? Am I special enough to deserve it?
Sunday, March 3, 2013
role to play (i'm not even who i thought i was)
"But I wish I could feel it all for you
I wish I could be it all for you
If I could erase the pain
Maybe you'd feel the same..."
-Ellie Goulding, Guns and Horses
"How dare you be you, how dare I be me?
The two of us lost in our own fantasy..."
-Liz Phair, Oh, Bangladesh
Reaching out isn’t working out. At least I can say I tried. But after seeing the results, I think it would have hurt less had I not.
I have a problem with subconsciously assigning people roles in my life. It's messed up because these people don't know I've done it and they have no responsibility to fulfill those roles but when they don't, I get upset and disappointed and have this internal struggle over whether I should be angry or not.
Of course I shouldn't be angry because it's not their fault but in my irrational mind, I just think how could that person not realize they were supposed to be my mentor/therapist/advice giver/comedian/dinner companion, etc. It's silly that I do this and I don't even know why I do it and why I can't get it under control.
Going back to The Perks of Being a Wallflower commentary I mentioned in my last post, Emma Watson talked about meeting fans and how scary it can be because they have this expectation of what she should be and she has to fulfill those expectations in the minute or so she interacts with them and it's a lot of pressure and I think that logic applies to people in general, celebrity and non-celebrity alike. It applies to relationships.
We get involved with people, be they friends or lovers, and after a while, we pick out certain character traits about them we find beneficial to our lives and we subconsciously expect them to pull out those traits and treat us but people are multi-faceted and we can't expect them to perform for us like that. Comedians shouldn't be expected to be funny all the time. Writers shouldn't be expected to turn their to-do list into poetry. Those who give advice sometimes need advice.
But we build up expectations and wait for them to be met and sometimes they are and sometimes they are not and we are disappointed and disillusioned and then we judge.
I've noticed this often happens a lot with people I admire from afar for a while and eventually try to contact. I hear them or see them or read them and construct their personalities from the bits of information they've provided and go into the relationship with a specific idea of who they are. That's not the best thing to do because, as with any kind of self-representation in any form of media, you are only giving a certain aspect of who you are. It's hard to be well-rounded when you're the one telling people who you are. How you see yourself and how other people see you can be different. At least, I know it is in my case.
But a full personality comes out in intimate conversations and inside jokes, something you can't convey through canvas and cliffhangers. I'm not saying you can't get a sense of someone through their art or online presence. Sure you can. But as I said, you're only getting pieces. You're getting a persona but only personal relationships fill in those gaps. The danger is in those personal relationships not steering in the direction you hope based on the information you have gathered.
I should stop doing this because it's harmful to others and to myself. I get disappointed and then I disengage and might miss out on a good relationship just because they didn't come to the game with the right gear. Plus, it's painful. I don't want to be disappointed and I also don't want to disappoint others. I'm sorry if I'm not who you thought I was. I'm not even who I thought I was.
Let's all just stop having expectations, okay? No one is ever as good as we hope them to be. And it's not their fault. And it's not yours. It's just a symptom of a swelling heart.
I wish I could be it all for you
If I could erase the pain
Maybe you'd feel the same..."
-Ellie Goulding, Guns and Horses
"How dare you be you, how dare I be me?
The two of us lost in our own fantasy..."
-Liz Phair, Oh, Bangladesh
Reaching out isn’t working out. At least I can say I tried. But after seeing the results, I think it would have hurt less had I not.
I have a problem with subconsciously assigning people roles in my life. It's messed up because these people don't know I've done it and they have no responsibility to fulfill those roles but when they don't, I get upset and disappointed and have this internal struggle over whether I should be angry or not.
Of course I shouldn't be angry because it's not their fault but in my irrational mind, I just think how could that person not realize they were supposed to be my mentor/therapist/advice giver/comedian/dinner companion, etc. It's silly that I do this and I don't even know why I do it and why I can't get it under control.
Going back to The Perks of Being a Wallflower commentary I mentioned in my last post, Emma Watson talked about meeting fans and how scary it can be because they have this expectation of what she should be and she has to fulfill those expectations in the minute or so she interacts with them and it's a lot of pressure and I think that logic applies to people in general, celebrity and non-celebrity alike. It applies to relationships.
We get involved with people, be they friends or lovers, and after a while, we pick out certain character traits about them we find beneficial to our lives and we subconsciously expect them to pull out those traits and treat us but people are multi-faceted and we can't expect them to perform for us like that. Comedians shouldn't be expected to be funny all the time. Writers shouldn't be expected to turn their to-do list into poetry. Those who give advice sometimes need advice.
But we build up expectations and wait for them to be met and sometimes they are and sometimes they are not and we are disappointed and disillusioned and then we judge.
I've noticed this often happens a lot with people I admire from afar for a while and eventually try to contact. I hear them or see them or read them and construct their personalities from the bits of information they've provided and go into the relationship with a specific idea of who they are. That's not the best thing to do because, as with any kind of self-representation in any form of media, you are only giving a certain aspect of who you are. It's hard to be well-rounded when you're the one telling people who you are. How you see yourself and how other people see you can be different. At least, I know it is in my case.
But a full personality comes out in intimate conversations and inside jokes, something you can't convey through canvas and cliffhangers. I'm not saying you can't get a sense of someone through their art or online presence. Sure you can. But as I said, you're only getting pieces. You're getting a persona but only personal relationships fill in those gaps. The danger is in those personal relationships not steering in the direction you hope based on the information you have gathered.
I should stop doing this because it's harmful to others and to myself. I get disappointed and then I disengage and might miss out on a good relationship just because they didn't come to the game with the right gear. Plus, it's painful. I don't want to be disappointed and I also don't want to disappoint others. I'm sorry if I'm not who you thought I was. I'm not even who I thought I was.
Let's all just stop having expectations, okay? No one is ever as good as we hope them to be. And it's not their fault. And it's not yours. It's just a symptom of a swelling heart.
Friday, March 1, 2013
a couple of perks
I watched The Perks of Being a Wallflower last weekend and it was great and it made me both happy and sad. I related to Charlie, the main character and an outcast of sorts. I could not relate to the Charlie who finally found a place he belonged. But good for him.
I just wondered if there was a story out there about a boy who never found his place. Where was the tale of the guy who sat at the lunch room table by himself? Where's the book about the boy who reached the end and found nothing was resolved? Stories like that don't exist because people don't want a depressing ending. They need to have hope for the boy because they are the boy and if the boy doesn't make a connection, they fear they won't either and no one wants to consider that could be a reality for them.
So we set him up with some good friends and a crush and he gets kissed and holds hands under the stars and it's book perfect. And we feel both happy and sad because we don't have that but the boy is us and so if he finds it, so will we.
But some people know better.
In the movie (and book), Charlie writes letters to someone, chronicling a year in his life, but we are never told who he writes. And it made me want to write letters to anonymous people, too. What if I selected an address out of the phone book and wrote to this stranger, told him or her what was going on in my life? What if I sent several strangers these kinds of letters? What if I followed up every month or two? "Hi, it's me again. This is what has happened since the last time I wrote you." But I'd keep myself anonymous as well. A letter written from the heart and sent to one stranger from another.
Of course, it could be borderline creepy.
I think there's something kind of romantic and beautiful about reaching out to a complete stranger, making an intimate connection, sharing personal struggles and triumphs through a filter of anonymity. I like the juxtaposition and the...well, borderline creepiness of it, to be honest. I just know if someone sent me a random anonymous letter that let me glimpse into their life, I'd be fascinated. Well, it was a good life with good writing, of course. I don't need anyone sending me their school schedule or grocery list.
Oh, and I listened to the author/director commentary after I watched the movie and it was almost better than the movie. He delves deeper into the book and the movie and the characters and how he felt about making the movie and writing the book and all the feels he tried to capture and it was just nice and warm and beautiful and I recommend it.
I just wondered if there was a story out there about a boy who never found his place. Where was the tale of the guy who sat at the lunch room table by himself? Where's the book about the boy who reached the end and found nothing was resolved? Stories like that don't exist because people don't want a depressing ending. They need to have hope for the boy because they are the boy and if the boy doesn't make a connection, they fear they won't either and no one wants to consider that could be a reality for them.
So we set him up with some good friends and a crush and he gets kissed and holds hands under the stars and it's book perfect. And we feel both happy and sad because we don't have that but the boy is us and so if he finds it, so will we.
But some people know better.
In the movie (and book), Charlie writes letters to someone, chronicling a year in his life, but we are never told who he writes. And it made me want to write letters to anonymous people, too. What if I selected an address out of the phone book and wrote to this stranger, told him or her what was going on in my life? What if I sent several strangers these kinds of letters? What if I followed up every month or two? "Hi, it's me again. This is what has happened since the last time I wrote you." But I'd keep myself anonymous as well. A letter written from the heart and sent to one stranger from another.
Of course, it could be borderline creepy.
I think there's something kind of romantic and beautiful about reaching out to a complete stranger, making an intimate connection, sharing personal struggles and triumphs through a filter of anonymity. I like the juxtaposition and the...well, borderline creepiness of it, to be honest. I just know if someone sent me a random anonymous letter that let me glimpse into their life, I'd be fascinated. Well, it was a good life with good writing, of course. I don't need anyone sending me their school schedule or grocery list.
Oh, and I listened to the author/director commentary after I watched the movie and it was almost better than the movie. He delves deeper into the book and the movie and the characters and how he felt about making the movie and writing the book and all the feels he tried to capture and it was just nice and warm and beautiful and I recommend it.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
cacao kapow!
Valentine's Day hit me like Chris Brown in a Bronco. I'm not talking about just being alone (although that did have a lot to do with it). I'm talking about the enormous amount of crap I ate.
I won an entire plastic container full of Hershey Kisses from work and then the store gave everyone a box of chocolates and my mom bought two boxes of chocolate for me. After consuming that much sugar and chocolate and lard and fat and lard and sugar and chocolate and fat and lard and more lard and the occasional coconut cluster that slipped past my security measures (yuck), I felt like total garbage.
It's kind of amazing how you don't realize how bad you stopped feeling until you start feeling bad again.
I always thought I was impervious to sugar, caffeine, Aspartame, vitamins and minerals,love, legally obtained prescription drugs, etc., because I can have that stuff and it doesn't make me more energetic or foggy or good or bad. I've always walked around generally feeling like crap. So, when I started exercising and eating less greasy, fast food-type items, I didn't feel more energetic or "alive" or better physically or even mentally.
All it took was a near month-long binge of boxed chocolates to make me realize I didn't feel as bad as I believed. And you might say a month-long binge of chocolates will make anyone feel that way, no matter what condition they started in. Even the most lethargic sloth would come away from three boxes of cocoa-coated caramels feeling worse. But that chocolate wasted feeling was how I used to feel all the time before I started dieting and exercising.
I felt bad that I indulged so heavily. I write these entries about doing well. I write about moderation and it's okay to cheat every once in a while and you just get up and do better the next time around. And then I binge. And it happens to everyone but I still feel like I should be a better example. I've battled food and my weight and my addiction to food for years and you'd think I'd develop some sort of resistance to the constant cravings. But, no. In a lot of ways, I'm no better now than when I was seventeen and bingeing on Doritos and Diet Coke.
I also feel like I'm not as in touch with my body as I should be. I don't know what's going on inside. I can't detect the changes in my mood or my middle. There's a giant disconnection there and I don't know how to harmonize my senses and awareness.
If anything, I guess this overindulgence was a good lesson. There might be something to this diet and exercise after all, folks! Maybe it does make a difference, even if the differences are subtle and fluid and not easily recognized by those who aren't in touch with themselves.
I won an entire plastic container full of Hershey Kisses from work and then the store gave everyone a box of chocolates and my mom bought two boxes of chocolate for me. After consuming that much sugar and chocolate and lard and fat and lard and sugar and chocolate and fat and lard and more lard and the occasional coconut cluster that slipped past my security measures (yuck), I felt like total garbage.
It's kind of amazing how you don't realize how bad you stopped feeling until you start feeling bad again.
I always thought I was impervious to sugar, caffeine, Aspartame, vitamins and minerals,
All it took was a near month-long binge of boxed chocolates to make me realize I didn't feel as bad as I believed. And you might say a month-long binge of chocolates will make anyone feel that way, no matter what condition they started in. Even the most lethargic sloth would come away from three boxes of cocoa-coated caramels feeling worse. But that chocolate wasted feeling was how I used to feel all the time before I started dieting and exercising.
I felt bad that I indulged so heavily. I write these entries about doing well. I write about moderation and it's okay to cheat every once in a while and you just get up and do better the next time around. And then I binge. And it happens to everyone but I still feel like I should be a better example. I've battled food and my weight and my addiction to food for years and you'd think I'd develop some sort of resistance to the constant cravings. But, no. In a lot of ways, I'm no better now than when I was seventeen and bingeing on Doritos and Diet Coke.
I also feel like I'm not as in touch with my body as I should be. I don't know what's going on inside. I can't detect the changes in my mood or my middle. There's a giant disconnection there and I don't know how to harmonize my senses and awareness.
If anything, I guess this overindulgence was a good lesson. There might be something to this diet and exercise after all, folks! Maybe it does make a difference, even if the differences are subtle and fluid and not easily recognized by those who aren't in touch with themselves.
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
do not allow back
This is embarrassing to write about but we're all family, right? I've talked about all my other mishaps, be they spiritual, physical, and social. Might as well talk about my professional snafus, too.
When I was seventeen, I quit my job as a florist assistant after dealing with dead people, nearly wrecking the company van (on several occasions), and inhaling second hand smoke from my soot-stained boss. I quickly moved on to be a cashier at a pharmacy. Things went swimmingly for six months until I sold cigarettes to an underage girl. The girl worked with the Alabama Alcoholic Beverage Control Board and several agents quickly swooped in and told my supervisor. I was fired on the spot.
Now, let me explain.
I was fat, pimply, and insecure. I didn't have a voice. I didn't like to "confront" people. The girl did look too young but I was too scared to say anything. I felt a rush of nervousness hit me, a bad feeling, but I ignored it because I didn't want to come off as rude or suspicious of her. Yeah, it was my job to be suspicious and check her age but I didn't think of it in those terms. I just thought of it as one person dealing with another.
And it was a huge mistake. All these years later, it still embarrasses me. No one likes to talk about how they were fired but I was fired for doing something illegal. I look back on it now and I feel dumb. All I had to do was ask for an ID but I couldn't even muster the courage to do that. And because I couldn't ask a simple question, I was fired and it made my life spin in a different direction.
Cut to a few weeks ago. A former coworker from my current job called me up and told me he had gotten a position as an assistant supervisor at that same pharmacy. He said there was another assistant manager position open in another city and he said I should try for it. I immediately thought of my termination and wondered if I could be hired there again. I didn't want to express that to him, though, because it was embarrassing. So, I shrugged off his offer and made lame excuses and said I wasn't sure if it was right for me.
The job did sound pretty good, though. More money. More hours. I just had to face that shame again. I finally expressed my concern to him and he said he'd speak to his store manager to see if I could be hired again.
Two days later, he sent me a text message saying I was on the "do not allow back" list. I wasn't necessarily shocked but just knowing it was official was disappointing. There was the smallest part of me that held out hope. But that hope was squashed, just like it always is. Just knowing I'm on a naughty list somewhere makes me feel dirty. Filled with more shame.
It's bad enough that the dumb, huge mistake I made ten years ago still embarrasses me, it's also still holding me back from better opportunities. I didn't even ask for the opportunity. In fact, I avoided it 'cause I didn't think it would work out. Naturally, it didn't. But it was like the universe had to bring my bad decisions back around to me, another reminder of mistakes and failures, of setbacks and shame.
A week or so later, I walked into that pharmacy to pick up a couple of things. I had just come from work and I had on a dress shirt and tie. A man with an unkempt beard and a limp came up to me and asked, "Do you work here?"
"No, I don't," I replied. "I'm sorry."
"Oh, no, it's okay," he said as he hobbled away. "Sorry for asking."
I wasn't talking to you, mister.
When I was seventeen, I quit my job as a florist assistant after dealing with dead people, nearly wrecking the company van (on several occasions), and inhaling second hand smoke from my soot-stained boss. I quickly moved on to be a cashier at a pharmacy. Things went swimmingly for six months until I sold cigarettes to an underage girl. The girl worked with the Alabama Alcoholic Beverage Control Board and several agents quickly swooped in and told my supervisor. I was fired on the spot.
Now, let me explain.
I was fat, pimply, and insecure. I didn't have a voice. I didn't like to "confront" people. The girl did look too young but I was too scared to say anything. I felt a rush of nervousness hit me, a bad feeling, but I ignored it because I didn't want to come off as rude or suspicious of her. Yeah, it was my job to be suspicious and check her age but I didn't think of it in those terms. I just thought of it as one person dealing with another.
And it was a huge mistake. All these years later, it still embarrasses me. No one likes to talk about how they were fired but I was fired for doing something illegal. I look back on it now and I feel dumb. All I had to do was ask for an ID but I couldn't even muster the courage to do that. And because I couldn't ask a simple question, I was fired and it made my life spin in a different direction.
Cut to a few weeks ago. A former coworker from my current job called me up and told me he had gotten a position as an assistant supervisor at that same pharmacy. He said there was another assistant manager position open in another city and he said I should try for it. I immediately thought of my termination and wondered if I could be hired there again. I didn't want to express that to him, though, because it was embarrassing. So, I shrugged off his offer and made lame excuses and said I wasn't sure if it was right for me.
The job did sound pretty good, though. More money. More hours. I just had to face that shame again. I finally expressed my concern to him and he said he'd speak to his store manager to see if I could be hired again.
Two days later, he sent me a text message saying I was on the "do not allow back" list. I wasn't necessarily shocked but just knowing it was official was disappointing. There was the smallest part of me that held out hope. But that hope was squashed, just like it always is. Just knowing I'm on a naughty list somewhere makes me feel dirty. Filled with more shame.
It's bad enough that the dumb, huge mistake I made ten years ago still embarrasses me, it's also still holding me back from better opportunities. I didn't even ask for the opportunity. In fact, I avoided it 'cause I didn't think it would work out. Naturally, it didn't. But it was like the universe had to bring my bad decisions back around to me, another reminder of mistakes and failures, of setbacks and shame.
A week or so later, I walked into that pharmacy to pick up a couple of things. I had just come from work and I had on a dress shirt and tie. A man with an unkempt beard and a limp came up to me and asked, "Do you work here?"
"No, I don't," I replied. "I'm sorry."
"Oh, no, it's okay," he said as he hobbled away. "Sorry for asking."
I wasn't talking to you, mister.
Monday, February 18, 2013
apprehensive
"They’re fooling themselves. They think all this
bullshit about hard work and achieving means something but it doesn’t.
Universe is completely random. Particles colliding at random. Blind
chance. So you didn’t make it. No big deal. It’s not your fault.
Shit’s random."
-Party Down
I'm not an atheist, just apprehensive.
I've mentioned before that I've stopped praying or relying on God in any kind of way. I used to feel guilty about it but now I don't feel bad at all. Nothing in my life has changed. I'm no better or worse for it, which makes me wonder if God was ever in my life at all, or if God is anything at all.
I don't know. I'm not sure I care. I do hate that I've slid so far down but what can I do? I've tried it all with the prayer and meditation and Bible reading and patience. Nothing helped. Nothing ever does.
Faith is a lot like a slot machine. You pray and pull the lever and you hope for good results but you never know if you'll hit it big or end up empty. It's really all random chance. You can never be sure if the constant prayer ever pays off or if things in your life just finally line up. You want something long enough and if you work for it, you might just get it. It doesn't mean God had anything to do with it. Just to be fair, it also doesn't mean he didn't. You just can't know so why get caught up in it?
It pisses me off when people think I have given up on my faith in God just because I am not where I want to be in life. Do people think that's how I think it works? I'm not new to this game. I'm not asking for a perfect life. It's not about circumstances but sensations. I have never felt that comforting presence. I have never had a good feeling when it comes to God. I've only ever felt separation, emptiness, nothingness. I am not reassured when I pray. When I scream for God to give me a sign, I get nothing. I am not comforted and therefore I don't think there's anything out there to comfort me. How hard is it just to say hello? If God cares/exists, why has he not shown me?
And where's the stable relationship with anyone in my life, cosmic or concrete, with flesh or faith? My parents are distant, my coworkers are crass and former friends are too busy. I can congregate and communicate but I'm no one's number one.
I wish I could believe again. I wish I could be the good little Christian boy in my Christian bubble like so many people around here. They are small-minded and naive and annoying. And sometimes I think it would be easier if I could just be that way, too. What if God gave a shit? What if he finally had mercy on my menial life?
It's not like he's bullying me or anything. It just feels like it. But that's conceited on my part because, really, who am I? He has a whole big world to ignore so why would he single me out to slice and dice? No, he's saving that dirty work for the devil.
-Party Down
I'm not an atheist, just apprehensive.
I've mentioned before that I've stopped praying or relying on God in any kind of way. I used to feel guilty about it but now I don't feel bad at all. Nothing in my life has changed. I'm no better or worse for it, which makes me wonder if God was ever in my life at all, or if God is anything at all.
I don't know. I'm not sure I care. I do hate that I've slid so far down but what can I do? I've tried it all with the prayer and meditation and Bible reading and patience. Nothing helped. Nothing ever does.
Faith is a lot like a slot machine. You pray and pull the lever and you hope for good results but you never know if you'll hit it big or end up empty. It's really all random chance. You can never be sure if the constant prayer ever pays off or if things in your life just finally line up. You want something long enough and if you work for it, you might just get it. It doesn't mean God had anything to do with it. Just to be fair, it also doesn't mean he didn't. You just can't know so why get caught up in it?
It pisses me off when people think I have given up on my faith in God just because I am not where I want to be in life. Do people think that's how I think it works? I'm not new to this game. I'm not asking for a perfect life. It's not about circumstances but sensations. I have never felt that comforting presence. I have never had a good feeling when it comes to God. I've only ever felt separation, emptiness, nothingness. I am not reassured when I pray. When I scream for God to give me a sign, I get nothing. I am not comforted and therefore I don't think there's anything out there to comfort me. How hard is it just to say hello? If God cares/exists, why has he not shown me?
And where's the stable relationship with anyone in my life, cosmic or concrete, with flesh or faith? My parents are distant, my coworkers are crass and former friends are too busy. I can congregate and communicate but I'm no one's number one.
I wish I could believe again. I wish I could be the good little Christian boy in my Christian bubble like so many people around here. They are small-minded and naive and annoying. And sometimes I think it would be easier if I could just be that way, too. What if God gave a shit? What if he finally had mercy on my menial life?
It's not like he's bullying me or anything. It just feels like it. But that's conceited on my part because, really, who am I? He has a whole big world to ignore so why would he single me out to slice and dice? No, he's saving that dirty work for the devil.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
every day is a dagger
I ruined the only good relationship I ever had.
Memories of holding hands and hotel rooms keep me warm but the cold always settles in again. The irrevocable damage sweeps over everything and I just can't believe it happened, that things turned so bad so fast. And it's the reason I pushed people away and messed myself up for all these years. The worst part was I did it all for no good reason. It's not like I ever really belonged to you. And I'm not sure I ever wanted you in the first place. But you were the closest I ever had to something special and so I held on to it so tight, an iron grip on a frail hope.
I pinned myself to the ground and watched you fly away and flourish. I was left behind, fingernails splintered on the concrete floor. The pain deepens every day, spread out and penetrated into every part of me. It will never go away, grafted on to me the day I gave up on you and everyone, and everything, else. I call out, "I'm here, too. You forgot about me." But my voice grows weaker. Their ears grow more deaf. The space grows wider.
You don't get to be okay. I don't want to be happy for you because you ripped me apart. You didn't even mean to but damn it, you did. And I just want you to know the pain you caused me. I just want you to dip your toes into the fire you lit inside my soul. Just have a taste and then you can move on with your life. And I want you to carry a bit of that burden with you when you do.
Memories of holding hands and hotel rooms keep me warm but the cold always settles in again. The irrevocable damage sweeps over everything and I just can't believe it happened, that things turned so bad so fast. And it's the reason I pushed people away and messed myself up for all these years. The worst part was I did it all for no good reason. It's not like I ever really belonged to you. And I'm not sure I ever wanted you in the first place. But you were the closest I ever had to something special and so I held on to it so tight, an iron grip on a frail hope.
I pinned myself to the ground and watched you fly away and flourish. I was left behind, fingernails splintered on the concrete floor. The pain deepens every day, spread out and penetrated into every part of me. It will never go away, grafted on to me the day I gave up on you and everyone, and everything, else. I call out, "I'm here, too. You forgot about me." But my voice grows weaker. Their ears grow more deaf. The space grows wider.
You don't get to be okay. I don't want to be happy for you because you ripped me apart. You didn't even mean to but damn it, you did. And I just want you to know the pain you caused me. I just want you to dip your toes into the fire you lit inside my soul. Just have a taste and then you can move on with your life. And I want you to carry a bit of that burden with you when you do.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Monday, February 4, 2013
fate and failure
"This is a lesson in procrastination
I kill myself because I'm so frustrated
Every single second that I put it off
Means another lonely night I got to race the clock..."
-Brand New, Failure by Design
"How are you going to make an idol from the type of person you're trying to avoid in real life? I'm afraid if America keeps letting people like that become the entertainers, pretty soon there'll be no one left to work at Rite-Aid."
-Natasha Leggero, Coke Money
Failure is isolating. I should take comfort in the fact that I am not the only twenty-something floundering in the world. I am not the only twenty-something with a degree floundering in the world. I am not the only twenty-something with a degree who no longer desires to use it who is floundering in the world. But it doesn't make me feel better.
All I can think of are the ones in similar situations as me who have prospered. They had the same education and privileges and hardships as I did and yet they succeeded. I stumbled. That makes me feel like something must be wrong with me.
I struggle with the idea of fate and putting faith in fate. Am I destined to do what I love and, if so, should I take comfort in the fact that I will be where I belong eventually, even if things seem terrible at the moment? Or is fate just a bandage for the broken-hearted, something people tell themselves to get through the hurt of shattered expectations?
People say, "Yeah, things suck now but I'm meant for more. Everything will work out. I will live my dreams." But, is that really the case?
One of the great hardships of life, and death, is acceptance. We have to accept a lot of failure, endure disappointment and oftentimes lower our standards just so we can get through the day.
But do we also have to accept that our dreams might never come true? Do we have to accept that fate isn't real at all, that it's just a nice notion? Do we have to accept that fate won't always sync up with what we want? Why must we ache over something we can't even control?
I always dreamed of being an artist and recently, a published author. But the insecurity and awareness of my limitations hold me back. I can practice and get better but will I ever be good enough to actually make a living doing what I love?
The truth of the matter is we all have dreams. A lot of people aspire to do great things but someone's gotta flip the burgers and fold the shirts. What about their dreams? Are they where they wanna be or are they just biding their time until their big break? What if that break never comes? What if they wait in vain? What if they crack open and lose all hope?
What about them? What if I'm one of them?
We all stare stary-eyed at those one television who tell us to work hard, to be persistent, to keep practicing and we believe them because they did that and they "made" it. But we can't base our judgment of ourselves on people like that because the dirty secret is talent isn't as important as timing or connections or pure random luck. Sometimes talent has very little to do with success.
And that creates a disconnect between our talents and expectations. If we are so good, why aren't we successful? Maybe we aren't good after all or maybe we have the talent down but not the timing. Or maybe we don't have the right connections. But how are we to ever know what keeps us from happiness and success and fulfillment?
People say to compromise. You might not make it to broadway but you can do local theater. You might not be in the bookstores but you can fill a spot on Amazon. You won't fill a gallery with your art but you can fill a wall of a supportive friend's house.
Is that good enough? Can we make it good enough?
I think it's safe to say the majority of people out there have dreams but not everyone can follow them. But if we can't follow them, why do we have them in the first place? What's the point? What's the lesson to be learned from craving a passion we can't pursue?
I kill myself because I'm so frustrated
Every single second that I put it off
Means another lonely night I got to race the clock..."
-Brand New, Failure by Design
"How are you going to make an idol from the type of person you're trying to avoid in real life? I'm afraid if America keeps letting people like that become the entertainers, pretty soon there'll be no one left to work at Rite-Aid."
-Natasha Leggero, Coke Money
Failure is isolating. I should take comfort in the fact that I am not the only twenty-something floundering in the world. I am not the only twenty-something with a degree floundering in the world. I am not the only twenty-something with a degree who no longer desires to use it who is floundering in the world. But it doesn't make me feel better.
All I can think of are the ones in similar situations as me who have prospered. They had the same education and privileges and hardships as I did and yet they succeeded. I stumbled. That makes me feel like something must be wrong with me.
I struggle with the idea of fate and putting faith in fate. Am I destined to do what I love and, if so, should I take comfort in the fact that I will be where I belong eventually, even if things seem terrible at the moment? Or is fate just a bandage for the broken-hearted, something people tell themselves to get through the hurt of shattered expectations?
People say, "Yeah, things suck now but I'm meant for more. Everything will work out. I will live my dreams." But, is that really the case?
One of the great hardships of life, and death, is acceptance. We have to accept a lot of failure, endure disappointment and oftentimes lower our standards just so we can get through the day.
But do we also have to accept that our dreams might never come true? Do we have to accept that fate isn't real at all, that it's just a nice notion? Do we have to accept that fate won't always sync up with what we want? Why must we ache over something we can't even control?
I always dreamed of being an artist and recently, a published author. But the insecurity and awareness of my limitations hold me back. I can practice and get better but will I ever be good enough to actually make a living doing what I love?
The truth of the matter is we all have dreams. A lot of people aspire to do great things but someone's gotta flip the burgers and fold the shirts. What about their dreams? Are they where they wanna be or are they just biding their time until their big break? What if that break never comes? What if they wait in vain? What if they crack open and lose all hope?
What about them? What if I'm one of them?
We all stare stary-eyed at those one television who tell us to work hard, to be persistent, to keep practicing and we believe them because they did that and they "made" it. But we can't base our judgment of ourselves on people like that because the dirty secret is talent isn't as important as timing or connections or pure random luck. Sometimes talent has very little to do with success.
And that creates a disconnect between our talents and expectations. If we are so good, why aren't we successful? Maybe we aren't good after all or maybe we have the talent down but not the timing. Or maybe we don't have the right connections. But how are we to ever know what keeps us from happiness and success and fulfillment?
People say to compromise. You might not make it to broadway but you can do local theater. You might not be in the bookstores but you can fill a spot on Amazon. You won't fill a gallery with your art but you can fill a wall of a supportive friend's house.
Is that good enough? Can we make it good enough?
I think it's safe to say the majority of people out there have dreams but not everyone can follow them. But if we can't follow them, why do we have them in the first place? What's the point? What's the lesson to be learned from craving a passion we can't pursue?
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
english is my second language
While at work a couple of months ago, my high school AP English teacher came in to shop. I walked up to her, excited to tell her about my newly acquired passion for writing. I haven't seen her since I graduated high school in 2004 and thought she'd be happy to hear about my venturing into her field of expertise.
After we caught up for a bit, I told her I liked to write now and she smiled a small smile and I told her I was even published in my college's literary journal. Not a huge deal but it was something. A good start. I might have made a misstep, however, because I said her class helped me enjoy writing and I thought my writing grew while under her guidance. I even bragged a bit and said I thought I wrote some pretty good essays during the times I had her in 11th and 12th grade.
She smiled again and mentioned my science teacher's daughter, who was one grade above me.
"Yes, I still remember her essays. She was one of the best students I ever had."
I didn't understand why she chose to compliment some random girl who had nothing to do with me but I pressed on and casually asked her if she would like to read some of my writing. She was retired by this time and so I thought not only would she have the time to read it but I hoped she'd be interested to see how I've grown as a writer.
Instead, she let out a sigh.
After we caught up for a bit, I told her I liked to write now and she smiled a small smile and I told her I was even published in my college's literary journal. Not a huge deal but it was something. A good start. I might have made a misstep, however, because I said her class helped me enjoy writing and I thought my writing grew while under her guidance. I even bragged a bit and said I thought I wrote some pretty good essays during the times I had her in 11th and 12th grade.
She smiled again and mentioned my science teacher's daughter, who was one grade above me.
"Yes, I still remember her essays. She was one of the best students I ever had."
I didn't understand why she chose to compliment some random girl who had nothing to do with me but I pressed on and casually asked her if she would like to read some of my writing. She was retired by this time and so I thought not only would she have the time to read it but I hoped she'd be interested to see how I've grown as a writer.
Instead, she let out a sigh.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
victor/victim (i love to complain)
The co-worker who played the race card all the time also called me out the other day. I said something about how he and the other co-worker who moonlights as a preacher had all the luck with customers. They always ran into receptive individuals who treated them warmly while I got stuck with the disgruntled, disheveled, and diarrhea prone.
He smiled and said, "Come on, man. You play the victim."
His words struck me like a slap to the face because that's what my counselor said to me when I was in college. At the time, I thought my counselor was full of crap and didn't understand what I was going through. And here was this guy, having only known me for a couple of weeks, giving me the same diagnosis. He already had me pegged. Am I that transparent?
Maybe I am. Maybe I do play the victim and it's something I've subconsciously done and I never realized it and yet it's plain to everyone else.
It's painful to see myself like that but it's also necessary if I want to correct it. In some ways, I feel I've made peace with my pain. We are all hurting. We didn't choose to be born but yet we were thrust into this cruel world. We are all victims but some are just more vocal about it. No one's pain is more important or unjustified than anyone else's but we continually negate other people's negative feelings. Sure, I agree some people do have it worse than others. I've said multiple times that I don't even have it that bad. But does that mean I should strap on a smile and act like everything is fine?
I think there's a fine line between being grateful and being gross about it. At the end of the day, if we and our families are safe and can feed and clothe and house ourselves, we really have nothing to complain about. And yet, we all complain. And then we get annoyed when other people complain. How many of us really examine our situations and realize we have it better than probably 90% of the planet and then and immediately put an end to our own rants? I'd venture to guess not many, including those who complain about others who complain. It's all relative, really.
I complain to vent. Sometimes, it's how I get through the day. It doesn't mean I'm not grateful for what I have. It doesn't mean I think I have the worst life ever. But sometimes I get pissed off about things and I need to express that. I express myself. I complain. I piss and moan. It's what I do. It's what feels good. And I'm darn good at it. But it's not all I'm about. If I had something good to express, I'd express that, too. It just so happens I haven't had much good to express lately.
And just because someone seems like they have it all together, don't make the mistake of thinking they actually do. My outside world might seem fine, but on the inside, it's on fire. It's not so much a physical suffering but an emotional/spiritual one that not a lot of people outside of my blog have access to. It's that silent and unseen slicing that gets a lot of people. It's the hurt hidden in plain view. It's the fear of the consequences of complaining. We are taught to get up and get over it. Quit yer cryin'! Stop yer complainin'! There's starving children in Africa, for God's sake! We should be grateful we can breathe, they say, even if we're inhaling hell.
Ultimately, I think a lot of us can be less whiny, including me. And a lot of us can be more compassionate as well.
I've tried to be more accepting of the nature of my being. Some people are just more unfortunate than others but with bad luck. Some are unfortunate but the odds are in their favor. Some people are naturally happy and some are born bleeding. Yep, I'm the hemophiliac. I've made a conscious effort to stop blaming God for my troubles. It's conceited to think he'd single me out and send a mack truck full of crap barreling into me. At best, he loves me. At worst, he doesn't care. Either way, it's not helping my condition. What is love without action? If I don't know about it, does it really count? Not in my opinion.
I'm just trying to learn to take the blows and keep it moving. And I complain to get some of the pain off my chest. It helps and I don't care. I don't have to justify myself to anyone 'cause no one knows the extent of my imbalanced brain. But I try to justify myself anyway. And I vent to people because I want them to know I'm not a victim and bad stuff really does happen to me. I point out specific examples, sometimes as they happen, to show them I'm not making it up or playing a role.
But am I trying to convince them or myself?
He smiled and said, "Come on, man. You play the victim."
His words struck me like a slap to the face because that's what my counselor said to me when I was in college. At the time, I thought my counselor was full of crap and didn't understand what I was going through. And here was this guy, having only known me for a couple of weeks, giving me the same diagnosis. He already had me pegged. Am I that transparent?
Maybe I am. Maybe I do play the victim and it's something I've subconsciously done and I never realized it and yet it's plain to everyone else.
It's painful to see myself like that but it's also necessary if I want to correct it. In some ways, I feel I've made peace with my pain. We are all hurting. We didn't choose to be born but yet we were thrust into this cruel world. We are all victims but some are just more vocal about it. No one's pain is more important or unjustified than anyone else's but we continually negate other people's negative feelings. Sure, I agree some people do have it worse than others. I've said multiple times that I don't even have it that bad. But does that mean I should strap on a smile and act like everything is fine?
I think there's a fine line between being grateful and being gross about it. At the end of the day, if we and our families are safe and can feed and clothe and house ourselves, we really have nothing to complain about. And yet, we all complain. And then we get annoyed when other people complain. How many of us really examine our situations and realize we have it better than probably 90% of the planet and then and immediately put an end to our own rants? I'd venture to guess not many, including those who complain about others who complain. It's all relative, really.
I complain to vent. Sometimes, it's how I get through the day. It doesn't mean I'm not grateful for what I have. It doesn't mean I think I have the worst life ever. But sometimes I get pissed off about things and I need to express that. I express myself. I complain. I piss and moan. It's what I do. It's what feels good. And I'm darn good at it. But it's not all I'm about. If I had something good to express, I'd express that, too. It just so happens I haven't had much good to express lately.
And just because someone seems like they have it all together, don't make the mistake of thinking they actually do. My outside world might seem fine, but on the inside, it's on fire. It's not so much a physical suffering but an emotional/spiritual one that not a lot of people outside of my blog have access to. It's that silent and unseen slicing that gets a lot of people. It's the hurt hidden in plain view. It's the fear of the consequences of complaining. We are taught to get up and get over it. Quit yer cryin'! Stop yer complainin'! There's starving children in Africa, for God's sake! We should be grateful we can breathe, they say, even if we're inhaling hell.
Ultimately, I think a lot of us can be less whiny, including me. And a lot of us can be more compassionate as well.
I've tried to be more accepting of the nature of my being. Some people are just more unfortunate than others but with bad luck. Some are unfortunate but the odds are in their favor. Some people are naturally happy and some are born bleeding. Yep, I'm the hemophiliac. I've made a conscious effort to stop blaming God for my troubles. It's conceited to think he'd single me out and send a mack truck full of crap barreling into me. At best, he loves me. At worst, he doesn't care. Either way, it's not helping my condition. What is love without action? If I don't know about it, does it really count? Not in my opinion.
I'm just trying to learn to take the blows and keep it moving. And I complain to get some of the pain off my chest. It helps and I don't care. I don't have to justify myself to anyone 'cause no one knows the extent of my imbalanced brain. But I try to justify myself anyway. And I vent to people because I want them to know I'm not a victim and bad stuff really does happen to me. I point out specific examples, sometimes as they happen, to show them I'm not making it up or playing a role.
But am I trying to convince them or myself?
Sunday, December 30, 2012
vent-ricles
Feel free to skip this as it has no significance other than me ranting about retail and who really gives a crap?
Thursday, December 20, 2012
let's get drunk and kiss
"Excuse me for this
I just want a kiss
I just want to know what it feels like to touch..."
Kelly Clarkson, Can I Have a Kiss
Tuesday was my birthday and I've been trying to write this entry ever since then. I've just been so tired from the long hours at work and general exhaustion and sadness. I also believe I have a touch of ADD because I seriously cannot concentrate anymore. I used to be able to sit down and pound out entry after entry with no problem but now it takes me hours, sometimes days, to write. For once, I don't blame it on nature or nurture. I think I did this to myself. I've conditioned myself over the years to become an inefficient multi-tasker. I'm usually writing while watching television and listening to music, eating, clipping my toe nails, doing my taxes and tempering eggs all at the same time. I need to focusss.
My birthday was pretty blah. It wasn't bad. It wasn't the worst day ever but it wasn't good, either. I had to work, first of all. When I looked at my schedule and saw I'd be spending my birthday in that crap factory, I didn't even put up a fight about it. I just shrugged my shoulders and put on my big boy briefs (and a bow tie) and walked in like I owned the place. When you get older, you have to do stuff like that. You grow up and your special day isn't that special to anyone else outside you and your immediate family. Sometimes it isn't even that special to them. But it's no big deal. Just another day.
But it kind of sucks that the magic is gone.
After work, I drove home. That night drive was the best part of the day. Swooping through the orange and white lights. The darkness pulling at my eyelids. I just thought it would be nice to have someone I could share my special not-so-special day with so I could feel a little less alone, at least for the night. And if lips wouldn't help me forget my crumbling world, maybe liquor would. We could go out and get drunk and make out. A swirl of inebriation and untangled inhibitions, taking a break from my brain for a while. Release and regretful decisions.
It's something that comes so easily, something is taken for granted. What might seem trivial to so many seems tremendous to me. The intimacy. The charged current. The confidence to caress. But it's all lost on me. It shouldn't be so scary or foreign or vital yet I need to feel the closeness of body, the intensity of mind, the comfort of desire. Yes, I'm wanted. Yes, I'm needed. Yes, I can be touched and be made to feel worthy of someone else. Yes, I can give and receive pleasure. I know it. I don't feel it.
I don't think I ask for much. Just to be happy and lie on the cold ground and have someone hold my hand a while.
I just want a kiss
I just want to know what it feels like to touch..."
Kelly Clarkson, Can I Have a Kiss
Tuesday was my birthday and I've been trying to write this entry ever since then. I've just been so tired from the long hours at work and general exhaustion and sadness. I also believe I have a touch of ADD because I seriously cannot concentrate anymore. I used to be able to sit down and pound out entry after entry with no problem but now it takes me hours, sometimes days, to write. For once, I don't blame it on nature or nurture. I think I did this to myself. I've conditioned myself over the years to become an inefficient multi-tasker. I'm usually writing while watching television and listening to music, eating, clipping my toe nails, doing my taxes and tempering eggs all at the same time. I need to focusss.
My birthday was pretty blah. It wasn't bad. It wasn't the worst day ever but it wasn't good, either. I had to work, first of all. When I looked at my schedule and saw I'd be spending my birthday in that crap factory, I didn't even put up a fight about it. I just shrugged my shoulders and put on my big boy briefs (and a bow tie) and walked in like I owned the place. When you get older, you have to do stuff like that. You grow up and your special day isn't that special to anyone else outside you and your immediate family. Sometimes it isn't even that special to them. But it's no big deal. Just another day.
But it kind of sucks that the magic is gone.
After work, I drove home. That night drive was the best part of the day. Swooping through the orange and white lights. The darkness pulling at my eyelids. I just thought it would be nice to have someone I could share my special not-so-special day with so I could feel a little less alone, at least for the night. And if lips wouldn't help me forget my crumbling world, maybe liquor would. We could go out and get drunk and make out. A swirl of inebriation and untangled inhibitions, taking a break from my brain for a while. Release and regretful decisions.
It's something that comes so easily, something is taken for granted. What might seem trivial to so many seems tremendous to me. The intimacy. The charged current. The confidence to caress. But it's all lost on me. It shouldn't be so scary or foreign or vital yet I need to feel the closeness of body, the intensity of mind, the comfort of desire. Yes, I'm wanted. Yes, I'm needed. Yes, I can be touched and be made to feel worthy of someone else. Yes, I can give and receive pleasure. I know it. I don't feel it.
I don't think I ask for much. Just to be happy and lie on the cold ground and have someone hold my hand a while.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
