I expect too much of my love. I've been told often that I need to be more open in my relationships, that the women feel held at a distance. It's tough for me to verbalize my feelings. but there is something more - I want them to "know" without me having to tell.
It's stupid right? How could someone just "know" unless I tell them? In my warped mind I desire a glance that searches my soul. I want to stare into her eyes and see her essence, and she mine. So far that hasn't happened.
I had a rocky relationship with a woman a few years ago. I felt for her deeply, and she for I...but she wasn't ready for a serious relationship so she fought against it. One evening, a few days after she broke up with me, she stopped by my apartment to explain. She said her biggest issue was that I wasn't open with her, that I seldom spoke of my family and feelings. The second issue she had was my arrogance. I can understand some random person meeting me and thinking I'm arrogant. I suppose it would depend on the topic of conversation but I can't say I would be stunned. What did stun me was that this woman I had spent so many hours conversing with would think the same. I thought she knew me on a deeper level. I thought she saw my insecurities, confusion and search for the allusive truth. She obviously didn't. A few weeks later we went out for drinks and I decided to tell her a very personal story. It was something I had never spoke of to anyone - because it makes me feel foolish, but at the same time I think it relates something about me that isn't apparent to, well...anyone. I told her the story and my emotions bubbled and bubbled until, eventually, they began to boil over. I began to cry. There were two reasons why I was upset relating the story to her: 1. It's a story that sums up everything I desire and 2. I had hoped I never had to tell the story...I hoped someone would just know.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Friday, September 28, 2007
99% DRAINED
I've been sitting here for the last five minutes staring at this blank box, trying to decide what to write about. I told myself, if the opportunity arose, I would try to post in this blog daily. But I have no idea what to say right now. Nothing pressing is on my mind. Which bothers me. Especially when you turn on the news and see the events in Burma, another missing child report, and politics...well, being politics.
There is so much going on in the world, how could I have nothing to say?
99% of what is in this blog I would never actually verbalize. I've realized that 99% of people at cocktail parties don't want to talk about philosophical ideas - and I don't blame them, they want to have fun and be happy. I have fun talking about these things but I can't say it typically brings a burst of joy to my soul.
In any case, I use this blog as an outlet. With so much to talk about, why can't I find anything to say? Sometimes I think I just bury things, block them out. Sometimes I think I let the world tire me. Sometimes I'm just too tired.
There is so much going on in the world, how could I have nothing to say?
99% of what is in this blog I would never actually verbalize. I've realized that 99% of people at cocktail parties don't want to talk about philosophical ideas - and I don't blame them, they want to have fun and be happy. I have fun talking about these things but I can't say it typically brings a burst of joy to my soul.
In any case, I use this blog as an outlet. With so much to talk about, why can't I find anything to say? Sometimes I think I just bury things, block them out. Sometimes I think I let the world tire me. Sometimes I'm just too tired.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
IT'S ALIVE!!!!!!!!
I was watching an interview on PBS this evening featuring Charles Simic, the new Poet Laureate of the United States. At one point during the interview the questioner asked, "why is poetry important?" Mr. Simic responded with the following (I'm paraphrasing), "While teaching one semester a student asked me that same question, I was a taken aback as the question is really quite profound. After a moment a young woman in the audience raised her hand, I asked if she would like to take a stab at it. She said poetry was important because it reminds us of our humanity. That it's raining out, or that the flowers are in bloom. That we love, or we hate. Maybe there is a god, maybe there isn't. But it reminds us that we're here."
I enjoy poetry but I'm far from an expert. Very seldom do I purchase a book of poetry or check one out of the local library. I don't construct poetry well but I've always been fascinated by it in the sense that, good poetry, always seems so emotionally pure. In being so, it's an act of baring one's soul. Which makes it powerful.
I tried thinking of other things that "remind us of our humanity." Films, like something from Ingmar Bergman maybe, or a good piece of literature can certainly do the trick. But the thing that has probably had the most humbling affect on me in my life, thus leading to a reminder of my humanity, was a personal trial or tribulation. For me, the most difficult periods in my life led to a greater understanding of myself, the people around me, and life in general. They were difficult times - of which a few I barely survived. But in the end, I not only had a fresh perspective on life, but a better grasp on what being human means. And that leads to a greater appreciation for life.
Whether watching a philosophical film, reading a thought-provoking book, or ingesting a poem, one of the key ingredients seems to be a recollection of a personal difficulty. A recollection of pain. But what I inevitably fail to see is that in itself the piece of work is as much a tale of redemption as it is a recollection of pain. Someone had to do the writing, which mean someone survived, which means someone learned. Why is it so easy to experience the pain, but so difficult to recognize the redemption? It has become an instinct. Or maybe it's always been an instinct.
Hotel Insomnia
I liked my little hole,
Its window facing a brick wall.
Next door there was a piano.
A few evenings a month
a crippled old man came to play
"My Blue Heaven."
Mostly, though, it was quiet.
Each room with its spider in heavy overcoat
Catching his fly with a web
Of cigarette smoke and revery.
So dark,
I could not see my face in the shaving mirror.
At 5 A.M. the sound of bare feet upstairs.
The "Gypsy" fortuneteller,
Whose storefront is on the corner,
Going to pee after a night of love.
Once, too, the sound of a child sobbing.
So near it was, I thought
For a moment, I was sobbing myself.
Charles Simic
I enjoy poetry but I'm far from an expert. Very seldom do I purchase a book of poetry or check one out of the local library. I don't construct poetry well but I've always been fascinated by it in the sense that, good poetry, always seems so emotionally pure. In being so, it's an act of baring one's soul. Which makes it powerful.
I tried thinking of other things that "remind us of our humanity." Films, like something from Ingmar Bergman maybe, or a good piece of literature can certainly do the trick. But the thing that has probably had the most humbling affect on me in my life, thus leading to a reminder of my humanity, was a personal trial or tribulation. For me, the most difficult periods in my life led to a greater understanding of myself, the people around me, and life in general. They were difficult times - of which a few I barely survived. But in the end, I not only had a fresh perspective on life, but a better grasp on what being human means. And that leads to a greater appreciation for life.
Whether watching a philosophical film, reading a thought-provoking book, or ingesting a poem, one of the key ingredients seems to be a recollection of a personal difficulty. A recollection of pain. But what I inevitably fail to see is that in itself the piece of work is as much a tale of redemption as it is a recollection of pain. Someone had to do the writing, which mean someone survived, which means someone learned. Why is it so easy to experience the pain, but so difficult to recognize the redemption? It has become an instinct. Or maybe it's always been an instinct.
Hotel Insomnia
I liked my little hole,
Its window facing a brick wall.
Next door there was a piano.
A few evenings a month
a crippled old man came to play
"My Blue Heaven."
Mostly, though, it was quiet.
Each room with its spider in heavy overcoat
Catching his fly with a web
Of cigarette smoke and revery.
So dark,
I could not see my face in the shaving mirror.
At 5 A.M. the sound of bare feet upstairs.
The "Gypsy" fortuneteller,
Whose storefront is on the corner,
Going to pee after a night of love.
Once, too, the sound of a child sobbing.
So near it was, I thought
For a moment, I was sobbing myself.
Charles Simic
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
LOSING MY EYES
When I first began this blog I wrote a lot about "love." It seemed like every post dealt with a lost love or a search for love or a desire for love or a pessimism of love. I realized that I haven't written a post about love in quite some time.
I told myself I was concentrating on my writing and social entrepreneurship ideas and putting love aside for a bit. Deep down, somewhere near my pancreas, I knew I was lying. I mean, I knew I'd TRY but that my search for love was too ingrained in me to put aside easily. To me, love symbolizes an answer to the meaning of life. How could you put that aside? But I have.
What have I done with that constant ache I've held near the center of my chest for so long? Yes, the pain would subside when I met someone that elicited hope but it would roar back with a vengeance when the relationship faltered. And if I'm honest with myself, that pain was there even when I was in my relationships - I just fought to ignore it. So here I am, living life in the same wondrous state as always, but that focus that has existed for over a decade has faded. Am I giving up? Am I supposed to?
I told myself I was concentrating on my writing and social entrepreneurship ideas and putting love aside for a bit. Deep down, somewhere near my pancreas, I knew I was lying. I mean, I knew I'd TRY but that my search for love was too ingrained in me to put aside easily. To me, love symbolizes an answer to the meaning of life. How could you put that aside? But I have.
What have I done with that constant ache I've held near the center of my chest for so long? Yes, the pain would subside when I met someone that elicited hope but it would roar back with a vengeance when the relationship faltered. And if I'm honest with myself, that pain was there even when I was in my relationships - I just fought to ignore it. So here I am, living life in the same wondrous state as always, but that focus that has existed for over a decade has faded. Am I giving up? Am I supposed to?
Monday, September 24, 2007
MIRROR MIRROR ON THE WALL
There is a close friend of mine that recently confided in me that for the four months prior to her summer vacation she made herself vomit after every meal. She doesn't consider herself bulimic but realizes it probably isn't healthy. She is a beautiful girl but she once said to me that she saw her body in the same light as a girl strolling the sidewalk in front of us - the girl was twice her weight.
I don't know how to deal with this but I'm trying to learn as much as I can about this disease. I don't know if anything makes me more sad than when someone I love and respect sees themselves as gross.
Sometimes when I'm in a bar, and having a good time, I'll look in the mirror and think to myself, "hey, I don't look that bad tonight!" Then I'll look at the lights and the mirror itself and try to figure out where I can buy these so I can have them in my home. There are other days, and much more frequent, where I'll look in the mirror in complete disgust of my appearance. I kind of hate myself at these moments. I think my receding hairline is pathetic. I think my hairy chest is rather unappealing and my eyebrows are a few years away from taking on a life of their own. I wish my belly didn't have that bit of pudge that seems to be content to ignore my sit ups. I wish I knew how to dress better. I wish I had a bigger penis. I wish I was smarter.
But I don't do anything about it. I don't shave my chest or take the latest hair growth formula. I do exercise but that has as much to do with the internal health and keeping my energy up than anything else. Actually, that's not completely true - I really am trying to get rid of that pudge. Anyhow, my point is, I'm just stubborn enough to continue telling myself that I want people to like me because of who I am and not how I dress. In fact, I go out of my way NOT to go out of my way because of expectations or cultural norms. The question begs, why should anyone like me if I don't really like myself?
In case someone who knows me reads this and rolls their eyes, I want to point out that I have great friends and I'm not begging for people to "like me." I am begging for people to understand me though...and maybe to understand myself. Most of the time I can honestly say that I wouldn't trade lives with anyone, but at the same time I struggle with liking myself. I wish I was a better person. I'll always feel that way...I hope.
I don't know how to deal with this but I'm trying to learn as much as I can about this disease. I don't know if anything makes me more sad than when someone I love and respect sees themselves as gross.
Sometimes when I'm in a bar, and having a good time, I'll look in the mirror and think to myself, "hey, I don't look that bad tonight!" Then I'll look at the lights and the mirror itself and try to figure out where I can buy these so I can have them in my home. There are other days, and much more frequent, where I'll look in the mirror in complete disgust of my appearance. I kind of hate myself at these moments. I think my receding hairline is pathetic. I think my hairy chest is rather unappealing and my eyebrows are a few years away from taking on a life of their own. I wish my belly didn't have that bit of pudge that seems to be content to ignore my sit ups. I wish I knew how to dress better. I wish I had a bigger penis. I wish I was smarter.
But I don't do anything about it. I don't shave my chest or take the latest hair growth formula. I do exercise but that has as much to do with the internal health and keeping my energy up than anything else. Actually, that's not completely true - I really am trying to get rid of that pudge. Anyhow, my point is, I'm just stubborn enough to continue telling myself that I want people to like me because of who I am and not how I dress. In fact, I go out of my way NOT to go out of my way because of expectations or cultural norms. The question begs, why should anyone like me if I don't really like myself?
In case someone who knows me reads this and rolls their eyes, I want to point out that I have great friends and I'm not begging for people to "like me." I am begging for people to understand me though...and maybe to understand myself. Most of the time I can honestly say that I wouldn't trade lives with anyone, but at the same time I struggle with liking myself. I wish I was a better person. I'll always feel that way...I hope.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
THE SUBWAY ALWAYS SEEMS TO HAVE ROOM FOR ONE MORE
Last Friday after work I was standing on a street corner in Manhattan waiting for the light to permit me to cross. I looked up towards the sky and gazed at the tops of the skyscrapers all around me. It's a view that hammers insignificance upon you. It made me feel so small.
The light changed, traffic stopped, and I crossed the street with about thirty strangers. I descended the stairs to the subway, and hopped on a train just before the doors closed. There I was shoulder to shoulder with a hundred strangers - stuffed in this silver box, like sardines. I started to think about how insignificant we all are...and at the same time, how important each of us are to so many others. It's a hard thing to organize in my head. On one hand it seems to me like any positive contribution I may be fortunate enough to make in this world would really mean very little in the big picture view of things. How so very far this world seems to need to go. But, at the same time, I realize how connected we all are and how, like domino's I could topple lives by the seemingly smallest of acts...which, again, could still be somewhat insignificant when looking at the big picture. Or maybe not. Maybe on our own we are insignificant, but when collectively assembled as a member of all things living, we become a support link, and without us, we affect many...thus making us quite significant. I kind of like that thought even though it tramples a bit on my desires for increased solitude.
The light changed, traffic stopped, and I crossed the street with about thirty strangers. I descended the stairs to the subway, and hopped on a train just before the doors closed. There I was shoulder to shoulder with a hundred strangers - stuffed in this silver box, like sardines. I started to think about how insignificant we all are...and at the same time, how important each of us are to so many others. It's a hard thing to organize in my head. On one hand it seems to me like any positive contribution I may be fortunate enough to make in this world would really mean very little in the big picture view of things. How so very far this world seems to need to go. But, at the same time, I realize how connected we all are and how, like domino's I could topple lives by the seemingly smallest of acts...which, again, could still be somewhat insignificant when looking at the big picture. Or maybe not. Maybe on our own we are insignificant, but when collectively assembled as a member of all things living, we become a support link, and without us, we affect many...thus making us quite significant. I kind of like that thought even though it tramples a bit on my desires for increased solitude.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
THIS BLOG RESIDES IN MY COLON
I keep talking about how good this blog has been for me but it also creates a feeling of cowardice. First off, I don't use my real name - there is little risk of exposing these ideas and thoughts to people who know me on a visual level. And, more importantly, is the assumption that no one who meets me would ever know this side of me exists. No one would know how confused and generally emotional I am. No one would ever see this blog IN me. Outside of this online world I bury this blog deep down alongside memories that now act as tiny ghosts...almost invisible. It's only in this e-world that I allow it to be exposed...and even then, with precautions.
I suppose it's a step. But then again, would I ever want to be comfortable sharing these ideas with people on a daily basis? Is that a goal I'd want to achieve? I don't think so. I think I need to remember I'm built a certain way and that's okay. I've found a couple people in my life who understand that and "get me" (I think). I'll just continue to hope there are more out there...and that our paths will cross.
I suppose it's a step. But then again, would I ever want to be comfortable sharing these ideas with people on a daily basis? Is that a goal I'd want to achieve? I don't think so. I think I need to remember I'm built a certain way and that's okay. I've found a couple people in my life who understand that and "get me" (I think). I'll just continue to hope there are more out there...and that our paths will cross.
Monday, September 17, 2007
THE TIRE SWING
I can't stop thinking. I torment myself with echoes of questions that have buried their answers centuries past. I occupy my being with obtuse tasks in the hopes of freezing the circulating matter inside my head. I sigh a sigh that reaches the depth of my belly with the goal of easing my jaw...my shoulders...my heart. I shut my eyes and concur irrational fantasies that, for the length of my dreamworlds breath, fool me into believing their lucidity. I ponder the relevance of being me. I ponder the relevance of being. I ponder.
For a brief second I unexpectedly catch a slight scent of freshly mowed grass, and it transports me atop the tire swing behind my childhood home. The breeze refreshes, the dandelions a brilliant yellow. The half-acre clearing appears to connect the oceans. I have nowhere to go, and no desire beyond dangling my bare feet gently over the shortened blades of grass. It's lucid.
I'm back. I'm thinking. I can't stop thinking.
For a brief second I unexpectedly catch a slight scent of freshly mowed grass, and it transports me atop the tire swing behind my childhood home. The breeze refreshes, the dandelions a brilliant yellow. The half-acre clearing appears to connect the oceans. I have nowhere to go, and no desire beyond dangling my bare feet gently over the shortened blades of grass. It's lucid.
I'm back. I'm thinking. I can't stop thinking.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
THE TEARS ARE STILL MOVING
Lachrimae is alive. I received a message from her this week and I can't tell you how relieved I was. I had such a disturbing feeling leading me to believe she was no longer with us.
Individuals like Lachrimae, people with such deep feelings and desires, are so important to the world. These are the catalysts for change. They foster understanding. They help people see and accept themselves. These people have a connection to the world and feel it's rotations within them. The greatest poets, authors, filmmakers, politicians and leaders of this world have been those who feel so deeply it seems a curse. They don't experience their emotions in their heart or brain...they feel them in their soul.
Inevitably pain is a bi-product of such powerful emotional relations and, by the nature of the individual, must be the toughest to control. Read the great poets and authors and it becomes apparent that pain is certainly the most consistent emotion. But it is through the caress of this hurt that the greatest achievements have been presented to humankind.
Not all people who feel intensely with their soul are going to inspire millions and lead a march to make the world a better place. But through their love, insight, sharing, and empathy they can touch someone, and that someone may touch another and that someone may touch another yet. Or maybe they just help someone live an easier life by feeling less misunderstood or different.
I firmly believe everything in the universe is connected - never underestimate the impact we can have...even in the seemingly smallest of ways.
Individuals like Lachrimae, people with such deep feelings and desires, are so important to the world. These are the catalysts for change. They foster understanding. They help people see and accept themselves. These people have a connection to the world and feel it's rotations within them. The greatest poets, authors, filmmakers, politicians and leaders of this world have been those who feel so deeply it seems a curse. They don't experience their emotions in their heart or brain...they feel them in their soul.
Inevitably pain is a bi-product of such powerful emotional relations and, by the nature of the individual, must be the toughest to control. Read the great poets and authors and it becomes apparent that pain is certainly the most consistent emotion. But it is through the caress of this hurt that the greatest achievements have been presented to humankind.
Not all people who feel intensely with their soul are going to inspire millions and lead a march to make the world a better place. But through their love, insight, sharing, and empathy they can touch someone, and that someone may touch another and that someone may touch another yet. Or maybe they just help someone live an easier life by feeling less misunderstood or different.
I firmly believe everything in the universe is connected - never underestimate the impact we can have...even in the seemingly smallest of ways.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
JUST JOIN THE CIRCUS ALREADY
Is this weird? I've been thinking about taking another long trip somewhere after my job ends in January and I stumbled upon an opportunity I didn't know existed. Freighter travel. Apparently large freighters, used for shipping cargo, have up to 12 passenger rooms available for rent. These ships travel all over the world making stops in several ports to unload their cargo. The thought of being in the middle of the ocean for 30 days (and not on a luxury cruise ship) really appeals to me. No frills, no casino, no television, no bar, no mandated socializing - most of the other people on the ship will be workers. Nope, this would just be me and the ocean for 30 days, eventually landing in port somewhere - maybe Australia, or China...I'm not really sure yet. And I'd fly back home. But I have to say that "old world" travel has always interested me - I love the idea of being at sea during storms and rough weather as well as sunny, calm days. A modern day Columbus or, even cooler, a pirate! I love the idea of being somewhat alone in the middle of a vast, powerful segment of nature.
When I tell people this is something I'm considering (although I haven't really looked into it too much yet), they shake their head at the idea. "What kind of vacation is that?", I've heard from naysayers. And to be honest, as I verbalize my desire to do something like this I realize it's extremely abnormal. But I have a curiosity and a desire...
I may not actually do this trip but I'm most definitely intrigued by it.
When I tell people this is something I'm considering (although I haven't really looked into it too much yet), they shake their head at the idea. "What kind of vacation is that?", I've heard from naysayers. And to be honest, as I verbalize my desire to do something like this I realize it's extremely abnormal. But I have a curiosity and a desire...
I may not actually do this trip but I'm most definitely intrigued by it.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
WILL WORK FOR INSIGNIFICANCE
Today I was at the office late, trying to finish up a few projects so I'd have less to do tomorrow. As I walked out of the office I remembered all the days over the past two years that I spent working hours and hours of overtime. I was giving up years of my life to get ahead in the corporate world. I don't regret it, because I learned from it (boy is consulting a much better gig!). I'm really happy with my current situation - a job that has an end in sight, flexible hours and no commitment.
But the strangest thing happened as I walked to the subway tonight - I kind of craved getting back into that monotonous schedule that had me waking up at dawn and getting home at dark. Why would I crave that? The money? No. The status? No. The feeling of having achieved something during the day? No. I think I craved it because it keeps me from thinking. If I only have time to think about work, that's all I have to worry about.
But the strangest thing happened as I walked to the subway tonight - I kind of craved getting back into that monotonous schedule that had me waking up at dawn and getting home at dark. Why would I crave that? The money? No. The status? No. The feeling of having achieved something during the day? No. I think I craved it because it keeps me from thinking. If I only have time to think about work, that's all I have to worry about.
Monday, September 10, 2007
i HOPE this isn't too depressing
Suicide has been on my mind a lot lately - but not in the way you would think. A friend of mine called me this week to tell me that her brother has attempted suicide twice in the past month. His wife told him that she has been cheating on him for two years, was leaving him, and wanted nothing to do with their two small children. That is quite a blow.
I've written in some earlier posts about how I experience really high highs and really low lows. If something like this happened to me I'm sure I would have some extreme thoughts running through my head. My friend talked about the pain it was putting the family through and the pessimistic outlook for her brother's future. No one in the family believes he'll ever be the same. They even wonder if he'll make it through this at all. My friend spoke of the complete lack of emotion or remorse in her brother and how scary it is to see someone like that. I know this all to well.
When I was 19 years old one of my best friends slit his wrists and swallowed a container of pills while washing it down with a fifth of vodka. I found him on his couch, blue in the face and waiting patiently for death. When he showed me what he had done I completely freaked out. I punched a hole in a nearby wall and screamed at him - I asked him how he could do this when so many people loved him? If I'm honest about it, I was also a little pissed off that he beat me to it. I wasn't in a good place at that time either and had contemplated it on occasion. I never went so far as to directly make an attempt on my life but I certainly tried to circumnavigate it through self-destructive behavior. In some way I hoped that would make it easier on my family.
It seems to me that most people I know characterize themselves as either having depression, having gone through depression, or suffering from sporadic bouts of depression. I'm not a doctor but I tend to think that people today are just less prepared to deal with the downs. Don't get me wrong, I believe in depression, I'm just not sure we diagnose it correctly. Kind of like how small boys are diagnosed with ADD so quickly. Whatever happened to the thought that little boys are just made to be rambunctious? When did it become a problem? We live in a world of convenience.
Back to the point of the post - I feel such deep sorrow for individuals who get to a point in life where suicide seems the best option. It's never a quick and easy decision - these people are typically going through a period of extreme anguish. It's a loss of hope...which is the worst thing I can think of. Hope pats us on the back and tells us it's all going to be okay. It whispers words of encouragement and asks us to be patient. It reminds us that we can't predict the future and any attempt to do so is a a sad form of arrogance.
I know I'll continue to go through very low periods in my life. I know I'll feel pain that makes me want to break in two. I know my hope will diminish to a speck. I just pray that I never lose hope completely as I once did. I pray no one in the world ever loses hope. Hope to me is a sunrise...a reset button. It's a bottomless barrel of second chances. You don't have to believe things will get better but we should recognize it's possible.
I have one last story to share. This blog has been very kind to me, extremely therapeutic. I've received comments from people in different places of the earth and used it as a vehicle to stay in touch with a certain two or three close friends. One day about three months ago I received a comment from a girl calling herself "lachrimae." She said, "everything you write seems like it could have come from me"...or something like that. I visited her blog and saw someone who I could relate to. She was dark and sad. She was artistic and conflicted. I enjoyed reading her poems and viewing her photography. I felt like we were similar in some ways although I wondered if she didn't have a deeper pit of despair inside her. Lachrimae sent me an e-mail message one day and we began to strike up a friendship. I referred to her as my first "bloggy friend." We began to learn more about each other although we were both a bit guarded - I can only speak from my point of view but I wasn't sure how to react to an e-relationship (and this isn't in the romantic sense). After trading e-mails for a few months I realized that lachrimae and I may have been even more alike than I could have imagined. Although it isn't a surprising concept, I was amazed that emotions, thoughts and disposition weren't hindered by borders or long stretched of wild blue ocean - Lachrimae is from Portugal. The last e-mail I received from lachrimae was about how she had a tough task of restoring a relationship and how she was battling to find a comfortable place in the world. I congratulated her on buying a home and doing well at work. We exchanged "real" names - we began to open up a bit more.
A couple months ago I went to her blog and saw this:
http://huntingdreams.blogspot.com/2007/08/thats-all-folks.html#links
It has been her last post for quite some time. The title of the post sent shivers down my spine. I HOPE I'm wrong but my instincts tell me otherwise. I've e-mailed lachrimae several time pleading for her to tell me that she was alive. I offered words of encouragement and prayed she'd find strength. I've never heard back from her. I worry she is no longer with us. I feel she isn't.
Lachrimae means "tears" which is exactly what has seeped from my soul since I lost contact with her. The world can not possibly be a better place without her. Even though we've never met face to face I feel like our e-relationship was more powerful in a way. I'm not sure either of us would have opened up as much as we did had it been face to face. We weren't made like that. Lachrimae, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't blog more often in the hope that you'd remember you weren't alone in your feelings. I'm sorry I wasn't quicker to ask all the questions I really wanted to know from you - being that it was exclusively online I was worried you would think it was creepy. I'm just not used to it. I'm sorry I didn't send you a phone number so you could have called if you needed to talk - I knew you had many struggles. I'm sorry I didn't come through for you. I felt a kinship with you and I feel like a piece of me has left with you.
Hope. I have no concrete evidence so I hope she is alive and well and working on her problems. I hope she hasn't lost hope. I hope that if, in the unfortunate event that my instincts are correct, god understands. I've always felt that the god that has pity for the poor, the ignorant, the sick, and the weak, would most certainly have pity for the soulfully inflicted.
In closing - I've characterized "hope" in a lot of ways thus far. I'll add one more - hope to me is not only a belief that the unknown future might be brighter than the past, but it is also materialized through sunrises, reflections in a pool of water, a shadow under a tree on a sweltering day, a mountaintop view, a child's laughter, a friend's warm embrace, a good book, hot chocolate, and the smell of coffee on a brisk morning. It's everything beautiful in the world, everything we need to continue to remember. There is no single event (or many for that matter) that can possibly cancel out all the beauty that life holds. We may lose something but we never know what we may gain.
I've written in some earlier posts about how I experience really high highs and really low lows. If something like this happened to me I'm sure I would have some extreme thoughts running through my head. My friend talked about the pain it was putting the family through and the pessimistic outlook for her brother's future. No one in the family believes he'll ever be the same. They even wonder if he'll make it through this at all. My friend spoke of the complete lack of emotion or remorse in her brother and how scary it is to see someone like that. I know this all to well.
When I was 19 years old one of my best friends slit his wrists and swallowed a container of pills while washing it down with a fifth of vodka. I found him on his couch, blue in the face and waiting patiently for death. When he showed me what he had done I completely freaked out. I punched a hole in a nearby wall and screamed at him - I asked him how he could do this when so many people loved him? If I'm honest about it, I was also a little pissed off that he beat me to it. I wasn't in a good place at that time either and had contemplated it on occasion. I never went so far as to directly make an attempt on my life but I certainly tried to circumnavigate it through self-destructive behavior. In some way I hoped that would make it easier on my family.
It seems to me that most people I know characterize themselves as either having depression, having gone through depression, or suffering from sporadic bouts of depression. I'm not a doctor but I tend to think that people today are just less prepared to deal with the downs. Don't get me wrong, I believe in depression, I'm just not sure we diagnose it correctly. Kind of like how small boys are diagnosed with ADD so quickly. Whatever happened to the thought that little boys are just made to be rambunctious? When did it become a problem? We live in a world of convenience.
Back to the point of the post - I feel such deep sorrow for individuals who get to a point in life where suicide seems the best option. It's never a quick and easy decision - these people are typically going through a period of extreme anguish. It's a loss of hope...which is the worst thing I can think of. Hope pats us on the back and tells us it's all going to be okay. It whispers words of encouragement and asks us to be patient. It reminds us that we can't predict the future and any attempt to do so is a a sad form of arrogance.
I know I'll continue to go through very low periods in my life. I know I'll feel pain that makes me want to break in two. I know my hope will diminish to a speck. I just pray that I never lose hope completely as I once did. I pray no one in the world ever loses hope. Hope to me is a sunrise...a reset button. It's a bottomless barrel of second chances. You don't have to believe things will get better but we should recognize it's possible.
I have one last story to share. This blog has been very kind to me, extremely therapeutic. I've received comments from people in different places of the earth and used it as a vehicle to stay in touch with a certain two or three close friends. One day about three months ago I received a comment from a girl calling herself "lachrimae." She said, "everything you write seems like it could have come from me"...or something like that. I visited her blog and saw someone who I could relate to. She was dark and sad. She was artistic and conflicted. I enjoyed reading her poems and viewing her photography. I felt like we were similar in some ways although I wondered if she didn't have a deeper pit of despair inside her. Lachrimae sent me an e-mail message one day and we began to strike up a friendship. I referred to her as my first "bloggy friend." We began to learn more about each other although we were both a bit guarded - I can only speak from my point of view but I wasn't sure how to react to an e-relationship (and this isn't in the romantic sense). After trading e-mails for a few months I realized that lachrimae and I may have been even more alike than I could have imagined. Although it isn't a surprising concept, I was amazed that emotions, thoughts and disposition weren't hindered by borders or long stretched of wild blue ocean - Lachrimae is from Portugal. The last e-mail I received from lachrimae was about how she had a tough task of restoring a relationship and how she was battling to find a comfortable place in the world. I congratulated her on buying a home and doing well at work. We exchanged "real" names - we began to open up a bit more.
A couple months ago I went to her blog and saw this:
http://huntingdreams.blogspot.com/2007/08/thats-all-folks.html#links
It has been her last post for quite some time. The title of the post sent shivers down my spine. I HOPE I'm wrong but my instincts tell me otherwise. I've e-mailed lachrimae several time pleading for her to tell me that she was alive. I offered words of encouragement and prayed she'd find strength. I've never heard back from her. I worry she is no longer with us. I feel she isn't.
Lachrimae means "tears" which is exactly what has seeped from my soul since I lost contact with her. The world can not possibly be a better place without her. Even though we've never met face to face I feel like our e-relationship was more powerful in a way. I'm not sure either of us would have opened up as much as we did had it been face to face. We weren't made like that. Lachrimae, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't blog more often in the hope that you'd remember you weren't alone in your feelings. I'm sorry I wasn't quicker to ask all the questions I really wanted to know from you - being that it was exclusively online I was worried you would think it was creepy. I'm just not used to it. I'm sorry I didn't send you a phone number so you could have called if you needed to talk - I knew you had many struggles. I'm sorry I didn't come through for you. I felt a kinship with you and I feel like a piece of me has left with you.
Hope. I have no concrete evidence so I hope she is alive and well and working on her problems. I hope she hasn't lost hope. I hope that if, in the unfortunate event that my instincts are correct, god understands. I've always felt that the god that has pity for the poor, the ignorant, the sick, and the weak, would most certainly have pity for the soulfully inflicted.
In closing - I've characterized "hope" in a lot of ways thus far. I'll add one more - hope to me is not only a belief that the unknown future might be brighter than the past, but it is also materialized through sunrises, reflections in a pool of water, a shadow under a tree on a sweltering day, a mountaintop view, a child's laughter, a friend's warm embrace, a good book, hot chocolate, and the smell of coffee on a brisk morning. It's everything beautiful in the world, everything we need to continue to remember. There is no single event (or many for that matter) that can possibly cancel out all the beauty that life holds. We may lose something but we never know what we may gain.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
ON THE MERRY-GO-ROUND
I'm not sure that this post is going to make any sense really but here goes nothing:
I was going to write about how I used to be a happy-go-lucky person but how I lost that luster for life in some way over the years. I lost that carefree attitude somewhere along the way. But as I thought a bit deeper about this observation I realized it was completely false. I was never carefree and happy-go-lucky. I've always been self conscious and reflective with a deep sense of longing. I think the only difference might be that I found some self discipline. And maybe even a little hope. That combination seemed to stabilize my life a little.
Wouldn't it be nice to be carefree? To just live life with the idea that you only have so much control so don't worry about anything else. I believe that to be true but I can't seem to keep that thought in my head at all times. I wish I could. I know people who can and I'm jealous of it. Sometimes I look at these happy-go-lucky individuals as idiots in a way. I say to myself - can't they see all the ugliness in the world? But maybe I'm the idiot. They realize there is only so much they can affect. I dwell on so many things that I can't fix or contribute positively towards.
I wish I could be that guy that watches the news, shakes his head at the chaos, and turns off the television. And with that loss of electricity to the television, my mind simultaneously powers down the negativity.
I was going to write about how I used to be a happy-go-lucky person but how I lost that luster for life in some way over the years. I lost that carefree attitude somewhere along the way. But as I thought a bit deeper about this observation I realized it was completely false. I was never carefree and happy-go-lucky. I've always been self conscious and reflective with a deep sense of longing. I think the only difference might be that I found some self discipline. And maybe even a little hope. That combination seemed to stabilize my life a little.
Wouldn't it be nice to be carefree? To just live life with the idea that you only have so much control so don't worry about anything else. I believe that to be true but I can't seem to keep that thought in my head at all times. I wish I could. I know people who can and I'm jealous of it. Sometimes I look at these happy-go-lucky individuals as idiots in a way. I say to myself - can't they see all the ugliness in the world? But maybe I'm the idiot. They realize there is only so much they can affect. I dwell on so many things that I can't fix or contribute positively towards.
I wish I could be that guy that watches the news, shakes his head at the chaos, and turns off the television. And with that loss of electricity to the television, my mind simultaneously powers down the negativity.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
HE DOESN'T RESENT HER LOVE YET
Last night I was at a going-away party for a friend who is moving back to Texas - he's sick of the noise and pace of NYC. While at this party I was talking to another friend who was describing his relationship to me. He said the following, "Unlike most people in long-term relationships I don't try to get away from her. I mean, we've been together for four years. We've lived together for two. I still truly love being with her, we have a lot of fun together. I want to be with her every moment I can."
The great part about hearing him say this is that I know for a fact that his girlfriend feels the same way. It's a moment like that which gives me hope that what I would consider a "real" love is possible. Sometimes I feel like it won't happen for me. Sometimes I feel like I may succumb to the exhaustion of searching for love, and settle. Sometimes I feel like if I don't settle it MIGHT happen for me but probably not until I'm 60 years old. But it's a moment like that conversation last night that makes me believe, even if it doesn't happen until I'm 60, and I died the day after, It'd be worth it.
The great part about hearing him say this is that I know for a fact that his girlfriend feels the same way. It's a moment like that which gives me hope that what I would consider a "real" love is possible. Sometimes I feel like it won't happen for me. Sometimes I feel like I may succumb to the exhaustion of searching for love, and settle. Sometimes I feel like if I don't settle it MIGHT happen for me but probably not until I'm 60 years old. But it's a moment like that conversation last night that makes me believe, even if it doesn't happen until I'm 60, and I died the day after, It'd be worth it.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
WOLFGANG AMADEUS
I just finished watching the most amazing film, "Amadeus." I sat firmly upright through the two hours with a goofy smirk on my face because next to a golden sunrise nothing chills my soul, in a good way, like a masterful piece of art. Whether it's a film, music, painting, photograph, piece of architecture or sculpture, I lose my mind in a complete wonderment of the article. When I am blessed with the opportunity to experience a truly perfect work of art, I feel as though I'm seeing an inspiration unworthy of crediting the human mind. This may be because I can't fathom the idea that any human mind is capable of such a creation. I have to offer it up to divinity.
The story is about Mozart, his genius, and the bitter acknowledgment of that genius by his colleagues. It's the story of humanity. There is a moment in the movie where a composer witnesses Mozart's genius first hand and becomes enraged with jealousy. He too, offers the talent up to a divine inspiration for he isn't capable of recognizing such skill as being from the mind of man.
Sometimes I'll spend hours recording a tangent in my journal. I'll wake up the next morning and read what I had written and it will seem foreign to me. As if the thoughts didn't belong to me, I was borrowing them. I've spoken to other writers who say they experience the same thing. It's almost as if I'm a secretary taking notes for someone else. Some people would say it was my subconscious at play, some people would say it was something much larger. I recognize that my journal entries are far from a divine piece of art, but it's the only relatable thing I have in my life to a true genius' piece of work. I couldn't imagine the joy associated with looking back at a work of art and seeing perfection. And further, having others see perfection in it as well. There are people on this earth with talents that I could only dream of. Understanding this, I have accepted quite contently that simply recognizing and experiencing such talent is a blessing all on its own.
The story is about Mozart, his genius, and the bitter acknowledgment of that genius by his colleagues. It's the story of humanity. There is a moment in the movie where a composer witnesses Mozart's genius first hand and becomes enraged with jealousy. He too, offers the talent up to a divine inspiration for he isn't capable of recognizing such skill as being from the mind of man.
Sometimes I'll spend hours recording a tangent in my journal. I'll wake up the next morning and read what I had written and it will seem foreign to me. As if the thoughts didn't belong to me, I was borrowing them. I've spoken to other writers who say they experience the same thing. It's almost as if I'm a secretary taking notes for someone else. Some people would say it was my subconscious at play, some people would say it was something much larger. I recognize that my journal entries are far from a divine piece of art, but it's the only relatable thing I have in my life to a true genius' piece of work. I couldn't imagine the joy associated with looking back at a work of art and seeing perfection. And further, having others see perfection in it as well. There are people on this earth with talents that I could only dream of. Understanding this, I have accepted quite contently that simply recognizing and experiencing such talent is a blessing all on its own.
I ATE A BUTTERFLY. WILL IT DIGEST?
You know that feeling you get just before you place yourself in a situation outside of your comfort zone? A situation like approaching a person in a bar or jumping off a high-dive diving board. You get those butterflies in your stomach and your adrenaline is pumping. You tell yourself to calm down and then you concentrate really hard on putting any doubt aside...you numb your mind. It gives you just enough time to leap before the doubts return.
Well, I can feel the beginning of the butterflies fluttering in my stomach. I feel a little nervous, like I'm getting closer to an inevitable fate. I feel strongly that come January 1, 2008 I will make a decision on the next big move in my life and that it will be a radical one - for me at least. I can't shake this feeling that I've already decided to do something outside my comfort zone. I don't know what it is exactly but I can tell I'm heading down that path. It's scary...and exciting. I'm interested in knowing exactly what I'll do but I know myself and I can tell that I'm preparing to make a somewhat drastic change in my life. I felt this way just before I moved to NYC from Michigan - a process that took less than 2 weeks from decision to execution.
So now I just keep my eyes and heart open and see what strikes me as the right opportunity. I'm waiting for that wave of energy to carry me away. I wonder where it'll take me?
Well, I can feel the beginning of the butterflies fluttering in my stomach. I feel a little nervous, like I'm getting closer to an inevitable fate. I feel strongly that come January 1, 2008 I will make a decision on the next big move in my life and that it will be a radical one - for me at least. I can't shake this feeling that I've already decided to do something outside my comfort zone. I don't know what it is exactly but I can tell I'm heading down that path. It's scary...and exciting. I'm interested in knowing exactly what I'll do but I know myself and I can tell that I'm preparing to make a somewhat drastic change in my life. I felt this way just before I moved to NYC from Michigan - a process that took less than 2 weeks from decision to execution.
So now I just keep my eyes and heart open and see what strikes me as the right opportunity. I'm waiting for that wave of energy to carry me away. I wonder where it'll take me?
Saturday, September 1, 2007
ROSE TINTED GLASSES?
One of the things I truly enjoy in life is an in-depth conversation on the meaning of life. Inevitably a conversation on religion ensues and people always have strong opinions on this matter.
I have several friends who either characterize themselves as atheist, or simply someone with an understanding that they will never achieve an answer on whether there is a god or not so why waste time worrying about it. I have often struggled with whether I should chase answers to questions I know will never reveal the answer. I've chosen to chase...for many reasons, of which one is my enjoyment in the contemplation.
But what I wanted to write briefly about today is an aspect of my atheist friend's attitude which I wish I could duplicate in myself more often. When I ask these friends what the point of life is, the answer I receive most frequently is, "There isn't a point. It's just about enjoying life." And these friends actually live their lives that way - they see life as more of a gift than I think most religious people do. I believe in a god. And I believe religion at its core is a great manual for people to live by. I believe religion provides hope to those most in need of it...and, equally as important, a purpose in life. But I feel like sometimes the religious look to better themselves and those around them so much that they forget the gift staring them right in the face every day. The gift of opportunity. The gift of simply being.
I'm not saying atheists don't try to better themselves or society as much as the religious but there is a distinct difference in the philosophies behind it - which I would love to write more about when I have more time. I'm simply saying that at the core of an atheist belief is an outlook more focused on seeing life as a beautiful gift to us as an individual. I think this thought is also VERY present in religion but is overrun with a variety of messages, and layer of importance on them, that we would all be better served to remember that life is an amazing opportunity that we should enjoy, or understand our fortune...even through our struggles. We are either allowed to be, or just on earth being, depending on your belief. Either way, we have a lot to enjoy and be thankful for.
I have several friends who either characterize themselves as atheist, or simply someone with an understanding that they will never achieve an answer on whether there is a god or not so why waste time worrying about it. I have often struggled with whether I should chase answers to questions I know will never reveal the answer. I've chosen to chase...for many reasons, of which one is my enjoyment in the contemplation.
But what I wanted to write briefly about today is an aspect of my atheist friend's attitude which I wish I could duplicate in myself more often. When I ask these friends what the point of life is, the answer I receive most frequently is, "There isn't a point. It's just about enjoying life." And these friends actually live their lives that way - they see life as more of a gift than I think most religious people do. I believe in a god. And I believe religion at its core is a great manual for people to live by. I believe religion provides hope to those most in need of it...and, equally as important, a purpose in life. But I feel like sometimes the religious look to better themselves and those around them so much that they forget the gift staring them right in the face every day. The gift of opportunity. The gift of simply being.
I'm not saying atheists don't try to better themselves or society as much as the religious but there is a distinct difference in the philosophies behind it - which I would love to write more about when I have more time. I'm simply saying that at the core of an atheist belief is an outlook more focused on seeing life as a beautiful gift to us as an individual. I think this thought is also VERY present in religion but is overrun with a variety of messages, and layer of importance on them, that we would all be better served to remember that life is an amazing opportunity that we should enjoy, or understand our fortune...even through our struggles. We are either allowed to be, or just on earth being, depending on your belief. Either way, we have a lot to enjoy and be thankful for.
LOST HIGHWAY
I'm lost again. I'm at that place where I feel like I don't know what direction to head in or what path to choose. And I don't have to make a decision right now so I'm just sitting here waiting, wishing and wondering. Whatever the future has in store for me won't come without many hours of analysis and deliberation.
I am so anxious to move forward with my life but I know I need to be patient. But I can't help being antsy and feeling like every hour that goes by without a known purpose is wasted. I feel like as soon as I have a new mission in life I'll go full steam ahead and accomplish it...and I feel ready. I just haven't received the mission yet. So I feel lazy. I feel like I need to be doing SOMETHING but at the same time I know I need to get myself to a certain "place" before I can move forward.
I should be excited about the future, it's wide-open for me. I guess I'm just ready to get on with it so anxiety drowns out everything else. Patience, patience, patience - something I really need to work on.
I am so anxious to move forward with my life but I know I need to be patient. But I can't help being antsy and feeling like every hour that goes by without a known purpose is wasted. I feel like as soon as I have a new mission in life I'll go full steam ahead and accomplish it...and I feel ready. I just haven't received the mission yet. So I feel lazy. I feel like I need to be doing SOMETHING but at the same time I know I need to get myself to a certain "place" before I can move forward.
I should be excited about the future, it's wide-open for me. I guess I'm just ready to get on with it so anxiety drowns out everything else. Patience, patience, patience - something I really need to work on.
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