So I heard something the other day - over my shoulder, around my ear - a statement which rang so clear and true, I thought it worth fixing in time, if only here in my ephemeral template:
The concept was roughly this: Any change that occurs in a person is simply a magnification of what was already there.
Resonant as this was, it struck me, in the same vein that there are never any new elements added to people, just a recalibration of the elements that were already there. The contours of people's lives are defined by a telescoping in-and-out of various elements of their personalities, but like the planets, the fundamental landscape of who that person is will always the same. It is just the view of the different hills, valleys, craters, dust clouds, and former water holes that changes.
You control the lens.
You control the lens through which you look at yourself.
Furthermore, you control the lens through which others look at you. How so? It is not a mysterious Svengali mind-meld (an unreachable fiction, as I had always envisioned). It is the conscious decision to change your behavior and play up another aspect of yourself.
By way of example: The commitment-phobe does not become a devoted partner because the other person made them. Neither does said commitment-phobe settle down and stop playing the field because they have developed a conscience and a respect for their partner and for fidelity. The conscience, the respect, the fidelity were all elements that were contained in the commitment-phobe's personality. Trace elements to start, perhaps, but they became more prominent, more visible within the landscape of the commitment-phobe's personality because they commitment-phobe chose to to accentuate those qualities, and stop playing up the run-around, never-call, always-late, rove-rove-rove aspects of themselves. They chose it. It was within them. They made it happen.
Some people simply are not capable of commitment. Just as some people are not capable of painting a picture or drawing with their left hand. Or some people who can do evil things and are not capable of remorse.
Though the four corners of one's canvas are established from the very start, the colors the burn through, that sit in the forefront of the painting, are yours. They vary, they ebb, they swirl, they blend and they disassociate at will.
Artist. Astronaut. Geologist. First-round draft pick of the NFL (ESPN coverage of which is actually where I heard the initial "magnification" concept discussed above, that what you get on draft day is who you have for the entirety of his career, plus a few million dollars: "A lazy guy will be a lazy multi-millionaire after Draft Day. A hard-working guy will be a hard-working multi-millionaire after Draft-Day. Who they are doesn't change with the money or position, it is just magnified.") Ultimately, we are all auteurs of our own legacies.
How may I author my own legacy? What can I play up? What have I left untapped as of yet?
I wish that I had been gifted with an ability to act. Or at least to do so semi-persuasively. If I were I might be able to make more of the changes required of me. My pallette remains one angry blush of colors. The brushstrokes indiscriminate, the colors indistinct. I have one setting, one expression: Panic, anxiety, fear (all different faces of the same emotion).
I have, as of late, been troubled by the very real question that maybe, just maybe, I am wholly incapable of happiness. Or perhaps more disturbing, that I don't want to be happy.
That can't be true.
I don't want it to be true.
But it sneaks back into my thoughts. Insinuating itself.
Why do you pick the men you do? Why do you fight with yourself the way you do? Why do you do the unhealthy things you do? Why do you persist in a job that you feel hurts you? Why can't you allow yourself a moment to enjoy who you are?
On the other hand - there are the bright spots that allow me to push these thoughts of ultimate self-sabotage away. Strides have been made:
I have managed to make enduring friendships, that nurture and sustain me, even when I flounder (even as I flounder?). I have progressed in life, if only ever so slowly. I make changes, I take my time. I have resolved a large rift with my family. It was done so on my terms. We respect each other's boundaries, there is no longer underlying currents of bitterness (from me). I did not persist in a very painful relationship (well, at least not after year four).
I wonder though. Everyone wants me to go back on the medication. Why won't I? I thought it was helping. The metabolism/fat thing? Yes, that is a fear. Though I am having a very hard time with the way I eat now. It is feast or famine. Literally. Control or no control. Diet or eat everything in the refrigerator. It is tiresome.
Okay, enough. This is tiresome. Many apologies for the downward turn here.
Work beckons.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Friday, April 22, 2005
If You Had Once Chance, One Opportunity, What Would You Do?
Something more.
If that is the answer, then the status quo is unacceptable. Change is afoot. It must be. If only so that I have more fodder for reviewing here. Reports on the events of my life at this moment in time are a snapshot of dry half eaten toast sitting on a long forgotten breakfast plate deep into the afternoon. Dry, predictable, and seemingly immovable: inertia governing its continuing existence. There must be more to say? First, there needs to be more to do.
I have seen other social documentarians (read: bloggers) who address their own lives wrestling with the quandary of whether to reveal the here's and now's of their dating life and other such instances that may implicate others (of course, this requires a dating life, which my stale taost existence does not currently tolerate). Even under a veil of anonymity by way of pseudonym, the general public would be ignorant to their identity, but they would not. Neither would anyone else in your life. The barbs and wryness and withering observations may lose some of their power to amuse, and simply be tools for promoting discomfort and betrayal.
This is all valid. It is true. An unavoidable quandary.
I do not generally discuss most people in my life in this forum, for this very reason. To the extent that I do, or reserve the right to do so, it is also the reason that even after more than a year of opening this blog up to the world at large, I have yet to share it with more than a handful of residents of my social sphere.
To be a writer, whether you are actually a memoirist, columnist, or novelist, is to accept the slings and arrows of fortune that go along with your life being the fuel for your work. Wrap yourself up in the gauzy elegance of the label "fiction writer" and the problem remains. Even if you label the work "fiction" everyone in your life believes there is a grain of truth to it. And are they wrong? The seed of inspiration is sown and nurtured through an author's experience. It is impossible to say otherwise. Even if writing about something you have never done before and would never ever want to do (say, writing the character of a serial killer), in order to infuse that character with life, to make that character round, to extrude itself from the page, you must tap into something in yourself. Something dark. You must lend that reprehensible character some sliver of your humanity, however small, as imagination breeds only concept, experience begets character. It lives!
The point: A writer must accept the consequences of his or her feelings. She must own them. Because they will be shared. Feelings with be conflicted and hurt and jumbled. Some will sort themselves out. Others will not. The payment of the price pre-ordained and inexcusable.
Confrontation makes me crazy. My life is not sordid, exactly. But to expose it to light, to those who know me, whose opinions I must live with. It is a whole other question. In the end, I think there is very little that people don't actually know about me, and I am willing to be open about anything else when people ask. But unfettered honesty of opinion in a public forum with the characters of my tale sitting in the audience?
I dunno.
If that is the answer, then the status quo is unacceptable. Change is afoot. It must be. If only so that I have more fodder for reviewing here. Reports on the events of my life at this moment in time are a snapshot of dry half eaten toast sitting on a long forgotten breakfast plate deep into the afternoon. Dry, predictable, and seemingly immovable: inertia governing its continuing existence. There must be more to say? First, there needs to be more to do.
I have seen other social documentarians (read: bloggers) who address their own lives wrestling with the quandary of whether to reveal the here's and now's of their dating life and other such instances that may implicate others (of course, this requires a dating life, which my stale taost existence does not currently tolerate). Even under a veil of anonymity by way of pseudonym, the general public would be ignorant to their identity, but they would not. Neither would anyone else in your life. The barbs and wryness and withering observations may lose some of their power to amuse, and simply be tools for promoting discomfort and betrayal.
This is all valid. It is true. An unavoidable quandary.
I do not generally discuss most people in my life in this forum, for this very reason. To the extent that I do, or reserve the right to do so, it is also the reason that even after more than a year of opening this blog up to the world at large, I have yet to share it with more than a handful of residents of my social sphere.
To be a writer, whether you are actually a memoirist, columnist, or novelist, is to accept the slings and arrows of fortune that go along with your life being the fuel for your work. Wrap yourself up in the gauzy elegance of the label "fiction writer" and the problem remains. Even if you label the work "fiction" everyone in your life believes there is a grain of truth to it. And are they wrong? The seed of inspiration is sown and nurtured through an author's experience. It is impossible to say otherwise. Even if writing about something you have never done before and would never ever want to do (say, writing the character of a serial killer), in order to infuse that character with life, to make that character round, to extrude itself from the page, you must tap into something in yourself. Something dark. You must lend that reprehensible character some sliver of your humanity, however small, as imagination breeds only concept, experience begets character. It lives!
The point: A writer must accept the consequences of his or her feelings. She must own them. Because they will be shared. Feelings with be conflicted and hurt and jumbled. Some will sort themselves out. Others will not. The payment of the price pre-ordained and inexcusable.
Confrontation makes me crazy. My life is not sordid, exactly. But to expose it to light, to those who know me, whose opinions I must live with. It is a whole other question. In the end, I think there is very little that people don't actually know about me, and I am willing to be open about anything else when people ask. But unfettered honesty of opinion in a public forum with the characters of my tale sitting in the audience?
I dunno.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
(Belly) Aches & Pains (In the Ass): What I Wouldn't Do For Some Life-Motrin About Now
IN MEMORIAM:
First things first, a moment of silence for Nomar ("Nomah" or is it "No More" or perhaps "No Mas" is more apropos) Garciaparra. Or more precisely, the smoky and smoldering ruins that are his career. NM (or should we call him Job?) was felled yesterday by possibly the most heinous sounding injury one can imagine - a "torn left groin"
Oh. Dear. Oh.
What to say?
I always thought anything pulled or strained re. that rather non-specific groinal area sounded painful. But now to learn that there is a left and a right to such area (begging the question if ambidexterity of the groin is possible? Come on, you know you were thinking it too) and that tearing is possible, and away from the bone (no comment) no less. It is just beyond excrutiating. It is tape your eye lids open, hop you up on No-Doz, drop you in Vegas at the Celine Dion concert, somehow on neverending loop for 24 hours a day kind of pain.
I was going to fully eulogize the man's career, but it seems Ray Ratto has beaten me to the punch. Ray covers the high (and low) points pretty well. I will instead do the impossible here, I will do the same, but succinctly. Betcha didn't think I had it in me.
Nomar's career in [__] (well, less) lines (than Ratto used):
Smooth sailing. Beautous light. Cameo on SNL as self in recurring sketch that revolves around chanting your name: No-mah, No-mah, No-mah. Sports Illustrated cover. Whispers of matching the Splendid Splinter. .400 not seeming so elusive. Part of an elusive triumvirate.
Injury. (Metaphysical. Your employer goes looking to fill your job, while you still own it.)
Insult. (Your teammates think ousting you is a fine idea and tell everyone so.)
Insult. (Dude, the eye-candy your boss is looking to attract for your position, and who is totally leading your boss on, was supposed to be your friend.)
Insult. (After the debacle that was the flirtation cum very public display of dirty dancing between your boss and the twinkie fizzled out, your boss made only a half hearted attempt to keep you. You tried to up the ante and play hard to get. Your feelings were hurt. You may not use creme de la mer like the hot piece of ass they had been pursuing but they could show you you were worthy of love too. Mmmm, maybe not.)
Insult. (They pawn you off on the only other employer who has been unsuccessful longer than your current one.)
Insult. (Then what is now your former employer hits pay-dirt. Stock goes through the roof. Investors are elated. There is dancing in the streets. You are not dancing, you are shuffling, around in the ruins of your career. They say you are washed up. The dancing in the streets of former employer continues.)
Insult. (And worse, the dancing continues...on your grave. They say they owe it all to you... not being there. Banishing you a stroke of genius.)
Insult. (So you test the free agent waters. There is no feeding frenzy. There isn't even wayward fish nibbling at your toes. You get a decent sized 1 year contract from your current still unsuccessful employer. This screams: You are no longer a super-star. You are under the gun. You are on the clock. You have one year to prove yourself... or else...)
Insult. (Failure under the 1 year contract will label you. Label you that horrible, unimaginable label: Journeyman.)
Injury. (The loathsome, fear-instilling, teeth chattering, bone rattling left groin tear. Aargh.)
Insult. (Journeyman, journeyman, journeyman. It buzzes in your ear as you debate the surgery. )
Insult. (Your beautiful wife, the one saving grace here, just retired at the top of her game in order to have babies with you. Hard to make said babies when groin is torn.)
Oh, Nomar. Sending you big expansive bushels of pink-fluffy cotton candy happy thoughts, Buddy. You're gonna need'em.
CLOCKWORK OH-MY: OR HOW I CAME TO LOVE THE BONDS:
No love lost for Barry Bonds here. I did not breathe even the smallest sigh of relief upon the revelation that his testicles have remained the same size and fully functional through Barry's cream y clear period. Don't care. He has always been a pouty, whiny, pre-madonna bee-yotch, and well, it seems to me that karma (thy name is the IRS) is catching up to him. But I have to say, the cream y clear must have shrunken something (while obviously not the size of his ever expanding skull, perhaps the ever-shrinking orb rattling around in there) because the man's behavior as of late is downright fucking hysterical.
First, the aforementioned "everything is alright, nothing to see here folks, my testicles still work the same way as they always have and don't we have the right to sell silk shirts that we bought for cheap in Korea at a huge mark up here" interview. If that is not indicative of the onset of dementia, I don't know what is.
Second, his now infamous "you, you, you and you" interview, with full choreography (who knew Barry was a director) and a ludicrous imitation of Tiny Tim (NOTE TO BARRY: T.T. may have had a crutch too, but resting his head on it was much more effective at looking plaintive and sumpathetic as his head was not the size of Texas) post his second knee surgery. It is guaranteed to induce belly-laughs. It also provides the keen solution of blaming all of one's problems in life on the media. Good plan.
Third, Barry is publicly and admittedly working out with Greg Anderson, the indicted cream y clear dealer, during his rehab process [NOTE 2 TO BARRY: Would love to see your counsel's CYA memo to file on this one: "Advised client that when under huge billowing cloud of suspicion, it is best not to hang out with indicted folk who helped set the fire in the first place and who sleep in their cars. Client acknowledged said advice with a whatever and has continued erratic behavior. Therapy may be in order." Always listen to the lawyer, man. You don't pay them $6347 an hour for nothing.] BUT, BUT, BUT Barry refuses to talk about how his rehab is going, when he expect to return, or why he won't comment on the prior two topics to anyone.
Is anyone confused? I sure as hell am.
Only one answer: No HGH + No cream y clear (oh, I mean flaxseed oil, sorry) = early onset of Alzheimers. Jeez.
Either that or BLB and Whitney Houston are sharing the same PR flacks. Can't wait for Barry's exposition on "Flaxseed Oil being wack!"
First things first, a moment of silence for Nomar ("Nomah" or is it "No More" or perhaps "No Mas" is more apropos) Garciaparra. Or more precisely, the smoky and smoldering ruins that are his career. NM (or should we call him Job?) was felled yesterday by possibly the most heinous sounding injury one can imagine - a "torn left groin"
Oh. Dear. Oh.
What to say?
I always thought anything pulled or strained re. that rather non-specific groinal area sounded painful. But now to learn that there is a left and a right to such area (begging the question if ambidexterity of the groin is possible? Come on, you know you were thinking it too) and that tearing is possible, and away from the bone (no comment) no less. It is just beyond excrutiating. It is tape your eye lids open, hop you up on No-Doz, drop you in Vegas at the Celine Dion concert, somehow on neverending loop for 24 hours a day kind of pain.
I was going to fully eulogize the man's career, but it seems Ray Ratto has beaten me to the punch. Ray covers the high (and low) points pretty well. I will instead do the impossible here, I will do the same, but succinctly. Betcha didn't think I had it in me.
Nomar's career in [__] (well, less) lines (than Ratto used):
Smooth sailing. Beautous light. Cameo on SNL as self in recurring sketch that revolves around chanting your name: No-mah, No-mah, No-mah. Sports Illustrated cover. Whispers of matching the Splendid Splinter. .400 not seeming so elusive. Part of an elusive triumvirate.
Injury. (Metaphysical. Your employer goes looking to fill your job, while you still own it.)
Insult. (Your teammates think ousting you is a fine idea and tell everyone so.)
Insult. (Dude, the eye-candy your boss is looking to attract for your position, and who is totally leading your boss on, was supposed to be your friend.)
Insult. (After the debacle that was the flirtation cum very public display of dirty dancing between your boss and the twinkie fizzled out, your boss made only a half hearted attempt to keep you. You tried to up the ante and play hard to get. Your feelings were hurt. You may not use creme de la mer like the hot piece of ass they had been pursuing but they could show you you were worthy of love too. Mmmm, maybe not.)
Insult. (They pawn you off on the only other employer who has been unsuccessful longer than your current one.)
Insult. (Then what is now your former employer hits pay-dirt. Stock goes through the roof. Investors are elated. There is dancing in the streets. You are not dancing, you are shuffling, around in the ruins of your career. They say you are washed up. The dancing in the streets of former employer continues.)
Insult. (And worse, the dancing continues...on your grave. They say they owe it all to you... not being there. Banishing you a stroke of genius.)
Insult. (So you test the free agent waters. There is no feeding frenzy. There isn't even wayward fish nibbling at your toes. You get a decent sized 1 year contract from your current still unsuccessful employer. This screams: You are no longer a super-star. You are under the gun. You are on the clock. You have one year to prove yourself... or else...)
Insult. (Failure under the 1 year contract will label you. Label you that horrible, unimaginable label: Journeyman.)
Injury. (The loathsome, fear-instilling, teeth chattering, bone rattling left groin tear. Aargh.)
Insult. (Journeyman, journeyman, journeyman. It buzzes in your ear as you debate the surgery. )
Insult. (Your beautiful wife, the one saving grace here, just retired at the top of her game in order to have babies with you. Hard to make said babies when groin is torn.)
Oh, Nomar. Sending you big expansive bushels of pink-fluffy cotton candy happy thoughts, Buddy. You're gonna need'em.
CLOCKWORK OH-MY: OR HOW I CAME TO LOVE THE BONDS:
No love lost for Barry Bonds here. I did not breathe even the smallest sigh of relief upon the revelation that his testicles have remained the same size and fully functional through Barry's cream y clear period. Don't care. He has always been a pouty, whiny, pre-madonna bee-yotch, and well, it seems to me that karma (thy name is the IRS) is catching up to him. But I have to say, the cream y clear must have shrunken something (while obviously not the size of his ever expanding skull, perhaps the ever-shrinking orb rattling around in there) because the man's behavior as of late is downright fucking hysterical.
First, the aforementioned "everything is alright, nothing to see here folks, my testicles still work the same way as they always have and don't we have the right to sell silk shirts that we bought for cheap in Korea at a huge mark up here" interview. If that is not indicative of the onset of dementia, I don't know what is.
Second, his now infamous "you, you, you and you" interview, with full choreography (who knew Barry was a director) and a ludicrous imitation of Tiny Tim (NOTE TO BARRY: T.T. may have had a crutch too, but resting his head on it was much more effective at looking plaintive and sumpathetic as his head was not the size of Texas) post his second knee surgery. It is guaranteed to induce belly-laughs. It also provides the keen solution of blaming all of one's problems in life on the media. Good plan.
Third, Barry is publicly and admittedly working out with Greg Anderson, the indicted cream y clear dealer, during his rehab process [NOTE 2 TO BARRY: Would love to see your counsel's CYA memo to file on this one: "Advised client that when under huge billowing cloud of suspicion, it is best not to hang out with indicted folk who helped set the fire in the first place and who sleep in their cars. Client acknowledged said advice with a whatever and has continued erratic behavior. Therapy may be in order." Always listen to the lawyer, man. You don't pay them $6347 an hour for nothing.] BUT, BUT, BUT Barry refuses to talk about how his rehab is going, when he expect to return, or why he won't comment on the prior two topics to anyone.
Is anyone confused? I sure as hell am.
Only one answer: No HGH + No cream y clear (oh, I mean flaxseed oil, sorry) = early onset of Alzheimers. Jeez.
Either that or BLB and Whitney Houston are sharing the same PR flacks. Can't wait for Barry's exposition on "Flaxseed Oil being wack!"
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
What? No really...I Was Listening. Go on...
No I wasn't. I wasn't listening at all. I was shamelessly sleeping here with my eyes absolutely wide open for the past eight hours of so.
Convincing aren't I? Feeling rather unrefreshed by my faux-napping however. Must do better job of convincing self. That may be platform for entirely new lease on life - working towards improved ability of convincing self of half-truths, tall-tales, and other assorted conflagrations, exaggerations and misinterpretations.
These are not the droids you are looking for.
You look like Jessica Alba - refreshed, toned, pert and just dripping with sex appeal. Always.
Snickerdoodles are the 5th basic food group.
Sleep is for the weak.
Jim Beam is the purveyor of clarity.
You need more clothes.
You are not self involved, you are just an unrecognized expert in self-flagellation and you are trying to share your wisdom with the world.
There is nothing that you would rather do than bill more hours. Clearly, your fantastic workschedule makes you the envy of every non-lawyer you know.
You make very astute and wise choices when it comes to men, and all that military stuff, mere coincidence.
Last, but not least (and really, most importantly and most seriously, above all else): At this very moment, and the next and the next, and the one after that and so on - You are okay. You are fine, you will be fine. No big deal.
I can be convincing if I try. If I keep it simple, avoid getting too elaborate. Eschewing the dangers of evasion and ruinous digression. Stay on message. You are okay. You are okay. You are okay.
Okay?
Article in NYT decrying the phenomena of "heroic melancholy" and idealization of depression as a creative ideal:
The author goes on:
He's right.
In every way.
An informative dissertation? An angry polemic?
No, a call to arms. Focus. Re-focus.
Convincing aren't I? Feeling rather unrefreshed by my faux-napping however. Must do better job of convincing self. That may be platform for entirely new lease on life - working towards improved ability of convincing self of half-truths, tall-tales, and other assorted conflagrations, exaggerations and misinterpretations.
These are not the droids you are looking for.
You look like Jessica Alba - refreshed, toned, pert and just dripping with sex appeal. Always.
Snickerdoodles are the 5th basic food group.
Sleep is for the weak.
Jim Beam is the purveyor of clarity.
You need more clothes.
You are not self involved, you are just an unrecognized expert in self-flagellation and you are trying to share your wisdom with the world.
There is nothing that you would rather do than bill more hours. Clearly, your fantastic workschedule makes you the envy of every non-lawyer you know.
You make very astute and wise choices when it comes to men, and all that military stuff, mere coincidence.
Last, but not least (and really, most importantly and most seriously, above all else): At this very moment, and the next and the next, and the one after that and so on - You are okay. You are fine, you will be fine. No big deal.
I can be convincing if I try. If I keep it simple, avoid getting too elaborate. Eschewing the dangers of evasion and ruinous digression. Stay on message. You are okay. You are okay. You are okay.
Okay?
Article in NYT decrying the phenomena of "heroic melancholy" and idealization of depression as a creative ideal:
To this way of thinking, to oppose depression too completely is to be coarse and
reductionist -- to miss the inherent tragedy of the human condition. To be
depressed, even gravely, is to be in touch with what matters most in life, its
finitude and brevity, its absurdity and arbitrariness. To be depressed is to
occupy the role of rebel and social critic. Depression, in our culture, is what
tuberculosis was 100 years ago: illness that signifies refinement.
The author goes on:
Hit the nail on the head. Bulls eye. You sunk my battleship.How far does our jaundiced view reach? Surely the label ''disease'' does not
apply to the melancholic or depressive temperament? And of course, it does not.
People can be pessimistic and lethargic, brooding and cautious, without ever
falling ill in any way. But still, it seemed to me in my years of immersion that
depression casts a long shadow. Though I had never viewed it as pathology, even
Woody Allen-style neurosis had now been stripped of some of its charm -- of any
implicit claim, say, of superiority. The cachet attaching to tuberculosis
diminished as science clarified the cause of the illness, and as treatment
became first possible and then routine. Depression may follow the same path. As
it does, we may find that heroic melancholy is no more.
In time, I came to think of the van Gogh question in a different light, merging it with the
eradication question. What sort of art would be meaningful or moving in a
society free of depression? Boldness and humor -- broad or sly -- might gain in
status. Or not. A society that could guarantee the resilience of mind and brain
might favor operatic art and literature. Freedom from depression would make the
world safe for high neurotics, virtuosi of empathy, emotional bungee-jumpers. It
would make the world safe for van Gogh.
Depression is not a perspective. It is a disease. Resisting that claim, we may ask: Seeing cruelty, suffering and death -- shouldn't a person be depressed? There are circumstances, like the
Holocaust, in which depression might seem justified for every victim or
observer. Awareness of the ubiquity of horror is the modern condition, our
condition.
But then, depression is not universal, even in terrible times.Though prone to mood disorder, the great Italian writer Primo Levi was not
depressed in his months at Auschwitz. I have treated a handful of patients who
survived horrors arising from war or political repression. They came to
depression years after enduring extreme privation. Typically, such a person will
say: ''I don't understand it. I went through -- '' and here he will name one of
the shameful events of our time. ''I lived through that, and in all those
months, I never felt this.'' This refers to the relentless bleakness of
depression, the self as hollow shell. To see the worst things a person can see
is one experience; to suffer mood disorder is another. It is depression -- and
not resistance to it or recovery from it -- that diminishes the self.
Beset by great evil, a person can be wise, observant and disillusioned and yet not
depressed. Resilience confers its own measure of insight. We should have no
trouble admiring what we do admire -- depth, complexity, aesthetic brilliance --
and standing foursquare against depression.
He's right.
In every way.
An informative dissertation? An angry polemic?
No, a call to arms. Focus. Re-focus.
Monday, April 18, 2005
Me Likey...
In the spirit of leaf-turning, seasons of renewal (and given that I am well aware that Spring began nearly a month ago, I realize my inherent tardiness - which if unforgiveable, is, at least consistent) and all that "each day is the first day of the rest of your life" jazz, I thought I would attempt a sunny-side up (though my preference since childhood has always been scrambled) entry. Clearly, it will be a bit disconcerting given my general gloomy tone as of late, but never fear, I may be whimsical in the head, but I will always be chicken-little at heart:
Things That Give Me A Distinct & Unexplainable Pleasure: In No Particular Order
(an entropic, bullet pointed list, by me)
Things That Give Me A Distinct & Unexplainable Pleasure: In No Particular Order
(an entropic, bullet pointed list, by me)
- Anyone talking like a pirate ("Aargh!!!")
- My new evil carbohydrate friend who keeps me company in my office at my nose-well-worn-down-by the-grindstone-profession: Darth Tater. (Indeed, I am 27 years old going on 6.)
- Venti, non-fat, no-foam, extra-hot, sugar-free hazelnut lattes. (My love for this Starbucks narcotic is so great that I no longer bat an eye at the fact that I have become one of "those people" in the 'Bucks line, the ones everyone rolls their eyes at. I find comfort in the fact that "at least I am not that person who also asks for "half a packet of Equal, not Splenda." Anecdote here borrowed from friendly neighborhood barista trying to placate me and assure me I was not in fact the most ridiculous customer he had ever had. Good to know.)
- Frozen yogurt - two flavors, side by side. (Not swirled, that's cheating. Then you aren't in control of proportions of flavor. That is lazy man's FroYo.)
- Not having to set my alarm. (No explanation needed.)
- People who read the New York Times even though they don't live in New York. (Posers? Maybe. But they are my kind of posers.)
- Dancing on tables (Maybe the air at the higher altitude makes you more buoyant, or more likely because you have reached a pitch-perfect buzz which gives you rhythm inside and out, but making that fateful decision to ascend to the table-top vantage point to shake your money maker never disappoints. It is always, hands-down "soooo much fun!!" Note, however, utilizing glass tabletops and/or lampshades is not recommended and is indicative of one too many shots of Patron having been ingested.)
- Baseball. (The joy derived from both the love - Oakland A's, Red Sox triumph over the Evil Empire, Cal Ripken, Wrigley Field, the Home Run Derby, Ichiro, Eck crying at his HOF induction, Pedro and Zim duking it out in the '03 AL playoffs, Field of Dreams: Is this heaven? No. It's Iowa. - and the hate - Yankees, A-Rod, Slide, Jeremy, damnit, slide!, Kirk Gibson's homerun in the '88 Series, Wade Boggs up on that horse, Johnny Damon, A-Rod again, Barry and his flax-seed oil, whatever!)
- My Blackberry. (There is a reason people call them Crackberries - addictive. The solution for those of us who have long feared the phone. So there it is, a little blue square that allows me to cross issue 278 off of my list: Verizonophobia - no longer a problem.)
- Outrageous "this is my last day at work, fare thee well" e-mails. (Would never have the courage to write one. Distinct envy of those who do. Well aware that they circle the earth via forwards in about 6 minutes. Really. One particularly juicy and malevolent one last year from a lawyer at another firm unashamedly declared: "May the smoking ruins of my career be seen far an wide" and went on to decry the "lifeless husks" which the partners had turned the associates into. It was truly a thing of beauty.)
- Ugly dogs. Amendment: Ugly small dogs. (I just love the idea of a dog you can put in your handbag and the more awkward looking the better. Pekingnese - fabulous! Affenpinscher - Adorable! Pug - nirvana!)
- Gift-Giving (This may be my favorite activity of all time. I am such a sucker for the "open it, open it - open mine first!" money shot. I love when I have managed to stumble on just the right present which has meaning and is still fun because it is, of course, a present. My life has gotten so busy in recent years that I no longer have been able to invest the time I would like into the gift giving process. These days I am lucky if I remember the event to be comemorated in a timely fashion. So many aplogies for belatedness. It will be a mark that I have recovered a normal life again when I can once again spend the appropriate amount of time on gifts. If you can't invest time in your friends and family, then you are too busy and with all the wrong things).
- Freaks of the Industry by Digital Underground. (It is not truly a dance party till this song makes it into the rotation. They played it at my prom. They played it at my 8th grade dances. Ooh, what does this say about where I grew up? Giving new meaning to the term "bedroom community" I suppose.)
- Clean Laundry. And if you want to kick it up a notch, a freshly made bed with just-out-of the-washer sheets. (Heaven.)
- Long walks through a city. (Especially when you are going somewhere you have been before, don't have to be there at a particular time, and either, take a route you have taken before and happen to look around and notice something new, or you take a different route and discover something you never knew existed there before.)
- Proximity to bodies of water. (Never been much of a fan of sand and thus direct contact with beaches, but a view of the a body of water - sea, lake, river or bay - has always inspired a certain awe in me. It is a thrill I do not think I could live without. In my many habitat locations in life, I have always been fortunate to be and have been happiest when I was in closest proximity to water.)
- Shopping. (This may in fact be a problem. To say that I experience a contact high when I shop is no exaggeration. Better mental health through shoe and handbag purchases? I say it is possible.)
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Well, it's not like everyone doesn't think I am weird already...
I am debating whether this is something that ought to be memorialized, let alone shared. But it is just so odd, I have to write it down. I will debate the merits of rendering it published later.
I must be stressed (ya don't say?!) because, among other things, I am having weird dreams. The weirdest one last night/early this morning (which I know because I woke up with a start). I don't know what I was doing in the dream, I was probably just sitting around watching T.V. - Law & Order rerun or some such TNT/FX only-slightly beyond basic cable channel indulging my syndicated drama addiction. So there I am, and I have some occasion to get up and look in the mirror and I see that my face is all bulgy and red - like I have huge welts growing underneath my skin or something - particularly on my neck. This concerns me. I cry out - in shock, pain, dismay, what have you. But I get sidetracked from the bulginess (which seems to be moving) because my skin all over my face seems to be loosening and I am bleeding and skin is coming off in clumps. Apologies to the squeamish for the description of this. Know that this does in fact hurt me worse than it does you, as I hate, hate, hate blood. Especially my own. All of a sudden my sister comes out of nowhere and she hands me a towel to soak up the blood, though it isn't helping the matter of trying to keep my dermis held together, but anyway... So she is panicked. trying to figure out what to do. I tell her to get help. She leaves the room to go call 911. I have been avoiding looking in the mirror so as not to faint/scream/get even more hysterical. And did I mention that this all hurts like a motherfucker. But I look up into the mirror and I see the bulginess has now gotten worse especially in my neck and then all of a sudden the skin is falling away and splitting open and something slimy and covered in blood falls out. It is about the size of a fist of play-dough. At first I thought it was my brain. Then I picked it up and I saw... it was a braised salmon steak. Ieeew!!! What is that??? I will never be able to eat salmon again. And that bothers me to no end because I love salmon and I can use all the Omega-3 Fatty Acids I can get. Oh God, it is so gross even thinking about it again. I am at an impasse as to how I would even go about figuring out what that means. Sure anyone can find the hidden meaning in your teeth falling out or endlessly falling in a dream, but have the catch of the day portrude from your neck and you get nothing. Well other than the staring and pointing and the chants of "Freak! Freak!"
Okay, enough of that.
Let's never revisit that topic again. Ever.
I must be stressed (ya don't say?!) because, among other things, I am having weird dreams. The weirdest one last night/early this morning (which I know because I woke up with a start). I don't know what I was doing in the dream, I was probably just sitting around watching T.V. - Law & Order rerun or some such TNT/FX only-slightly beyond basic cable channel indulging my syndicated drama addiction. So there I am, and I have some occasion to get up and look in the mirror and I see that my face is all bulgy and red - like I have huge welts growing underneath my skin or something - particularly on my neck. This concerns me. I cry out - in shock, pain, dismay, what have you. But I get sidetracked from the bulginess (which seems to be moving) because my skin all over my face seems to be loosening and I am bleeding and skin is coming off in clumps. Apologies to the squeamish for the description of this. Know that this does in fact hurt me worse than it does you, as I hate, hate, hate blood. Especially my own. All of a sudden my sister comes out of nowhere and she hands me a towel to soak up the blood, though it isn't helping the matter of trying to keep my dermis held together, but anyway... So she is panicked. trying to figure out what to do. I tell her to get help. She leaves the room to go call 911. I have been avoiding looking in the mirror so as not to faint/scream/get even more hysterical. And did I mention that this all hurts like a motherfucker. But I look up into the mirror and I see the bulginess has now gotten worse especially in my neck and then all of a sudden the skin is falling away and splitting open and something slimy and covered in blood falls out. It is about the size of a fist of play-dough. At first I thought it was my brain. Then I picked it up and I saw... it was a braised salmon steak. Ieeew!!! What is that??? I will never be able to eat salmon again. And that bothers me to no end because I love salmon and I can use all the Omega-3 Fatty Acids I can get. Oh God, it is so gross even thinking about it again. I am at an impasse as to how I would even go about figuring out what that means. Sure anyone can find the hidden meaning in your teeth falling out or endlessly falling in a dream, but have the catch of the day portrude from your neck and you get nothing. Well other than the staring and pointing and the chants of "Freak! Freak!"
Okay, enough of that.
Let's never revisit that topic again. Ever.
El Bueno, El Malo, y El Feo
El Bueno: Because I have no sense of direction and therefore cannot for the life of me figure out Feng Shui, but this will do.
Can you guess which horoscope came from which source: SF Chronicle, New York Post, L.A. Times, Village Voice, and the San Jose Mercury News? (Yes, I have come to this: scouring the nation's Arts & Leisure sections for metaphysical guidance)
Libra (Sept. 23-Oct. 23). It takes awhile to fall in love with doing what's good for you. First, you'll simply endure it, pretty soon you'll kind of like it and then, before you know it, you'll ultimately be thrilled about your new habit.
Libra (Sept. 23–Oct. 22): You've heard about horse whisperers, people who have a deeply intuitive, almost psychic rapport with horses. You may have also heard about baby whisperers, those who specialize in reading the body language and secret thoughts of infants. Well you, my dear Libra, currently seem to have the skills of a dove whisperer. If you like, you could probably achieve a mind-meld with those birds in the coming weeks. Perhaps more importantly, you will also possess the unusual blend of powers that doves have symbolized throughout history: to bring peace, to cultivate tender intimacy, and to bless lust.
El Malo: There is no "BJ" in Republican
The item below almost makes me willing to face the prospect of eating falafel again. Well, not quite. But it all just goes back to my theory: While the Vast Right Wing Conspiracy was a crap concept in its original invocation (any way you cut it a blow job in the oval office while on a conference call is probably not in good taste) - it does have a seed of truth to it - VRWC's are out to get anyone who is getting laid:
El Feo: WWJD - What Would Johnny Damon Do? Well, other than attempting to channel Jesus to up his batting average (but looking distinctly more cro-magnon than son of the creator-ish), apparently you will write a 200 page mono-syllabic book (Johnny: Have you unbound and ungagged your ghost writer yet? You know, he can't survive in that closet forever) viciously trashing your ex-wife (tsk, tsk: now, that is not a very Christian, Ruthian, or Homo Sapien type of thing to do, is it?) and grunting that every woman in the free world apparently wants to sleep with you (I am going to take that claim at face value if only because the only proof I have that it isn't true - that I would rather give up three of my toes than have unlawful carnal knowledge of Johnny Damon (U.C.K.? Hee.) - doesn't count because, as a BigLaw lawyer-shark, I clearly am not a part of this thing they keep calling "the free world.") and you are marrying silicone Barbie, taking pictures of it and accentuating what should be downplayed by wearing your unruly hair in CORNROWS!!! Agh!!! And, thus you win this installment's, "El Feo" award.
Can you guess which horoscope came from which source: SF Chronicle, New York Post, L.A. Times, Village Voice, and the San Jose Mercury News? (Yes, I have come to this: scouring the nation's Arts & Leisure sections for metaphysical guidance)
Libra (Sept. 23-Oct. 23). It takes awhile to fall in love with doing what's good for you. First, you'll simply endure it, pretty soon you'll kind of like it and then, before you know it, you'll ultimately be thrilled about your new habit.
Libra (Sept. 23-Oct. 23). You'll meet new people. It's helpful to remember that others are operating from an entirely different value system from yours. Search for common ground on which to build strong relationships.
Libra (Sept. 23-Oct. 22.): Others in close connection can provide attractive examples, so follow the leader for the best results. Join forces with others to make important career moves or implement business plans.
Libra (Sept. 23–Oct. 22): Make a point of overlooking other people's minor transgressions - in fact, overlook their major ones, too. It takes all sorts to make a world and, of course, you have hardly been a saint yourself. It's not a shame that human beings are so different - on the contrary, it is part of the grand design. If we were all the same, we would never learn anything.Libra (Sept. 23–Oct. 22): You've heard about horse whisperers, people who have a deeply intuitive, almost psychic rapport with horses. You may have also heard about baby whisperers, those who specialize in reading the body language and secret thoughts of infants. Well you, my dear Libra, currently seem to have the skills of a dove whisperer. If you like, you could probably achieve a mind-meld with those birds in the coming weeks. Perhaps more importantly, you will also possess the unusual blend of powers that doves have symbolized throughout history: to bring peace, to cultivate tender intimacy, and to bless lust.
El Malo: There is no "BJ" in Republican
The item below almost makes me willing to face the prospect of eating falafel again. Well, not quite. But it all just goes back to my theory: While the Vast Right Wing Conspiracy was a crap concept in its original invocation (any way you cut it a blow job in the oval office while on a conference call is probably not in good taste) - it does have a seed of truth to it - VRWC's are out to get anyone who is getting laid:
- Bill Clinton (M. Lewinsky - yadda, yadda, yadda - cigar, blue dress, thong et al.),
- Michael Schiavo ("New" girlfriend of 10 years),
- Janet Jackson (J. Dupri, and pretending to get some from J. Timberlake),
- Bill Clinton (Paula Jones and the infamous "identifying mark"),
- "Saving Private Ryan" (Becuase the premise is there were originally 4 Ryan brothers, so obviously the Ryan parents were getting busy on a regular basis),
- Bill Clinton (Gennifer Flowers - yes, he is a Rhodes Scholar and she is a woman who spells the most common name in the world with a "G" - "G" is not for Jennifer, but apparently it is for "bimbo eruption"),
- Jesse Jackson (Oh you know, that little extra wife and kid thing),
- Hillary Rodham Clinton (Well, we all know she isn't getting any, but she's married to someone who gets a lot, see discussions of Clinton, William Jefferson, supra)
But I digress... here is the item:
Rush Limbaugh, on his radio show on April 12, on Al Gore's new cable TV venture:Note: Limbaugh later apologized for using the term "blow job," saying, "I meant to say 'oral sex' throughout, but the guttural term escaped my pouty lips in a moment of pure, unbridled passion. The staff was so stunned and so scared today they didn't dare hit the delete button, the deedle button, and so it got out there. My reaction is, somebody go ahead and turn me in to the FCC. I'll be honored to be fined.""When does he start up this stupid little network? August? Yip yip yip yahoo. You know what Gore said about this? It's going to be liberal. It's going to reflect the point of view of young people. What the hell is that, Al? What
the hell is the point of view of young people? Blow jobs, that's what they're doing out there. They're out there getting oral sex all day long, that's what they're talking about."
El Feo: WWJD - What Would Johnny Damon Do? Well, other than attempting to channel Jesus to up his batting average (but looking distinctly more cro-magnon than son of the creator-ish), apparently you will write a 200 page mono-syllabic book (Johnny: Have you unbound and ungagged your ghost writer yet? You know, he can't survive in that closet forever) viciously trashing your ex-wife (tsk, tsk: now, that is not a very Christian, Ruthian, or Homo Sapien type of thing to do, is it?) and grunting that every woman in the free world apparently wants to sleep with you (I am going to take that claim at face value if only because the only proof I have that it isn't true - that I would rather give up three of my toes than have unlawful carnal knowledge of Johnny Damon (U.C.K.? Hee.) - doesn't count because, as a BigLaw lawyer-shark, I clearly am not a part of this thing they keep calling "the free world.") and you are marrying silicone Barbie, taking pictures of it and accentuating what should be downplayed by wearing your unruly hair in CORNROWS!!! Agh!!! And, thus you win this installment's, "El Feo" award.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
...
Whistling through the very end of a goodbye
Welling tears brimming over in the grapple of hello
Wishing against what you know
Walking past what you are
Wanting what was always unaccountably yours
Would that you can, shall, do, make, move
Worrying the truth
Wandering the present
Wasted till the glancing blow of an opportune moment
Wistful sifting of two-cent recollections, scanning for the glint of recoverable opportunity
Wicked scrivenings madly tossed off as a blue-line of unbroken, unpretentious stream-of-consciousness ephithets
Winnowed generosity tapped for an undisclosed purpose; its ultimate utility in doubt
Weaving still
Walls of recriminations; impenetrable, bypassed by the imaginings of the rabbit hole, the mouse's lair, the smallest of keys
Worth incanted upon a yearning for the knowledge of a true believer
Well. I.
Why. Don't know.
Who. The purpose of.
When. This trial of life.
What. Is supposed to bring me.
*whistle*
Welling tears brimming over in the grapple of hello
Wishing against what you know
Walking past what you are
Wanting what was always unaccountably yours
Would that you can, shall, do, make, move
Worrying the truth
Wandering the present
Wasted till the glancing blow of an opportune moment
Wistful sifting of two-cent recollections, scanning for the glint of recoverable opportunity
Wicked scrivenings madly tossed off as a blue-line of unbroken, unpretentious stream-of-consciousness ephithets
Winnowed generosity tapped for an undisclosed purpose; its ultimate utility in doubt
Weaving still
Walls of recriminations; impenetrable, bypassed by the imaginings of the rabbit hole, the mouse's lair, the smallest of keys
Worth incanted upon a yearning for the knowledge of a true believer
Well. I.
Why. Don't know.
Who. The purpose of.
When. This trial of life.
What. Is supposed to bring me.
*whistle*
Machinations
I know.
I promised to stop writing entries like this.
Especially in light of the fact the riffing on the goings on of celebutantes and infotainers is so damn fun. I.E.:
Brit'nKev (exactly how is it that the man is so damn fertile? I mean really, this man is apparently the walking - even if it is with his knuckles dragging on the ground - solution to IVF. The quality of the genetic material, dubious, but the chances of getting knocked up, excellent. Sounds like the Magic 8 Ball of procreation),
the latest celebrity vacation destination - "an undisclosed rehab facility" (Billy Joel out, Joaquin Phoenix in, Whitney Houston and Pat O'Brien still staying put while their publicists try to come up with new excuses for the ridiculous things their clients say once such clients get out of rehab and are supposedly off the hooch. Looks like WH and PO's Power Girls aren't going to be able to reply on a "no comment" and a knowing shrug of the shoulders anymore. "Crack is Wack" will have to be explained.),
the Power giRls (Could Lizzie Grubman possibly be any more unattractive? She is Steve Buscemi with lesser skin pigment and long blonde hair. And why, oh why, does she have her own show? I know it is cool to give parolees who have paid their debt to society air-time these days - Martha, Martha, Martha - but I thought we were limiting that policy to white collar criminals. Lizzie is not so far removed from her eponymous predecessor in the heinousness of her crimes against humanity. Sure, Ms. Borden hacked her parents up with an axe and that is, well, not good form. Really. But Ms. Grubman ran a bunch of unsuspecting people over with her SUV. On purpose. Because they didn't get out of the way. That no one died is just because in her 4 apple-martini double-vision stupor, she didn't know which number came after one and so went with her first choice - thankfully the phantom image of the fabulous people. Hamptons + Mercedes SUV = Vehicular Assault is okay? I don't think so. So I am setting my foot down on this one. I will only watch the show every other week. And I won't watch the inevitable marathon on Sundays. No matter how hungover I am. I swear.)
However, I need to take a brief pause here for a public service announcement. Well, actually, more like a personal service announcement to the public (think an episode of Oprah, but with fewer tears and neither any free loot nor any "You go, girl!"'s):
I have said this before. I will, surely, say it again. But I am saying it now, as succinctly as I possibly can, in order to get my head around it and find an immediate solution:
I feel bad. Not really as in "I feel sad" and not really as in "I feel sick." It is more like a putrefacted cocktail of the two. I am so tired, I drag. I have that "on the cusp of being ill" feeling all the time. The sneeze that never comes to the fruition of a full-out runny nose, but which hearkens the possibility. The scratchy throat that makes it uncomfortable to drink, but which doesn't affect the dulcet tones of your speaking voice at all. It is all cumulative.
Further complicating this situation is the fact that (1) I have been working the icky hours again - which are only exacerbated by my genuine inability to concentrate, (2) I have been eating like crap - thereby bringing on unhealthy sugar highs and crashes and making my pants not fit, (3) I am not exercising - no energy, no time, and, most significantly, (4) I am not sure that there is anything else that I wish to be doing. Of course I don't want to be working, but I don't know where I would go to feel more comfortable. I feel malaised and ill-adjusted at home. I would certainly feel worse if I was at my parents house. The office is of course more refuse than refuge. Travel is out of the question because I really can't deal with being seen at this point. So what does that leave me? Checking into a hotel all by myself and meditating peacefully for a week till I find the answers to life? Maybe. That actually doesn't sound half bad. Hmmm. Sounds like I am contemplating a pilgrimage to go find Joaquin, Whitney and Pat. Stand (Drink, Smoke and Snort) By Me. Fan-fucking-tastic. No. No need for the Betty for me quite yet. My problems are organic (no, not in a hydroponic way - in like a "Dude, Where's My Serotonin" type way) not substance related. So anyway: Given my proclivities, I doubt I could properly meditiate and find myself in a Motel 6. Clearly, I would have to check into the Ritz and would then mortgage the future of my as-yet unborn children or un-sprouted Chia Pets all for a week's peace. Nah, not worth it.
I debate taking another week off. Won't happen, but I enjoy the thought of it. I do have plenty of sick time. I have topped out on vacation. Am indifferent to political capital at this point. Maybe a long weekend. Maybe not.
Normal people don't do this. Normal people don't need this.
I accept not being normal. Wouldn't know it if I saw it anyway. What I can't accept is being entirely freakish and ridiculous. A little, perhaps, but entirely, well, that is too much.
I would like instead to surf that fine line between quirky and "a little over the top." That would work. That might be do-able. Someday.
I promised to stop writing entries like this.
Especially in light of the fact the riffing on the goings on of celebutantes and infotainers is so damn fun. I.E.:
Brit'nKev (exactly how is it that the man is so damn fertile? I mean really, this man is apparently the walking - even if it is with his knuckles dragging on the ground - solution to IVF. The quality of the genetic material, dubious, but the chances of getting knocked up, excellent. Sounds like the Magic 8 Ball of procreation),
the latest celebrity vacation destination - "an undisclosed rehab facility" (Billy Joel out, Joaquin Phoenix in, Whitney Houston and Pat O'Brien still staying put while their publicists try to come up with new excuses for the ridiculous things their clients say once such clients get out of rehab and are supposedly off the hooch. Looks like WH and PO's Power Girls aren't going to be able to reply on a "no comment" and a knowing shrug of the shoulders anymore. "Crack is Wack" will have to be explained.),
the Power giRls (Could Lizzie Grubman possibly be any more unattractive? She is Steve Buscemi with lesser skin pigment and long blonde hair. And why, oh why, does she have her own show? I know it is cool to give parolees who have paid their debt to society air-time these days - Martha, Martha, Martha - but I thought we were limiting that policy to white collar criminals. Lizzie is not so far removed from her eponymous predecessor in the heinousness of her crimes against humanity. Sure, Ms. Borden hacked her parents up with an axe and that is, well, not good form. Really. But Ms. Grubman ran a bunch of unsuspecting people over with her SUV. On purpose. Because they didn't get out of the way. That no one died is just because in her 4 apple-martini double-vision stupor, she didn't know which number came after one and so went with her first choice - thankfully the phantom image of the fabulous people. Hamptons + Mercedes SUV = Vehicular Assault is okay? I don't think so. So I am setting my foot down on this one. I will only watch the show every other week. And I won't watch the inevitable marathon on Sundays. No matter how hungover I am. I swear.)
However, I need to take a brief pause here for a public service announcement. Well, actually, more like a personal service announcement to the public (think an episode of Oprah, but with fewer tears and neither any free loot nor any "You go, girl!"'s):
I have said this before. I will, surely, say it again. But I am saying it now, as succinctly as I possibly can, in order to get my head around it and find an immediate solution:
I feel bad. Not really as in "I feel sad" and not really as in "I feel sick." It is more like a putrefacted cocktail of the two. I am so tired, I drag. I have that "on the cusp of being ill" feeling all the time. The sneeze that never comes to the fruition of a full-out runny nose, but which hearkens the possibility. The scratchy throat that makes it uncomfortable to drink, but which doesn't affect the dulcet tones of your speaking voice at all. It is all cumulative.
Further complicating this situation is the fact that (1) I have been working the icky hours again - which are only exacerbated by my genuine inability to concentrate, (2) I have been eating like crap - thereby bringing on unhealthy sugar highs and crashes and making my pants not fit, (3) I am not exercising - no energy, no time, and, most significantly, (4) I am not sure that there is anything else that I wish to be doing. Of course I don't want to be working, but I don't know where I would go to feel more comfortable. I feel malaised and ill-adjusted at home. I would certainly feel worse if I was at my parents house. The office is of course more refuse than refuge. Travel is out of the question because I really can't deal with being seen at this point. So what does that leave me? Checking into a hotel all by myself and meditating peacefully for a week till I find the answers to life? Maybe. That actually doesn't sound half bad. Hmmm. Sounds like I am contemplating a pilgrimage to go find Joaquin, Whitney and Pat. Stand (Drink, Smoke and Snort) By Me. Fan-fucking-tastic. No. No need for the Betty for me quite yet. My problems are organic (no, not in a hydroponic way - in like a "Dude, Where's My Serotonin" type way) not substance related. So anyway: Given my proclivities, I doubt I could properly meditiate and find myself in a Motel 6. Clearly, I would have to check into the Ritz and would then mortgage the future of my as-yet unborn children or un-sprouted Chia Pets all for a week's peace. Nah, not worth it.
I debate taking another week off. Won't happen, but I enjoy the thought of it. I do have plenty of sick time. I have topped out on vacation. Am indifferent to political capital at this point. Maybe a long weekend. Maybe not.
Normal people don't do this. Normal people don't need this.
I accept not being normal. Wouldn't know it if I saw it anyway. What I can't accept is being entirely freakish and ridiculous. A little, perhaps, but entirely, well, that is too much.
I would like instead to surf that fine line between quirky and "a little over the top." That would work. That might be do-able. Someday.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
And The Fifth Dentist Says...
Though generally the strong silent type, overlooked except in the most extreme of circumstances, the Fifth Dentist, ever the contrarian, is moved to speak at only the most critical junctures. It is at these junctures that I gladly cede my spot here teetering on the soap box to his resonant voice.
What brings the FD out into the open? 3 Words: Spawn. Of. Federline.
FD: Ahem. Yes. Is this thing on? Okay. In the battle of us against them, we are all clearly losing, as "them" are exchanging DNA at the speed of text messages (Holla atcha - XX or XY chrmsms?). Rock star unions have produced some unfortunate offspring in the past - Exhibit A: last month's cover of Rolling Stone. Yes, these people are children of famous rock legends, no that doesn't mean they are photogenic. And heavens, it doesn't mean that you give critical mass to their freakishness by putting them all together on the cover of a national magazine (with fold out inserts no less. Look at the head on that Garfunkel kid! It is like a Conan O'Brien what if Art Garfunkel and Carrot Top mated bit meets a Mike Meyers Scottish SNL Sketch ("Look at his big 'Ead!"). The inevitable result of the continuing proliferation of Rock Star Progeny is an inevitable and unending parade of horribles. Sure it is all fun, games and blurry viedotaped documentation of conception (Pam? Tommy? Are you listening? I am talking to you) till someone gets hurt. Yes, I know you are all creative types, but stick to what you know (super-amped vocals; cliche rap tracks etc.) as it is the rest of us that have to live with your failed creative "experiments." (Did anyone actually watch Glitter all the way through? Oooph.). Preganancy is more than an excuse to buy designer maternity clothes and drink Frappucinos with abandon. At some point you have to birth the little tyke, and bring he or she home. Then he or she demands attention and the resulting fiasco ends up with punchlines like this: Kelly and Jack - rehab and bad, bad hair. Lourdes and Rocco - speaking nothing but french in order to avoid actually conversing with their non-francophone, overly-airbrushed, tremendously insipid parents. Apple - so young, so named after a pectin-rich fruit. Good for strong teeth and healthy bones, not so good for normal playground interactions. I don't care who your parents are or how many times "The Scientist" has been used as the backing to an ER episode. Nicole Richie - matching hair extension for your dog, not a sign of true genius. Really. Sorry. Ryder - your mom is a nubile wood nymph, your daddy is a Sasquatch. Yikes!
Baby Federline 3.0 - the world watches and waits. Holding its breath. Good luck and god speed. You are gonna need it.
Thank you. Thank you very much.
And so much for the FD for this evening. For additional (and extraordinarily insighful commentary on the Spears-Federline Merger of Genetic Material and the disasters which may await, please check out Media Gadfly (either clicking link here) or use link along the side of the blog. MG has nailed the entire issue straight on the head.
What brings the FD out into the open? 3 Words: Spawn. Of. Federline.
FD: Ahem. Yes. Is this thing on? Okay. In the battle of us against them, we are all clearly losing, as "them" are exchanging DNA at the speed of text messages (Holla atcha - XX or XY chrmsms?). Rock star unions have produced some unfortunate offspring in the past - Exhibit A: last month's cover of Rolling Stone. Yes, these people are children of famous rock legends, no that doesn't mean they are photogenic. And heavens, it doesn't mean that you give critical mass to their freakishness by putting them all together on the cover of a national magazine (with fold out inserts no less. Look at the head on that Garfunkel kid! It is like a Conan O'Brien what if Art Garfunkel and Carrot Top mated bit meets a Mike Meyers Scottish SNL Sketch ("Look at his big 'Ead!"). The inevitable result of the continuing proliferation of Rock Star Progeny is an inevitable and unending parade of horribles. Sure it is all fun, games and blurry viedotaped documentation of conception (Pam? Tommy? Are you listening? I am talking to you) till someone gets hurt. Yes, I know you are all creative types, but stick to what you know (super-amped vocals; cliche rap tracks etc.) as it is the rest of us that have to live with your failed creative "experiments." (Did anyone actually watch Glitter all the way through? Oooph.). Preganancy is more than an excuse to buy designer maternity clothes and drink Frappucinos with abandon. At some point you have to birth the little tyke, and bring he or she home. Then he or she demands attention and the resulting fiasco ends up with punchlines like this: Kelly and Jack - rehab and bad, bad hair. Lourdes and Rocco - speaking nothing but french in order to avoid actually conversing with their non-francophone, overly-airbrushed, tremendously insipid parents. Apple - so young, so named after a pectin-rich fruit. Good for strong teeth and healthy bones, not so good for normal playground interactions. I don't care who your parents are or how many times "The Scientist" has been used as the backing to an ER episode. Nicole Richie - matching hair extension for your dog, not a sign of true genius. Really. Sorry. Ryder - your mom is a nubile wood nymph, your daddy is a Sasquatch. Yikes!
Baby Federline 3.0 - the world watches and waits. Holding its breath. Good luck and god speed. You are gonna need it.
Thank you. Thank you very much.
And so much for the FD for this evening. For additional (and extraordinarily insighful commentary on the Spears-Federline Merger of Genetic Material and the disasters which may await, please check out Media Gadfly (either clicking link here) or use link along the side of the blog. MG has nailed the entire issue straight on the head.
Uh Oh, Methinks I Failed a Personality Test...
Advanced Global Personality Test Results
|
personality tests by similarminds.com
Here are the written results that followed chart above - the Bottom Line Interpretation if you will. Does this sound like someone you want to know?:
Stability results were very low which suggests you are extremely worrying, insecure, emotional, and anxious.
Orderliness results were moderately low which suggests you are, at times, overly flexible, improvised, and fun seeking at the expense of reliability, work ethic, and long term accomplishment.
Extraversion results were moderately high which suggests you are, at times, overly talkative, outgoing, sociable and interacting at the expense of developing your own individual interests and internally based identity.
trait snapshot:
open, tough, irritable, worrying, does not like to be alone, craves attention, low self control, emotionally sensitive, interacting, sad, very social, aggressive, prefer organized to unpredictable, dependent, social chameleon, suspicious, values the heart over the mind, likes large parties, outgoing, likes to make fun, likes to fit in, mildly phobic, vain, makes friends easily, enjoys leadership, clingy, rash
open, tough, irritable, worrying, does not like to be alone, craves attention, low self control, emotionally sensitive, interacting, sad, very social, aggressive, prefer organized to unpredictable, dependent, social chameleon, suspicious, values the heart over the mind, likes large parties, outgoing, likes to make fun, likes to fit in, mildly phobic, vain, makes friends easily, enjoys leadership, clingy, rash
REBUTTAL: See, now if I had any kind of self control, I would just let the results speak for themselves. But seeing as I don't, I thus set out to quibble and refute. Then again, I suppose I have already shot my id. or superego or what have you in the foot by conceding the lack of control thing, given that my "snapshot" does say "low self control." Hmmm, well, I can say authoritatively and with great gusto and emphasis that I am neither "tough" nor "aggressive" - got that!?! And "likes large parties" - eh, I dunno - I find myself to be open to keg parties of absolutely any size. In fact, I find that nothing says elegant and intimate dinner party like a large metal silo of 15 gallons of cheap american beer. Mmmm. As for "mildly phobic", I have it on good authority that I am in fact a "wholly and entirely raving hypochrondriac" given that I have, in over the course of the last ten years, been firmly convinced I have been afflicted with Ebola, SARS, the Avian Flu, a flesh-eating strain of Strep, and an incurable obsession with P. Diddy. "Enjoys Leadership" - yeah, not so much: Bush, Selig, and all the People Who Were Beaten Up As Children on the Playground Who Now Run My Workplace do not exactly provide me with what I would call "enjoyment." And as for "emotionally sensitive" - ha! - I am an absolute rock. I make Dick Cheney look warm, fuzzy and effusive.
BOTTOM LINE: Read altogether, it looks like this test reveals that all of my personalities were not playing nicely with one another this evening. Hate it when that happens. Need to have some sort of internal summit/peace accord meeting for them.
Time for Vacation. Or, let's be realistic about the time required here, Sabbatical.
Monday, April 11, 2005
Schmitty!!!
Lots to cover. Little time. Well, all the time in the world really, if I want to continue to put off the work, gym, my taxes, my life - but seeing as all those runny noses are pressed up against my picture window (and they must be really, really motivated as I am on the 21st floor no less) and thus make me rather anxious - today's scrivening is, once again, *ding, ding, ding* The Running List: Sudden Onset of Mild Tourrettes and Other Random Afflictions.
- "Look! It's Flying Elvii!" In Vegas for the weekend. 36 hours - in and out. Seems quick. Really more than enough time. Lots of liquor, lots of food, lots of lights, lots of tourists with fanny packs at all hours of the day, lots of bad, bad behavior. If I heard "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas" one more time, I think I would have thrown up. Though not sure if it was that or the 5 lbs of lox I consumed, bowl of oatmeal, and 4 7 dwarf sized apples I consumed at the Bellagio buffet? Or maybe it was the magnum of champagne? In any event, a tourism board slogan does not a license for unfettered bad behavior make. Or rather, it may be license for bad behavior you choose not to tell others about (Ooh, I went out and had wild, sweaty OMG sex with that hot guy I developed the meaningful relationship with over half a bottle of vodka and 15 minutes on the dance floor) but not for behavior you don't even want to tell yourself about (you know what I am talking about: the acts that you see when you close your eyes and it causes you to scrunch up your face in an effort to squash the painful image. I imagine that 4 foot tall woman I saw who was sucking on that one man's nipple and then grabbingt he crotch of every other man in sight was probably doing that on her whole plane ride home - at least I hope so).
- Flirting is Disaster: Speaking of crotch grabbing woman. All I have to say is, really? Come on, socially retarded as one may be and loosened up by liquid courage as one may get - at exactly what point does random crotch grabbing sound like it might be sexy? ("How do you do? Oh, let me say hi to the Boys as well?" No, no, no!). And really, do you want to be stuck with the one guy who does respond favorably to that? ("Oh Baby, I love it when you publicly molest me. Wanna come back to my trailer and meet my mom and our shotgun collection?" AGH!)
- Beyond Claritin: Runny, sneezy, itchy eyes, sleepy, dragging, overwhelmed - no it is not the 21st century iteration of the 7 dwarves, rather it is my physical self at work. I am allergic to my job. Clearly. It makes me ill just thinking about it. Waves of nausea this weekend anticipating it. Once again, as always, no real reason for it. Well, not since I got back from the gauntlet anyway. Just having a really, really, really hard time concentrating. That is why I am still here at 10:21 pm. That is why I will be here for hours to come. That is why I will have to get here early, if I can win the battle with myself to get out of bed in the morning. Discussing this weekend how you can get fired for a blog. Hmmm, wonder what the severance for that is like? Need my job to make ends meet, and avoid having the move back home with parents (read: lovable loony bin). But seriously, this is, as my sister would call it, redonculous. Note to all - this concentration problem is at least partially to blame for the very poor quality of this entry. I keep thinking of words and topics and then they just slip away. Sorry excuse. But there it is. Sepaking of...
- C is for Cookie. I had four cookies today. Big ones. And many Skittles and some pretzels. Awesome. I am truly a fucking beauty queen. Winner through and through.
- Succinct Ravings: If I said that I was tired of my own ranting and raving about my issues, would anyone believe me? No. Why? Because I would keep ranting and raving about my issues and then about how tired I am of such R&R on top of that. Nothing but a steady mountain of complaints. Damn, I need to be saved for myself. I am just going to drown out anything that is actually good and pure and likable about me with kvetching. (Need an inner-life coach: "Waah, waah, waah! Awww, shut up already! Seriously - let! it! go! Enough! Please!") Well, I will either eat till I can't get through a doorway, complain until no one will listen, or actually develop Tourettes and actively scare people away that way. Either way, my secretary of state's policy of isolationism is well on its way. Wonder why you are single? Why? Look at yourself. Read it. It's all here. That is why. Would you want to buy into that by choice? I wouldn't. Damnit, I need to finish something here today so that I can go home. To bed. So that I can have the distinct pleasure of coming back. That is another thing: is there something wrong with me that I am not only capable of, but actually derive more enjoyment from, vacationing at home. Just doing nothing around the house - absolutely fantastic. Love it. Nothing better. Really. Okay this is not productive. Am gonna stop wasting everyone's time here. May tomorrow be a better day.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
The Stars Have Aligned
My horoscope today:
LIBRA
September 22-October 22
Sometimes the best marriages are marriages of the mind. That’s great as long as you’re sure you and a certain someone are on the same page.
What exactly does this mean?
After pondering it for a bit, I came up with two possible scenarios:
A. You are a hapless Libra in a somewhat-committed relationship with someone who has vowed not only to avenge the death of his father at the hands of a six-fingered man, but also to never endorse that vile institution known as marriage. Hapless Libra knew of this sacred vow and has always claimed to be "fine with that" while everyone knows that hapless Libra secretly (1) swoons at the merest glimpse of a Tiffany-blue box, (2) watches and tears up uncontrollably at the finales of The Bachelor and/or Bachelorette - so profoundly moved by the incredibly sincere, profound and unscripted pronouncements of love which clearly will last forever and ever and ever, and (3) believes in the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus, that the money she spent on the Elvis, Tupac and Biggie "Fuck Death" reunion tour tickets will be well spent, and, of course (most importantly) that she can change him. But that's okay - she doesn't need the formality of a "piece of paper" and the expense of a "big ol' white wedding" - they are married in spirit and that's good enough. I mean everyone knows that weddings are just excuses to accumulate mass amounts of kitchen and flatware, right???
B. You are lonely Libra. Lonely Libra has a kind, loving and beautiful relationship with an exceptionally handsome, kind, charming, considerate, intelligent, witty, sensitive and gregarious man. He just doesn't know it. Maybe she knows him - a friend, a colleague, an acqaintance - or maybe she doesn't - a ballplayer, a movie star, a Starbucks barista. But that's okay, because in lonely Libra's mind, they are married, blissfully happy, with a white picket fence and two car garage (probably the only way to afford such a thing around here anyway), an extensive vacationing schedule, and, of course, vast amounts of flatware.
I suppose that (B) would be the scenario applying to me. I was excited at the prospect that within an instant, I could take control of my whole marital status dilemma and just make it happen. Was a little disappointed by having to make due with imaginary flatware (as I figured people might not take kindly to my registering for my imaginary wedding/marriage - if only b/c it is so last minute, there is no time to send out invitations, and the catering will inevitably be unsatisfying), but remained unfazed. Then I came upon the really tricky part - a groom! Now see, the beauty of this "marriage of the mind" thing was that this was supposed to be the easy part. Could have my pick of anyone - anyone - and what are they going to say "no"? (1) They wouldn't actually have to be asked, and (2) everyone knows you don't say "no" to a delusional woman, at least not without backing away, very slowly, first. But I got tripped up on this anyone thing because I can't think of a single person. Not one. Not even maybe.
For the first time in my life, I do not pine for anyone. At all. Not with any real sentiment at least. There are the passing comments on the beauty of hollywood hunk #723 and random guy walking down the street #9243, but beyond that... eh, not so much.
Is this a good thing?
Maybe. I guess this makes me truly mentally, as well as physically single. So that's a plus. I think.
But I have some concern about being so devoid of feeling. Love is intoxicating. Infatuation also an upper, in its own way. Misery, rejection and loneliness: painful, not pleasant - but feeling nonetheless. Always a grain of hope buried in their midst. He could change his mind. I know, I know - he won't. But you can still console yourself with the possibility that he will and that you get to continue to ride the ride - peaks, valleys, dips and troughs, zeniths and nadirs, alike.
For now, am stuck waiting in line, I guess.
Numb. Weird.
LIBRA
September 22-October 22
Sometimes the best marriages are marriages of the mind. That’s great as long as you’re sure you and a certain someone are on the same page.
What exactly does this mean?
After pondering it for a bit, I came up with two possible scenarios:
A. You are a hapless Libra in a somewhat-committed relationship with someone who has vowed not only to avenge the death of his father at the hands of a six-fingered man, but also to never endorse that vile institution known as marriage. Hapless Libra knew of this sacred vow and has always claimed to be "fine with that" while everyone knows that hapless Libra secretly (1) swoons at the merest glimpse of a Tiffany-blue box, (2) watches and tears up uncontrollably at the finales of The Bachelor and/or Bachelorette - so profoundly moved by the incredibly sincere, profound and unscripted pronouncements of love which clearly will last forever and ever and ever, and (3) believes in the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus, that the money she spent on the Elvis, Tupac and Biggie "Fuck Death" reunion tour tickets will be well spent, and, of course (most importantly) that she can change him. But that's okay - she doesn't need the formality of a "piece of paper" and the expense of a "big ol' white wedding" - they are married in spirit and that's good enough. I mean everyone knows that weddings are just excuses to accumulate mass amounts of kitchen and flatware, right???
B. You are lonely Libra. Lonely Libra has a kind, loving and beautiful relationship with an exceptionally handsome, kind, charming, considerate, intelligent, witty, sensitive and gregarious man. He just doesn't know it. Maybe she knows him - a friend, a colleague, an acqaintance - or maybe she doesn't - a ballplayer, a movie star, a Starbucks barista. But that's okay, because in lonely Libra's mind, they are married, blissfully happy, with a white picket fence and two car garage (probably the only way to afford such a thing around here anyway), an extensive vacationing schedule, and, of course, vast amounts of flatware.
I suppose that (B) would be the scenario applying to me. I was excited at the prospect that within an instant, I could take control of my whole marital status dilemma and just make it happen. Was a little disappointed by having to make due with imaginary flatware (as I figured people might not take kindly to my registering for my imaginary wedding/marriage - if only b/c it is so last minute, there is no time to send out invitations, and the catering will inevitably be unsatisfying), but remained unfazed. Then I came upon the really tricky part - a groom! Now see, the beauty of this "marriage of the mind" thing was that this was supposed to be the easy part. Could have my pick of anyone - anyone - and what are they going to say "no"? (1) They wouldn't actually have to be asked, and (2) everyone knows you don't say "no" to a delusional woman, at least not without backing away, very slowly, first. But I got tripped up on this anyone thing because I can't think of a single person. Not one. Not even maybe.
For the first time in my life, I do not pine for anyone. At all. Not with any real sentiment at least. There are the passing comments on the beauty of hollywood hunk #723 and random guy walking down the street #9243, but beyond that... eh, not so much.
Is this a good thing?
Maybe. I guess this makes me truly mentally, as well as physically single. So that's a plus. I think.
But I have some concern about being so devoid of feeling. Love is intoxicating. Infatuation also an upper, in its own way. Misery, rejection and loneliness: painful, not pleasant - but feeling nonetheless. Always a grain of hope buried in their midst. He could change his mind. I know, I know - he won't. But you can still console yourself with the possibility that he will and that you get to continue to ride the ride - peaks, valleys, dips and troughs, zeniths and nadirs, alike.
For now, am stuck waiting in line, I guess.
Numb. Weird.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Building with Blocks...
"Writing is easy: All you do is stare at a blank piece of paper till drops of blood form on your forehead."
Writing scares me.
This is not all that remarkable given that, well, everything scares me. But writing has always instilled me with a particular, resonant, and unshakeable fear. Absolut in terrorem, if you will: Partly because it is so damn difficult to do well, and partly because I like it so damn much. In the face of the latter, the former shouldn't matter, as clearly one can write reams and reams of mediocre material for oneself, in a virtual unending orgy of scrivening-pleasure, without any interruption, termination or criticism. However, here is the catch: If you love to write, no matter what you say, how many fervent denials you may put forth ("Absolutely, 100%, not guilty", "I did not have sexual relations with that woman", "I am not here to talk about the past") the truth of the matter is that the real pleasure for you, the true writing money-shot is in having your work published, read, and enjoyed. Aye, there is the rub. Or lack thereof, as the case may be.
So, see, it is not so simple to indulge one's drafting-fancies. At least not to the extent one would like.
Aside from the inherent performance anxiety, like sex, the act of writing:
Writing scares me.
This is not all that remarkable given that, well, everything scares me. But writing has always instilled me with a particular, resonant, and unshakeable fear. Absolut in terrorem, if you will: Partly because it is so damn difficult to do well, and partly because I like it so damn much. In the face of the latter, the former shouldn't matter, as clearly one can write reams and reams of mediocre material for oneself, in a virtual unending orgy of scrivening-pleasure, without any interruption, termination or criticism. However, here is the catch: If you love to write, no matter what you say, how many fervent denials you may put forth ("Absolutely, 100%, not guilty", "I did not have sexual relations with that woman", "I am not here to talk about the past") the truth of the matter is that the real pleasure for you, the true writing money-shot is in having your work published, read, and enjoyed. Aye, there is the rub. Or lack thereof, as the case may be.
So, see, it is not so simple to indulge one's drafting-fancies. At least not to the extent one would like.
Aside from the inherent performance anxiety, like sex, the act of writing:
- embraces a certain amount of exhibitionism (both on your part, and on the part of others),
- effectively records your past behavior and thus can come back to bite you in the ass ("One Night in Paris" anyone?),
- cannot be forced or effectively faked (though I know this is a point of contention on which people are of various opinions - from my soap box, I say you can always tell a faker),
- is a forum skill, experience and patience are the highest virtues and will always (and repeatedly) be acknowledged and appreciated,
- may evoke the descriptors "prosaic", "perfunctory" and "chafing" - and, rest assured, this will never have any kind of a positive connotation
- when done well, it moves you. As a writer, in the realization of your capabilites and having captured the elusive prize of pitch-perfect prose which affected others in the ways of shared-experience. As the reader, in a nearly transcendental way, revealing to you the depth of your innermost feelings as you have never had them presented to you before and giving such feelings a voice and forum.
- can be approximated alone, but for full (and most truly satisfying effect) requires the participation of others
- can embrace a variety of styles, and punctuation (both traditional and creative) is always a plus (!!!, ..., ???, and, of course, %&#$!)
- when forced is certainly an act of violence (if only against the immediate page, as well as the literary establishment in general)
- desire is certainly enhanced by drink, the performance, eh, well not so much (though those possessed with true skill can always effectively perform regardless of any imbibing)
- can be prurient or elegant - sometimes of the best is both...
- fun to talk about, more fun to indulge in (though most hours of day devoted to either one)
- is always about making a connection, be it with yourself or others. To be afraid, anxious and obsessed with the act, robs you of the ability to enjoy its inherent beauty. It can leave one feeling incapable, incompetent and broken. Approaching the act in an unassuming and unexpected way will always reward you - if only with the realization that one is not broken, just temporarily out of service due to prior mishandling.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)