I finished The Kreutzer Sonata a few days ago and really enjoyed the book. It's a small, cheap edition of three of Tolstoy's stories: How Much Land Does a Man Need?, The Death of Ivan Ilych, & The Kreutzer Sonata. Firstly, I had never read any of these short stories and enjoyed them quite a bit. I especially liked How Much Land Does a Man Need? While, the ending might have been a bit predictable, the wording and the meaning is quite excellent. It's a very short tale that slams the greediness inherent to human beings and serves as a warning against the pains that greediness will bring.
The way Tolstoy writes about coming to grips with man's end in The Death of Ivan Ilych is among some of the best inner-monologue I think I've ever read. The pain and the suffering internally Ivan has in Tolstoy's work is so well written that I felt sweat beads coming down my brow as I experienced the pangs along with Ivan. Likewise, the jealousy that Pozdnyshev feels throughout The Kreutzer Sonata is so well articulated that I was reliving some old feelings that I thought I had divested myself of long ago. His rage was so palpable I felt myself tensing up and was nearly relieved when the climax came. That relief however was twofold and some modern circumstances aided Tolstoy's literary prowess.
I was coming to the conclusion of The Kreutzer Sonata as I was selling plasma. I don't think I've ever written about this experience, but I have apparently expressed my feelings well enough about this to Erin that she mocks my grief at subjecting myself to this torture. I feel embarrassed at selling plasma. I didn't so much feel it when I was younger and in college, but as a grown man I feel embarrassed by the entire situation. I think I should be able to make enough money at thirty-two so as not to be forced to degrade myself in such a manner, but at the same time it's good spending money and I'm basically paid to sit and read. It's a hassle and probably not really worth my time, but if I go twice a week it's a payment of $65 dollars for six hours, four of which are sitting in a waiting room and two of which are with a needle in my vein.
The embarrassment doesn't fully come from the fact that I'm selling part of my body that will replenish itself. The embarrassment comes from the company I keep while doing this veritable prostitution. While I was in college the mix of people selling plasma alongside me was about 80% college kids, 20% other. That other is, without trying to be elitist (although accomplishing it nonetheless) what I would term 'undesirables'. Sometimes the mix would have a larger proportion of that other and the 19 or 20 year-old iteration of me may have occasioned to use the phrase, "the dregs of societies" and that instance may have occurred enough to burn that elitist phrase into my personal lexicon. The 31 and 32 year-old iterations of me then may have described the undesirable caste in such derogatory language and my wife instantly seized upon the phraseology. Thus, some of my embarrassment may arise not only with being a part of that caste, but my own derogatory words being used to describe me in the mouth of another. My embarrassment is thus multi-pronged in that I'm embarrassed to need the money, embarrassed to be among the undesirables, and embarrassed that I have described them as such (because it sounds so awfully high-handed when she says it). Each of these prongs needles me as I'm being needled. But, I am not so embarrassed to spend the money. Plus, it gives me a good five to six hours to sit and read, relatively uninterrupted.
But, on my attempt to finish The Kreutzer Sonata was not uninterrupted, as it were. A certain member of the lowly caste, a person among the dregs would not let me finish the book in peace. Much of the final short story is an inner struggle with jealousy and a lot of psychological feeling and not much action. It is building to an action, namely Pozdnyshev killing his wife. I know that Pozdnyshev is going to kill his wife. I know why he is going to kill his wife - jealousy. But, I am unsure, intentionally led on, as to first, how if he is going to kill his wife and second, if the killing is justifiable (if only in Pozdnyshev's mind). The story is clear on the former and a bit opaque on the latter. But, there is a great deal of psychological turmoil leading up to the climatic scene and I was lying on the table, with a needle in my arm, desperately trying to race the plasma being pumped out of me to finish the story. The lady next to me however was screaming at the workers. Apparently, she did not look at the three hours or so as a time to sit back, relax and read. She took those three hours or more as a time to complain about whatever popped into her mind.
In the lobby while we were waiting she found someone to commiserate with. The two, then three, then four commiserated rather loudly and I changed places on three occasions to escape the commiserating, but it was omnipresent. This is a normal occurrence among this caste of society, but normally I can drown it out and focus on what I'm reading. It took some practice, but I was able to succeed in the end. But, in the back, she was placed on the table next to me as we were being hooked up to our blood machines. First, she complained about the temperature in the room. Being cold-natured, I tend to enjoy the chilliness of the room where we are actually drained of our fluids to be used as life-giving medicines (there is an altruism to this practice as well, though I am confident that neither she nor I really care most of the time about this altruistic reason for "donating" plasma). However, on this occasion, her complaint about the coldness of the room was not unfounded. Second, she complained about the television not being loud enough for her to hear the movie being played. I offer her no solace on this point as I had to concentrate hard to drown out the volume to concentrate on my book. Lastly, as the time neared for the last bus to leave her station she began to scream about being at the donation center for an inordinate amount of time. It takes entirely too long, each and every time plasma donation occurs. This particular time was no different, neither longer nor shorter than normal. But, just as I am coming to the dramatic action of the book, she was coming to dramatic action of her donation. She finished her donation; I did not finish my book.
I finished it later that evening, in the quiet of my own home.
There was much to be admired in the short little book, but this blurb has gone on to be lengthier than I had originally intended. However, this anecdote was funny (after the fact) and I felt it was worthy to be retold here. For this reason, I'll include only two quotes from The Kreutzer Sonata that really struck me. The first is, "What a strange illusion it is to suppose that beauty is goodness! A beautiful woman utters absurdities; we listen and we hear not the absurdities, but wise thoughts. She speaks, does odious things, and yet we are only conscious of something agreeable. If she refrains from absurd or hateful words and acts, and if she is beautiful to boot, we are straightway convinced that she is a paragon of wisdom and morality" (Tolstoy, 78). There are two things to unpack here. The first is the sentence, "What a strange illusion it is to suppose that beauty is goodness". I know that Tolstoy is speaking here about women in general, but it struck me from a philosophical level. Truly, it is strange that we equate beauty with goodness on an aesthetic level. Second, as a man who has undergone a rough relationship or two, I understand (though I try to suppress) the inner rage at the absurdity of the situation that a good looking woman can have on an otherwise relatively clear thinking man. Tolstoy certainly hits the nail on the head in better language than I could. But the formula is fairly simple: a good looking woman can get away with just about anything simply for the fact that she is good looking.
The second passage goes, "Woman has transformed herself into an object of pleasure of such terrible effect that a man cannot calmly approach her. No sooner does a man draw near a woman than he falls under the power of her spell, and his senses are forthwith paralyzed" (Tolstoy, 84). Again, Tolstoy hits the nail on the head. It's not as sexist as it seems in this cherry picked passage as Pozdnyshev lays much of the blame for women being treated as an object of pleasure on man's shoulders earlier and later in this section, but women once they have realized that they have been relegated to this position, have embraced it with such power that they turn the tables on the men objectifying them. There is an uncanny truth in this situation and the language Tolstoy uses expresses this truth perfectly.
Showing posts with label EA. Show all posts
Showing posts with label EA. Show all posts
Monday, October 31, 2016
Sunday, July 31, 2016
Reaction to the previous blog post
Sarcasm. Sometimes I say things sarcastically and let it linger so that the other person doesn't know if I'm being sarcastic or not. Sometimes I do this unintentionally. I assume that they know me well enough to understand the intended sarcasm. I'll say something without the proper sarcastic voice tone and simply assume that they will understand that what I am saying is meant to be taken ironically because of the absurdity of the comment. The unfortunate thing is that the other person doesn't catch the sarcasm. Sometimes this is because they don't get it. Most of the times though it is because the person hearing my sarcasm does not know me well enough to get my irony. That happens often. I don't include enough back story for them to get my joke. But, that is often because my jokes are often meant to be self-amusement and if you happen to be in on it than you are fortunate to be on my level.
My wife does not often get my sarcasm. But, that is often for a different reason entirely. I say more ridiculous and outlandish things to her than I do to most people, other than to myself (which others often hear because most of the time that I am talking I am doing so to amuse myself rather than to convey information to another). However, even the amount of absurd claims and desires I profess to here are insignificant to the number of ideas that I keep locked away internally so that I am not locked away externally, literally or metaphorically speaking. But, I digress. The point is that often people don't get my sarcasm because I haven't given them enough space to understand that I'm being sarcastic. This is because I treat every sarcastic comment equally regardless of who happens to hear that comment. I assume they will understand the backstory. Often they don't because they have no possible way of knowing the backstory. This leads to awkward situations. I get some amusement out of the awkwardness.
If someone were to understand the entirety of my sarcasm they would have to know me very well, much better than the strangers I am often sarcastic with. Or, they would have to be with me at all points in my life to understand the necessary context into which my sarcastic jigsaw puzzle pieces often fit. Even then they would struggle to make the necessary connections because my mind works in ways that I can't always explain. The connections necessary to make sense of my sarcastic comments are often incongruous and illogical. But, they are my illogical, incongruous system. I understand it.
Other times I am vague in my declarations. This way if I see the conversation going sideways or slantways towards an avenue I don't have any intention of taking I can claim sarcasm and allow people into the context in which that comment can be taken sarcastically. Sometimes this is to allow myself to save face and shy away from the embarrassing words that have just come out of my mouth. Sometimes it is because the words have escaped my mouth before I have deemed them sarcastic or sincere. They float around in the ether as I ponder their meaning and tone. This leads to some uncomfortable and awkward silences. It produces a double laughter in me as I find amusement in awkwardness and I laugh when I am nervous. It is a vicious cycle because my nervous laughter often produces more awkwardness and the double laughter effect is amplified again and again until I am in the midst of a self-satisfying giggle fest.
I am however a relatively nice person. You simply need to understand the context and you'll agree that I'm relatively nice. However, I don't intend on giving you goal posts to measure my niceness so you'll have to come up with your own scale. Just remember, I'm relatively nice. What I'm trying to say in a long-winded way is that I'm vague only every so often and then not in a vicious way (mostly). Much of the lack of comprehension of my sarcasm comes because I, intentionally or otherwise, fail to provide enough context for someone to understand it as such. As I said before you would have to know me exceptionally well to catch all of my sarcasm because it is a bundle of innuendo and inside jokes. But even then you still might not catch all of my sarcasm. In fact, some times I'm not even sure if what I said was sarcastic or not.
Take for example the previous blog post. In it I was giving a play-by-play announcement of a classical concert. It is entirely possible that I was taking short-hand because I had to do an assignment for some class. It is also as likely that I was making a mockery of being forced to go to this concert by some person at the time. But, it is equally conceivable that I wasn't being sarcastic or forced to attend the concert for a school assignment. It is entirely possible that I was attempting to give an assessment of the concert using terrible cliches such as, "Triumphant. Exuberant, inspiring finale", and, "Masterful".
Who the hell does this 22 year-old, pretentious twat think he is? But if it was intended as sarcastic, I can picture that 22 year old kid laughing at his 32 year old counterpart hysterically. And then of course there is the option that the 22 year-old me was writing his opinions intentionally vague and experimenting with high-society language so that if he were to receive criticism he could claim sarcasm to save face. Or, if his silly language had been accepted he would have basked in the praise. And, if I had figured it out ten years ago I would have done both of these depending on whether the other party was laughing at or praising the words.
Alas, I find myself flummoxed. I don't know if it was sarcastic. The sentences and phrasing were rather awkward. Maybe that amused me at the time. Maybe it was just an experiment. It obviously wasn't an impactful one because I surely don't remember writing it. Maybe it was intentionally done that way so that the 22 year-old version of me could laugh at the 32 year-old version of me. I simply don't know. What I do know is that there is a story somewhere in all of this waiting to be carved out.
My wife does not often get my sarcasm. But, that is often for a different reason entirely. I say more ridiculous and outlandish things to her than I do to most people, other than to myself (which others often hear because most of the time that I am talking I am doing so to amuse myself rather than to convey information to another). However, even the amount of absurd claims and desires I profess to here are insignificant to the number of ideas that I keep locked away internally so that I am not locked away externally, literally or metaphorically speaking. But, I digress. The point is that often people don't get my sarcasm because I haven't given them enough space to understand that I'm being sarcastic. This is because I treat every sarcastic comment equally regardless of who happens to hear that comment. I assume they will understand the backstory. Often they don't because they have no possible way of knowing the backstory. This leads to awkward situations. I get some amusement out of the awkwardness.
If someone were to understand the entirety of my sarcasm they would have to know me very well, much better than the strangers I am often sarcastic with. Or, they would have to be with me at all points in my life to understand the necessary context into which my sarcastic jigsaw puzzle pieces often fit. Even then they would struggle to make the necessary connections because my mind works in ways that I can't always explain. The connections necessary to make sense of my sarcastic comments are often incongruous and illogical. But, they are my illogical, incongruous system. I understand it.
Other times I am vague in my declarations. This way if I see the conversation going sideways or slantways towards an avenue I don't have any intention of taking I can claim sarcasm and allow people into the context in which that comment can be taken sarcastically. Sometimes this is to allow myself to save face and shy away from the embarrassing words that have just come out of my mouth. Sometimes it is because the words have escaped my mouth before I have deemed them sarcastic or sincere. They float around in the ether as I ponder their meaning and tone. This leads to some uncomfortable and awkward silences. It produces a double laughter in me as I find amusement in awkwardness and I laugh when I am nervous. It is a vicious cycle because my nervous laughter often produces more awkwardness and the double laughter effect is amplified again and again until I am in the midst of a self-satisfying giggle fest.
I am however a relatively nice person. You simply need to understand the context and you'll agree that I'm relatively nice. However, I don't intend on giving you goal posts to measure my niceness so you'll have to come up with your own scale. Just remember, I'm relatively nice. What I'm trying to say in a long-winded way is that I'm vague only every so often and then not in a vicious way (mostly). Much of the lack of comprehension of my sarcasm comes because I, intentionally or otherwise, fail to provide enough context for someone to understand it as such. As I said before you would have to know me exceptionally well to catch all of my sarcasm because it is a bundle of innuendo and inside jokes. But even then you still might not catch all of my sarcasm. In fact, some times I'm not even sure if what I said was sarcastic or not.
Take for example the previous blog post. In it I was giving a play-by-play announcement of a classical concert. It is entirely possible that I was taking short-hand because I had to do an assignment for some class. It is also as likely that I was making a mockery of being forced to go to this concert by some person at the time. But, it is equally conceivable that I wasn't being sarcastic or forced to attend the concert for a school assignment. It is entirely possible that I was attempting to give an assessment of the concert using terrible cliches such as, "Triumphant. Exuberant, inspiring finale", and, "Masterful".
Who the hell does this 22 year-old, pretentious twat think he is? But if it was intended as sarcastic, I can picture that 22 year old kid laughing at his 32 year old counterpart hysterically. And then of course there is the option that the 22 year-old me was writing his opinions intentionally vague and experimenting with high-society language so that if he were to receive criticism he could claim sarcasm to save face. Or, if his silly language had been accepted he would have basked in the praise. And, if I had figured it out ten years ago I would have done both of these depending on whether the other party was laughing at or praising the words.
Alas, I find myself flummoxed. I don't know if it was sarcastic. The sentences and phrasing were rather awkward. Maybe that amused me at the time. Maybe it was just an experiment. It obviously wasn't an impactful one because I surely don't remember writing it. Maybe it was intentionally done that way so that the 22 year-old version of me could laugh at the 32 year-old version of me. I simply don't know. What I do know is that there is a story somewhere in all of this waiting to be carved out.
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
I Finished The Trade
Today, July 15, 2015 I finished a short story. Well, I finished the first draft of the story. Now I'm going to give it to my wife to edit for grammatical mistakes.
The name of this story is called: The Trade, Or, How I was Banished From France. There are a couple of things about this that are interesting to me. First, it's the first short story that I've ever used myself and my wife as characters. Second, it is amazing how what I am reading at the time really impacts my writing. I'm nearly finished with Kurt Vonnegut's Timequake and halfway through this first draft I suddenly became conscious of the impact that Vonnegut was having on my writing. I hope that I haven't simply mimicked or copied him, but there is at least in my mind, an obvious tone. Thankfully, I had finished the Story of the Eye by Georges Bataille before I came up with that story. I don't think I'd like to do a memoir-style short story in that story involving my wife.
The name of this story is called: The Trade, Or, How I was Banished From France. There are a couple of things about this that are interesting to me. First, it's the first short story that I've ever used myself and my wife as characters. Second, it is amazing how what I am reading at the time really impacts my writing. I'm nearly finished with Kurt Vonnegut's Timequake and halfway through this first draft I suddenly became conscious of the impact that Vonnegut was having on my writing. I hope that I haven't simply mimicked or copied him, but there is at least in my mind, an obvious tone. Thankfully, I had finished the Story of the Eye by Georges Bataille before I came up with that story. I don't think I'd like to do a memoir-style short story in that story involving my wife.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Three Untitled Poems
(Originally Written October 6, 2009)
(Originally written October 6, 2009 in the Journal)
1.
While some may lose themselves on land and other's may recklessly sail again,
Myself I shove off from shore to retest the tepid waters to see what fate has in store.
Those eyes are such a blue I find myself longing for nothing save only for you.
My darling, my sweet, my sole and cherished heart.
Twas love that chose you from before,
long before I even knew to start.
2.
While some may yet lost in another's eyes
A feat easily accomplished in such a blue,
My eyes rather than losing -
Methinks the thing has become a pleasure
Such is the cross of change
3
Yes, a night again lost
Fully in another's eyes
A feat easily achieved
When I gaze in such a blue
Such fates that destiny has in store
The downcast has become elated
Timidly retesting the seas after a wreck upon ashore
(Originally written October 6, 2009 in the Journal)
1.
While some may lose themselves on land and other's may recklessly sail again,
Myself I shove off from shore to retest the tepid waters to see what fate has in store.
Those eyes are such a blue I find myself longing for nothing save only for you.
My darling, my sweet, my sole and cherished heart.
Twas love that chose you from before,
long before I even knew to start.
2.
While some may yet lost in another's eyes
A feat easily accomplished in such a blue,
My eyes rather than losing -
Methinks the thing has become a pleasure
Such is the cross of change
3
Yes, a night again lost
Fully in another's eyes
A feat easily achieved
When I gaze in such a blue
Such fates that destiny has in store
The downcast has become elated
Timidly retesting the seas after a wreck upon ashore
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Am I falling in love?
(Originally Written March 22, 2009 in the Journal)
I feel the compulsive necessity to write at this point. You'll never read this (even if we are to be). This is too private for anyone else. Only you my dearest Ashley can know my secrets.
Emotions stir in me I thought were too damaged to ever thrive again. I can't say I love you. I can't say anything so strong. My mind is weak but my heart is palpable. Who shall be its molder? I can be the clay yet I search for the artist. Ever searching, ever on.
I don't know why I write. I have no reason to, yet no reason not to. I move too quickly for my own good. She has no interest in me and I am unsure if I even have interest in her. She simply is - simply is beautiful.
Infatuation? Love? Interest? Love? Desire? LOVE? Lust? LOVE? Passion? LOVE?
Where are these words coming from?
You stir something in me. I wish you didn't but I long for you to stir deeper still. I have been asleep for months. You have awoken me, or have you? Is this just another delicious dream? A mere phantasm or fantasy? The world exists but reality only exists in my head. My reality hinges on my ability to discern real reality (that is existence in my head) and REALITY (that is existence outside of there). Which is more real? To me my dreams seem more real, but that also seems to be the problem. My narcissism rages and my pride fills up my chest. Humility has taught me some great wisdom at great cost, but I'm weak in the presence of kind eyes and a warm smile. I'm weak in your presence.
Infatuation? Love? Interest? Love? Desire? LOVE? Lust? LOVE? Passion? LOVE?
I write these words, do I know their meaning?
I write infatuation. The start of all relationships. Your eyes meet mine. Eye to eye and nose to nose. You turn left while I turn right? Lip to lip? Yes my joy, yes, a kiss. Love?
Interest, I scrawl on my wrist though it can be read in every line and wrinkle of my body. When infatuation can survive its infancy, though a treacherous time, it grows stronger and less awkward. A baby flails its limbs in wayward circles as it waddles across the room. So it is as infatuation swings left to right yet forward towards interest. Love?
Desire my love, my Ashley. Your pages are filled with this - you know it well! You see my hopes, my fears, my joys and my pains, understanding them better than I. Desire grows from interest - that state of heart that flutters at your beckoning. You see it in my eyes. At times I think I see it in yours, but always accompanied by uncertainty (a feeling that plagues me deeper than God himself can fathom). Yet desire stands as a deep-rooted tree in an open field - exposed to changing winds. Will it stand strong? Love only knows. Love is omniscient right? Love?
Lust, the sex of life, you know that act so forbidden, so bemoaned, so wrong, so lovely. This, one branch of that tree so easily can be swayed by the changing winds. If I had any control of my self I would cut this son of a bitch off. I'd prune it down, so many problems arise from this branch. I have thee yet I need you. Lust, a single branch that dominates the whole damn tree if you let it. At times I forget I am said tree, losing myself as only a branch. If I let it, as I have before this tree will die. I will die. Love will die. Lust will conquer, but love conquers all? Love never fails? Could this be love?
If lust is not checked love is choked.
If lust is not checked love is choked.
How many times can I write this? It matters not - I know it. My experience teaches my mind. I know this stage - I married it. She had infatuation, interest, desire and lust. No love. I was dropped for her lust of another (and four more that she told me about). My branch cut right out from her tree. I died until I realized I was a tree myself.
The lust has subsided has it not? You and I still exist. Are we for real? Am I for real? Is this reality or is it in my mind? Is it my mind or is it existence?
Love - love can't be written. It can only be experienced. It can only be lived. It must be reality & REALITY. It must be truth and TRUTH. Do I? Do I not? Am I experiencing this or not?
I feel the compulsive necessity to write at this point. You'll never read this (even if we are to be). This is too private for anyone else. Only you my dearest Ashley can know my secrets.
Emotions stir in me I thought were too damaged to ever thrive again. I can't say I love you. I can't say anything so strong. My mind is weak but my heart is palpable. Who shall be its molder? I can be the clay yet I search for the artist. Ever searching, ever on.
I don't know why I write. I have no reason to, yet no reason not to. I move too quickly for my own good. She has no interest in me and I am unsure if I even have interest in her. She simply is - simply is beautiful.
Infatuation? Love? Interest? Love? Desire? LOVE? Lust? LOVE? Passion? LOVE?
Where are these words coming from?
You stir something in me. I wish you didn't but I long for you to stir deeper still. I have been asleep for months. You have awoken me, or have you? Is this just another delicious dream? A mere phantasm or fantasy? The world exists but reality only exists in my head. My reality hinges on my ability to discern real reality (that is existence in my head) and REALITY (that is existence outside of there). Which is more real? To me my dreams seem more real, but that also seems to be the problem. My narcissism rages and my pride fills up my chest. Humility has taught me some great wisdom at great cost, but I'm weak in the presence of kind eyes and a warm smile. I'm weak in your presence.
Infatuation? Love? Interest? Love? Desire? LOVE? Lust? LOVE? Passion? LOVE?
I write these words, do I know their meaning?
I write infatuation. The start of all relationships. Your eyes meet mine. Eye to eye and nose to nose. You turn left while I turn right? Lip to lip? Yes my joy, yes, a kiss. Love?
Interest, I scrawl on my wrist though it can be read in every line and wrinkle of my body. When infatuation can survive its infancy, though a treacherous time, it grows stronger and less awkward. A baby flails its limbs in wayward circles as it waddles across the room. So it is as infatuation swings left to right yet forward towards interest. Love?
Desire my love, my Ashley. Your pages are filled with this - you know it well! You see my hopes, my fears, my joys and my pains, understanding them better than I. Desire grows from interest - that state of heart that flutters at your beckoning. You see it in my eyes. At times I think I see it in yours, but always accompanied by uncertainty (a feeling that plagues me deeper than God himself can fathom). Yet desire stands as a deep-rooted tree in an open field - exposed to changing winds. Will it stand strong? Love only knows. Love is omniscient right? Love?
Lust, the sex of life, you know that act so forbidden, so bemoaned, so wrong, so lovely. This, one branch of that tree so easily can be swayed by the changing winds. If I had any control of my self I would cut this son of a bitch off. I'd prune it down, so many problems arise from this branch. I have thee yet I need you. Lust, a single branch that dominates the whole damn tree if you let it. At times I forget I am said tree, losing myself as only a branch. If I let it, as I have before this tree will die. I will die. Love will die. Lust will conquer, but love conquers all? Love never fails? Could this be love?
If lust is not checked love is choked.
If lust is not checked love is choked.
How many times can I write this? It matters not - I know it. My experience teaches my mind. I know this stage - I married it. She had infatuation, interest, desire and lust. No love. I was dropped for her lust of another (and four more that she told me about). My branch cut right out from her tree. I died until I realized I was a tree myself.
The lust has subsided has it not? You and I still exist. Are we for real? Am I for real? Is this reality or is it in my mind? Is it my mind or is it existence?
Love - love can't be written. It can only be experienced. It can only be lived. It must be reality & REALITY. It must be truth and TRUTH. Do I? Do I not? Am I experiencing this or not?
Friday, March 20, 2009
A Little Memory To Pick Up The Pieces
(Originally written March 20, 2009 in the Journal)
To her:
A date? Was it? We had fun - there was definitely flirting. At the movies your arms were crossed most of the time, guarding your had from mine. But when you opened we got close. I told you my flirting techniques which is actually my best one. See the charm in this approach is you know what I'm doing and why, but it's safe. You can explore your feelings: search if there is anything there. Slowly, I'll grow on you; slowly, but steadily I'll win your heart. When it comes you'll neither know how it happened nor why it took so long to realize that these feelings you have for me are so encompassing. How could I have missed that? Ask yourself however many times you like, you'll never answer it.
To me:
A date? Overconfidence. Bafoonery. Your lies fool no one but yourself. There is no attraction, you are merely a safety net. See the time is coming, she will cry on your should, tell you how lonely she is, how what's his name has broken her heart- you know, that guy you warned her about for this very reason. But alas, you are no saint - you had ulterior motives. You wanted her for yourself.
Was it a date? At times it felt so, but others not so much. What is she thinking right now? Actually that doesn't matter because it's not about you. Do you think you've made the impression on her that lasts while you're not there? Nothing you've don would cause a lingering of you in her mind. My friend you are a mess. Set your sights lower.
I say to my soul, "be still my soul - be quiet my mind. Allow me to think!"
It answers back, "think not, simply be"
I am so many people in here. The divorce shattered me to pieces and now each fragment thinks for itself. Thousands of voices in my head vie for my undivided attention. How can I give it when I am so divided?
When she speaks to me the fragments speak not. They listen. When she touches my hand or arm or fixes my collar (which I leave messed up occasionally for her to fix - a confession) the pieces that constitute me form together. (A cliché - she completes me!)
No, that's not what I'm saying... How to put into words a felling I can't quite comprehend. The pieces offer their opinions: "love, excitement, lust, enticement, desire, ecstasy, enflaming, passion, teasing, agape, amore, mi amo! the sex! No, she's far too innocent!"
So I answer them back, "yes!"
They break into confusion, just noise.
Tell me about it. I am my parts. My parts are me. The one in the back you sit quietly. How can you be still at a time like this? All of us here are wrecked with a lack of understanding yet you sit stoic - unmoved, untouched.
I think this must be my reason, my logic. Hence, it is a small part of me. I call out to him, "logic, what say you?"
I am neither logic nor reason. I am simply a memory of a past era. I do not clamor about for I am neither confused nor frightened nor in need of panic", it retorts.
The room (that is, my mind) fell silent. All the fragments surrounded this tiny memory - pale, nearly see through but that somehow seemed to glow. Actually aside from fragments of me similar to this guy there were no other lights in the room. Everything had gone back when we spun into this chaotic state of mass confusion.
"You have a crush" the memory continued. "She excites you. Your heart races and your stomach flutters when she's near. It's that simple. Don't be so deep. This isn't philosophy".
Screams came from one side of the room while sighs of ease came from the other. The room became brighter in this instant as this simple memory seemed to collect a lot of pieces of me and fused them to his self. The pieces in the back of the room did not join this simple memory though. They were in fact fighting this unification. They were arguing with the simple memory and getting more frantic as it grew in size. They seemed more complex and I recognized their voices easier now. Countless warnings and alternative theories spewed from their lips. One of them suggested that they fuse together as a counter measure but they couldn't agree on anything except disagreeing with now large yet simple feeling.
I realized these voices were what kept me from sleeping at night. These were my doubts, my fears, my sense of inferiority, my pain, my shame, my skewed and slanted sense of logic. Their cries echoed in the room keeping me off balance. The glowing feeling then walked over to me. It smiled and whispered in my ear. "They will never be quiet, so go and live and enjoy.
The phone rings. Panic - it's her. The glowing feeling smiles while the scattered portion of me speak all at once. But me, as a near-whole for the first time in ages is calm, happy, free and really just myself again.
"Hello"
"Hi Fin, how are you?"
"I'm good and you?"
"Good. Hey I was wondering if you wanted to get some dinner tonight. They just opened a new Greek place around the corner and I have nobody to go with".
"Sure, I'd love to. When should I pick you up?"
"Seven will be good."
"Great see you at seven".
"Alright, it's a date"
(It's a date!)
I could feel the glowing feeling smiling. The echoes of doubt still clamored in my mind begging to be heard, but I ignored them. I smiled with feeling.
To her:
A date? Was it? We had fun - there was definitely flirting. At the movies your arms were crossed most of the time, guarding your had from mine. But when you opened we got close. I told you my flirting techniques which is actually my best one. See the charm in this approach is you know what I'm doing and why, but it's safe. You can explore your feelings: search if there is anything there. Slowly, I'll grow on you; slowly, but steadily I'll win your heart. When it comes you'll neither know how it happened nor why it took so long to realize that these feelings you have for me are so encompassing. How could I have missed that? Ask yourself however many times you like, you'll never answer it.
To me:
A date? Overconfidence. Bafoonery. Your lies fool no one but yourself. There is no attraction, you are merely a safety net. See the time is coming, she will cry on your should, tell you how lonely she is, how what's his name has broken her heart- you know, that guy you warned her about for this very reason. But alas, you are no saint - you had ulterior motives. You wanted her for yourself.
Was it a date? At times it felt so, but others not so much. What is she thinking right now? Actually that doesn't matter because it's not about you. Do you think you've made the impression on her that lasts while you're not there? Nothing you've don would cause a lingering of you in her mind. My friend you are a mess. Set your sights lower.
I say to my soul, "be still my soul - be quiet my mind. Allow me to think!"
It answers back, "think not, simply be"
I am so many people in here. The divorce shattered me to pieces and now each fragment thinks for itself. Thousands of voices in my head vie for my undivided attention. How can I give it when I am so divided?
When she speaks to me the fragments speak not. They listen. When she touches my hand or arm or fixes my collar (which I leave messed up occasionally for her to fix - a confession) the pieces that constitute me form together. (A cliché - she completes me!)
No, that's not what I'm saying... How to put into words a felling I can't quite comprehend. The pieces offer their opinions: "love, excitement, lust, enticement, desire, ecstasy, enflaming, passion, teasing, agape, amore, mi amo! the sex! No, she's far too innocent!"
So I answer them back, "yes!"
They break into confusion, just noise.
Tell me about it. I am my parts. My parts are me. The one in the back you sit quietly. How can you be still at a time like this? All of us here are wrecked with a lack of understanding yet you sit stoic - unmoved, untouched.
I think this must be my reason, my logic. Hence, it is a small part of me. I call out to him, "logic, what say you?"
I am neither logic nor reason. I am simply a memory of a past era. I do not clamor about for I am neither confused nor frightened nor in need of panic", it retorts.
The room (that is, my mind) fell silent. All the fragments surrounded this tiny memory - pale, nearly see through but that somehow seemed to glow. Actually aside from fragments of me similar to this guy there were no other lights in the room. Everything had gone back when we spun into this chaotic state of mass confusion.
"You have a crush" the memory continued. "She excites you. Your heart races and your stomach flutters when she's near. It's that simple. Don't be so deep. This isn't philosophy".
Screams came from one side of the room while sighs of ease came from the other. The room became brighter in this instant as this simple memory seemed to collect a lot of pieces of me and fused them to his self. The pieces in the back of the room did not join this simple memory though. They were in fact fighting this unification. They were arguing with the simple memory and getting more frantic as it grew in size. They seemed more complex and I recognized their voices easier now. Countless warnings and alternative theories spewed from their lips. One of them suggested that they fuse together as a counter measure but they couldn't agree on anything except disagreeing with now large yet simple feeling.
I realized these voices were what kept me from sleeping at night. These were my doubts, my fears, my sense of inferiority, my pain, my shame, my skewed and slanted sense of logic. Their cries echoed in the room keeping me off balance. The glowing feeling then walked over to me. It smiled and whispered in my ear. "They will never be quiet, so go and live and enjoy.
The phone rings. Panic - it's her. The glowing feeling smiles while the scattered portion of me speak all at once. But me, as a near-whole for the first time in ages is calm, happy, free and really just myself again.
"Hello"
"Hi Fin, how are you?"
"I'm good and you?"
"Good. Hey I was wondering if you wanted to get some dinner tonight. They just opened a new Greek place around the corner and I have nobody to go with".
"Sure, I'd love to. When should I pick you up?"
"Seven will be good."
"Great see you at seven".
"Alright, it's a date"
(It's a date!)
I could feel the glowing feeling smiling. The echoes of doubt still clamored in my mind begging to be heard, but I ignored them. I smiled with feeling.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Poem #1
(Originally Written February 25, 2009 in the Journal)
Poem 1
The sun is setting my dear.
The sun is setting.
Tomorrow, I will wake anew.
So I went to Haiti today. I'm in Port-au-Prince right now! I came with Ms. Erin Adams and Cindy Hundley - a true motley crew we are. We're staying at an orphanage run by one of Erin's friends.
This is pretty amazing. I love traveling, but it was an arduous trip taking nearly twelve hours to get from Jarabacoa to here solely by gua-gua. They had dinner ready for us: chicken, potatoes and carrot, and a salad consisiting of lettuce, tomato, onion and a leafy green that reminded me of parsley but had a spicy after taste.
Well, I think I'm ready for bed. It's been a long day. By the way, Erin becomes more amazing the more I get to know her.
I didn't eat the chicken because I've given up meat for lent.
Lord, the Nazirite vow I took taught me very little. I failed you Lord. Out of this abstaining Lord I hope to gain insight on your true purpose for my life.
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound.
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost but now am found.
Twas blind but now I ssee.
Poem 1
The sun is setting my dear,
The sun is setting.
Tomorrow, I will wake anew.
Poem 1
The sun is setting my dear.
The sun is setting.
Tomorrow, I will wake anew.
So I went to Haiti today. I'm in Port-au-Prince right now! I came with Ms. Erin Adams and Cindy Hundley - a true motley crew we are. We're staying at an orphanage run by one of Erin's friends.
This is pretty amazing. I love traveling, but it was an arduous trip taking nearly twelve hours to get from Jarabacoa to here solely by gua-gua. They had dinner ready for us: chicken, potatoes and carrot, and a salad consisiting of lettuce, tomato, onion and a leafy green that reminded me of parsley but had a spicy after taste.
Well, I think I'm ready for bed. It's been a long day. By the way, Erin becomes more amazing the more I get to know her.
I didn't eat the chicken because I've given up meat for lent.
Lord, the Nazirite vow I took taught me very little. I failed you Lord. Out of this abstaining Lord I hope to gain insight on your true purpose for my life.
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound.
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost but now am found.
Twas blind but now I ssee.
Poem 1
The sun is setting my dear,
The sun is setting.
Tomorrow, I will wake anew.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Some thoughts on Divorce and New Love interests
(Originally Written February 23, 2009 in the Journal)
So I found out what I was suspecting. She is dating again. I'm loosed from my chains. This marriage was a prison. The relationship had its highs and a piece of my heart will always be hers but not as my wife (my wife was not the woman I married). Like a first love, a fondness for a high school romance. That's all it was - we were just older. Nothing more, nothing less, but not insignificant.
I've written a lot in here cryptically about feelings for someone. I'm not sure if I have them or better yet, I'm not sure how rooted or strong they are. I feel freer, happier than I have in years. Yesterday I woke in such a glory that not even a hangover could have spoiled my mood. I had fun, not mere enjoyment or a lack of fain, but actual fun.
The divorce is over. It was hard, but I am hopeful. Every bit of separation I feared to be hard was monstrously difficult and left gashes though my soul and heart yet...
Yet is the most powerful word in the English language, in my somewhat humble opinion. Yet is the power we have. Life comes crashing down brandishing the weapons of destruction, yet I carry on even in times of slavery. Yet, I am happy. Yet, I have joy. Yet, I am not conquered. Yet, when these deep wounds and gashes heal I feel more alive.
There is some anger, maybe even some hate in my heart. There a whole mindset of women out their who will now write me off. There is a stigma. I wonder if she dons this philosophy as protective gear. Maybe I shall find out or maybe I am still too afraid to move on a feeling like this. I don't fear I will have a hard time committing. I fear the opposite. Maybe I'll come too strong and scare her away or worse still we'll be married and I'll find another woman who I've married is not the woman I dated.
That's an odd sentence.
So I found out what I was suspecting. She is dating again. I'm loosed from my chains. This marriage was a prison. The relationship had its highs and a piece of my heart will always be hers but not as my wife (my wife was not the woman I married). Like a first love, a fondness for a high school romance. That's all it was - we were just older. Nothing more, nothing less, but not insignificant.
I've written a lot in here cryptically about feelings for someone. I'm not sure if I have them or better yet, I'm not sure how rooted or strong they are. I feel freer, happier than I have in years. Yesterday I woke in such a glory that not even a hangover could have spoiled my mood. I had fun, not mere enjoyment or a lack of fain, but actual fun.
The divorce is over. It was hard, but I am hopeful. Every bit of separation I feared to be hard was monstrously difficult and left gashes though my soul and heart yet...
Yet is the most powerful word in the English language, in my somewhat humble opinion. Yet is the power we have. Life comes crashing down brandishing the weapons of destruction, yet I carry on even in times of slavery. Yet, I am happy. Yet, I have joy. Yet, I am not conquered. Yet, when these deep wounds and gashes heal I feel more alive.
There is some anger, maybe even some hate in my heart. There a whole mindset of women out their who will now write me off. There is a stigma. I wonder if she dons this philosophy as protective gear. Maybe I shall find out or maybe I am still too afraid to move on a feeling like this. I don't fear I will have a hard time committing. I fear the opposite. Maybe I'll come too strong and scare her away or worse still we'll be married and I'll find another woman who I've married is not the woman I dated.
That's an odd sentence.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
I dream of love
(Originally Written February 18, 2009 in the Journal)
Late at night I sit in my bed wishing to sleep. I scrawl this out, possibly a short story, possibly just for you Ashley.
Me: Can I ask you a question?
You: Sure, go ahead.
Me: Do you think I'm damaged goods?
You: (laughing) What does that mean?
Me: You know, I'm 25 and divorced. I couldn't make the marriage last. From the perspective of a woman... am I damaged goods?
You: Wow, that's a hard question. I mean, I know you; I know your story. I don't really understand how you feel, but I wouldn't say it's all your fault.
Me: (thinking: a classic dodge/stroke my ego a bit, thanks. I love the effort, but don't fully buy it). But if you were looking for a husband, I mean we're not old but were at that age when everyone says, 'When, I wonder when they're gonna get married...' I mean - - not you and I, but generally speaking...not that I wouldn't marry you but you know (nervous laughter) [my head implodes a bit, did you just realize I love you?]
You: (laughing) Oh so you don't want to marry me, or do you? If you don't, that hurts Chris.
A long pause happens. Both Ashley and I feel uncomfortable with the silence. We've been friends now for almost a year and working in such a close knit environment makes it feel like it's been even longer. The uncomfortable pause breaks with her voice.
You: Chris, you know I don't like you like that... I like Steve.
There's an awkward laugh because this line is drawn directly from our skit from a few months back. But, somewhere along the way I realized that I do like you like that. You're attractive - your red hair/infectious smile, your alarming sense of humor coupled with your deeper than expected laugh, the way you hug me or run your fingers through my hair, all these things you've done subconsciously as just a part of your being - your beautiful irresistible personality. My God I love you! You have no idea of what kind of effect you've had on me. The impact is deep. I married her because she gave me affection/she gave me love (however shallow it may have been), a sense of love I'd never felt before. I groan for it everyday (you give it to me). Do you do it on purpose? We click so well... but do I like you? Do I love you? I'm so fucking confused. [I wish I could tell you this/I'm free enough to express my feelings right now]. I think I love you but it's just so soon. My divorce was only a few months ago, but I separated a year and a half ago and my marriage was a sham. In two years I had a wife for two weeks - maybe (probably) less. I feel so alone and you my darling are the only woman who has shown me genuine (and I assume not totally platonic) affection since my dating years over four years ago - a lifetime for me. I don't know, every time we're alone I feel like we're a couple but when we're in a group we're brother and sister/ more like step-brother and step-sister/kind of like a Greg & Marsha... a bit of sexual tension (at least in my mind).
By the way, Steve is asleep beside me on the couch. He's the one I blame for making me realize I love you. He planted the seed. I only looked at you as the coolest girl I know/but he ... he said we looked good. He said it over and over and over until I said, maybe? Just maybe? You, you obviously are out of my league. Sure I'm self-deprecating, self-loathing and yet overly sure of myself, but look at you and look at me.
I can't answer your quip. I can't answer your joke. It would require realness. It would require me to allow you to see my feelings (weakness for you). Why is it that I fall deeper in love with you as I talk this out? Though I've imploded before I explode in my mind this time. Too much stimulation. I see two mutually exclusive outcomes to this.
(As a side note this is to E.A. You'll either be E.L. someday or I'll block your memory because it'll be too painful).
I love you. I think I love you. That Terrifies me.
Two scenarios: We're gonna kiss or you're gonna break my heart.
You: It would be hard to be involved with a divorced man. Plus, we're great friends. I wouldn't want to jeopardize that.
Me: I know right, what could we do?
You: I just don't think I'm interested in you.
Me: Thanks for preemptively shutting me down. This conversation has been most enlightening (my heart is breaking). You know... life is real... not every story comes with a happy ending. [rejection. again.]
My mind was so busy. I was so preoccupied that I didnt' realize that you moved in closer. We are kissing. How long have we been kissing? We're making out. There's something different. I can't put my finger on it. All I see is white. My knees lock. I'm looking up now. This makes no sense. What's that? Your finger? It's shiny.
What a dream.
I'm alone in bed. There's a crackling sound. The aroma o f bacon overwhelms my nostrils. I love bacon, but not as much as you (fake vegetarian).
We're married. Is this fantasy? Is this life? I love you/you love me. We're happy. Together. At the beach. It is a happy ending. We're kissing. It's unexpected from both ends. We're kissing. We're kissing. You're not breaking my heart.
Me: I love you
You: I love you
Is this a dream? Will I wake alone? Is this a dream or fantasy? Is this real? Is it 2009? Is it 2005?
Drunk? Too drunk to write? Is this fiction? you're touching me. This is too real to be a dream. I'm in love.
Late at night I sit in my bed wishing to sleep. I scrawl this out, possibly a short story, possibly just for you Ashley.
Me: Can I ask you a question?
You: Sure, go ahead.
Me: Do you think I'm damaged goods?
You: (laughing) What does that mean?
Me: You know, I'm 25 and divorced. I couldn't make the marriage last. From the perspective of a woman... am I damaged goods?
You: Wow, that's a hard question. I mean, I know you; I know your story. I don't really understand how you feel, but I wouldn't say it's all your fault.
Me: (thinking: a classic dodge/stroke my ego a bit, thanks. I love the effort, but don't fully buy it). But if you were looking for a husband, I mean we're not old but were at that age when everyone says, 'When, I wonder when they're gonna get married...' I mean - - not you and I, but generally speaking...not that I wouldn't marry you but you know (nervous laughter) [my head implodes a bit, did you just realize I love you?]
You: (laughing) Oh so you don't want to marry me, or do you? If you don't, that hurts Chris.
A long pause happens. Both Ashley and I feel uncomfortable with the silence. We've been friends now for almost a year and working in such a close knit environment makes it feel like it's been even longer. The uncomfortable pause breaks with her voice.
You: Chris, you know I don't like you like that... I like Steve.
There's an awkward laugh because this line is drawn directly from our skit from a few months back. But, somewhere along the way I realized that I do like you like that. You're attractive - your red hair/infectious smile, your alarming sense of humor coupled with your deeper than expected laugh, the way you hug me or run your fingers through my hair, all these things you've done subconsciously as just a part of your being - your beautiful irresistible personality. My God I love you! You have no idea of what kind of effect you've had on me. The impact is deep. I married her because she gave me affection/she gave me love (however shallow it may have been), a sense of love I'd never felt before. I groan for it everyday (you give it to me). Do you do it on purpose? We click so well... but do I like you? Do I love you? I'm so fucking confused. [I wish I could tell you this/I'm free enough to express my feelings right now]. I think I love you but it's just so soon. My divorce was only a few months ago, but I separated a year and a half ago and my marriage was a sham. In two years I had a wife for two weeks - maybe (probably) less. I feel so alone and you my darling are the only woman who has shown me genuine (and I assume not totally platonic) affection since my dating years over four years ago - a lifetime for me. I don't know, every time we're alone I feel like we're a couple but when we're in a group we're brother and sister/ more like step-brother and step-sister/kind of like a Greg & Marsha... a bit of sexual tension (at least in my mind).
By the way, Steve is asleep beside me on the couch. He's the one I blame for making me realize I love you. He planted the seed. I only looked at you as the coolest girl I know/but he ... he said we looked good. He said it over and over and over until I said, maybe? Just maybe? You, you obviously are out of my league. Sure I'm self-deprecating, self-loathing and yet overly sure of myself, but look at you and look at me.
I can't answer your quip. I can't answer your joke. It would require realness. It would require me to allow you to see my feelings (weakness for you). Why is it that I fall deeper in love with you as I talk this out? Though I've imploded before I explode in my mind this time. Too much stimulation. I see two mutually exclusive outcomes to this.
(As a side note this is to E.A. You'll either be E.L. someday or I'll block your memory because it'll be too painful).
I love you. I think I love you. That Terrifies me.
Two scenarios: We're gonna kiss or you're gonna break my heart.
You: It would be hard to be involved with a divorced man. Plus, we're great friends. I wouldn't want to jeopardize that.
Me: I know right, what could we do?
You: I just don't think I'm interested in you.
Me: Thanks for preemptively shutting me down. This conversation has been most enlightening (my heart is breaking). You know... life is real... not every story comes with a happy ending. [rejection. again.]
My mind was so busy. I was so preoccupied that I didnt' realize that you moved in closer. We are kissing. How long have we been kissing? We're making out. There's something different. I can't put my finger on it. All I see is white. My knees lock. I'm looking up now. This makes no sense. What's that? Your finger? It's shiny.
What a dream.
I'm alone in bed. There's a crackling sound. The aroma o f bacon overwhelms my nostrils. I love bacon, but not as much as you (fake vegetarian).
We're married. Is this fantasy? Is this life? I love you/you love me. We're happy. Together. At the beach. It is a happy ending. We're kissing. It's unexpected from both ends. We're kissing. We're kissing. You're not breaking my heart.
Me: I love you
You: I love you
Is this a dream? Will I wake alone? Is this a dream or fantasy? Is this real? Is it 2009? Is it 2005?
Drunk? Too drunk to write? Is this fiction? you're touching me. This is too real to be a dream. I'm in love.
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