Sometimes I find myself in this place that feels like a total rejection of who I know myself to be; it's opposite day on Planet Em, and I am the sole occupant and player. The words run out, and I don't see the pictures my camera is supposed to make, and all I can do is try to distract myself with music and ...hang on. Put on a helmet, even. Perhaps a seat belt. As a creature of routine and optimism, it is hard for me to let go and settle in for the ride. It seems that fighting it makes the whole journey all the more difficult, though; I am ill-prepared for the self reflection and intimate examinations of my life that are sure to precede the self loathing, anger, cynicism, and hopelessness.
It starts like this: one day, I quietly realize I'm happy; dare I even say, content, with my life. Sure, there is room for improvement, but overall, the complaints are few and far between. I bask in the warm fuzzy glow of this comfortable life I have made, much like a cat lazing in the shaft of sunlight stretching across the floor on a summer afternoon. That is also the exact moment that I have come to dread, because without fail, I wake up and find myself in this place. It's like my subconscious pipes up with, "oh, feeling good, eh? Perhaps you can finally deal with this pile of bullshit you've been sweeping over into this corner? No? Just thought I'd ask; you don't have to get all hysterical."
Into the hysteria of it all, I descend, however; an unwilling participant to the whim of my id. The man behind the curtain is me, and he has been dazzling me with illusions long enough that I have momentarily forgotten that some of the reasons I sought out those illusions to begin with were pretty unbearable to live with out in the open every day. Facing them for even a few moments is still painful beyond comprehension. They seem insurmountable. So I make busy work until I'm too busy to remember what all the fuss was about, and pretty soon I have pulled the rabbit of happiness up out of the hat once more, and on with the show. Pomp and circumstance; smoke and mirrors.
When "it is what it is" describes the hobble-hop from one distraction to another, ever searching for the IT that my life is supposed to BE, and I still come up with an armload of nothing, it's hard to not imagine that somewhere along the way, things have gone horribly wrong at some point. That the common denominator is ME, and obviously I am the thing that has gone horribly wrong. After all, I am the architect of my own happiness and build my own future through the decisions I have made... right? So there is simply no one else to blame. Clearly I have forgotten to go along to get along until I march my tired ass to the slaughter house of old age.
Today I have been reading science-based studies on love, and what happens to our brains when we step in it, and if love is blind, why, and then what happens. How our brains do this thing where we can no longer make objective decisions regarding the subject of our affections because the reward for living in La La Land is supposed to outweigh the risk, and how the longer you get to know someone, the more you fall out of love, most of the time. Boredom, complacency, repetition, disillusionment; all of these things come crawling out of the woodwork to gnaw away at this thing that you thought was pretty darn great when you first stumbled upon it. How, without our genetically inclined need to procreate, or the endorphin rush of the shiny penny newness of lust, we probably wouldn't make it as a species. That seems to be all that holds us together; the search for immortality, and pleasure. I think much of this can also be applied to the way we view ourselves, too. We reach a point where we can no longer be objective about our own feelings, because there is too much at risk, like trading one happiness for another. You can have your cake, or you can eat it. We make trades on our comfort, while trying to walk the tightrope of commitment, or contentment. There is no fucking net.
And sometimes it all just. Seems. So. Dumb.
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
Thursday, October 2, 2014
Venus and Mars, and a sky full of stars
You know, I'm just about 100% sick of hearing about the whole feminism thing. I just want the opportunity to get on with the business of being a human female while enjoying the ability to make every single last decision of my own accord without some guy standing there judging or giving his unsolicited opinion. Or even some other woman, for that matter. What works for my life may not work for anyone else's, and I'm okay with that... so why do they insist we try to jam ourselves into whatever mold they fancy at the time?
I'm sick of the term "mansplain," and I'm sick of the men trying to explain who, when, why, how, and what a woman should do with her vagina, her wardrobe, her hair and makeup, her attitude, her life. I'm sick of the ridiculous disrespect that has made women literally fear walking down the street alone at night, or in broad daylight, because of what some man may do, which of course, she will be blamed for due to the length of her skirt or the tightness of her shirt, or no reason at all. I'm sick of the school dress code restrictions that grow ever increasingly tighter as the staff lose their grip on their responsibilities to actually educate their students, placing the blame on a girl in skinny jeans when a boy refuses to keep his eyes or hands to himself. I'm sick of the phrase "boys will be boys," and the wink and nod and dismissal that follows. I'm sick of the way women are viewed as the weaker sex, yet blamed for men "giving in to temptation," or however they wish to phrase the stupidity they have just indulged in.
I'm sick of being from Venus, while men reside on Mars. Because all of this means that women and men will never have whatever conversation that needs to occur in order for this to all stop happening. We will never understand each other, and we will never stop the blame game. We will never stop being victims, or victimised, or feel comfortable in our own skin, or proud of who we are, or proud of our partners. How can we, when we are making each other feel judged at every turn and assumed to be a person who utterly lacks control of their own actions, thoughts, behavior, and feelings?
Women can be just as brutally stupid as men in all of the above aspects, too, so don't think I am giving my own gender a get out of jail free card. I am also very grateful that almost all of the people I know and love don't fall under any of this crap. I am just sick of all of us having to deal with the fallout every single day.
Don't we all have anything better, more important, to do?
I know I sure do.
I'm sick of the term "mansplain," and I'm sick of the men trying to explain who, when, why, how, and what a woman should do with her vagina, her wardrobe, her hair and makeup, her attitude, her life. I'm sick of the ridiculous disrespect that has made women literally fear walking down the street alone at night, or in broad daylight, because of what some man may do, which of course, she will be blamed for due to the length of her skirt or the tightness of her shirt, or no reason at all. I'm sick of the school dress code restrictions that grow ever increasingly tighter as the staff lose their grip on their responsibilities to actually educate their students, placing the blame on a girl in skinny jeans when a boy refuses to keep his eyes or hands to himself. I'm sick of the phrase "boys will be boys," and the wink and nod and dismissal that follows. I'm sick of the way women are viewed as the weaker sex, yet blamed for men "giving in to temptation," or however they wish to phrase the stupidity they have just indulged in.
I'm sick of being from Venus, while men reside on Mars. Because all of this means that women and men will never have whatever conversation that needs to occur in order for this to all stop happening. We will never understand each other, and we will never stop the blame game. We will never stop being victims, or victimised, or feel comfortable in our own skin, or proud of who we are, or proud of our partners. How can we, when we are making each other feel judged at every turn and assumed to be a person who utterly lacks control of their own actions, thoughts, behavior, and feelings?
Women can be just as brutally stupid as men in all of the above aspects, too, so don't think I am giving my own gender a get out of jail free card. I am also very grateful that almost all of the people I know and love don't fall under any of this crap. I am just sick of all of us having to deal with the fallout every single day.
Don't we all have anything better, more important, to do?
I know I sure do.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Crazy little thing called Age.
I like to think that age is just some number; an indication of the number of years one has traversed the human condition, and precious little else of significance is weighted within. It would explain why I seldom feel like a bone fide "grown up" despite that I'm nearing the {holy shit} 39th year since my birth, or that I have a child that just last week reached the {holy shit x 2} 20th year since his own. I have a friend that is in her 60s, and was just today flirted with by someone not much older than my 20 year old. And it's exactly at that point where my brain puts on the screeching halt of the brakes and calls me a hypocrite.
It's not because I have any interest in being flirted with by anyone other than my spouse, (I don't), but because my first thought is immediately "he's just a baby." It's some weird part flattery and a whole lot of feeling like a pedophile. And I didn't even do anything wrong! Was so oblivious to the whole affair that it wasn't until I got home with my goods and receipt that I realized that there was a phone number scrawled across a scrap of paper. It made me laugh. Out loud. And it also makes me genuinely feel like a great big jerk that I can't take a compliment without dissecting it and trying to find the ulterior motive waiting to jump out and bite me.
Dismissing age as just a number, though, erases the actual experience of all of that living that has happened in that span of time. Things both big and small that conclude into the amalgamation of the person that we are becoming. Certainly, I would be offended if someone dismissed me as "just a baby" because I am arbitrarily younger than they are. That they would be moved to laughter because I found them attractive? Wow. That sucks. I have lived a lot in my not-quite-(gulp)-forty years; I have a lot to offer, damn it! That said, I often wonder if I will always feel like a kid. Am I the only grown up that feels like a kid tossed unceremoniously out into the world, just trying to keep my head above the rising tide of numbers gathering below me? And do I even *want* to feel every second of those numbers? [No. No, I don't.]
Here's the thing, though: when it comes to matters of more-than-friends, I think that's where the water starts getting murky for me, and I guess lots of other folks. My mom once freaked out, just a couple of years ago, in fact, that I find some guys her own age attractive. "He's an old man!" I volleyed back, " Who cares. LOOK AT HIM." (Rob Lowe, you still have it; I have thought so since I was a pre-teen.) But speaking of pre-teens, do I want my own daughter to ever entertain thoughts about guys her mother's age at any point in her life? Oh Hell No! I'm totally fine with riding the hypocrisy train where that's concerned.
Oh well, it is all what it is. The human condition is equal parts hilarious and horrifying. I guess most of the time I'm just glad to be along for the ride.
It's not because I have any interest in being flirted with by anyone other than my spouse, (I don't), but because my first thought is immediately "he's just a baby." It's some weird part flattery and a whole lot of feeling like a pedophile. And I didn't even do anything wrong! Was so oblivious to the whole affair that it wasn't until I got home with my goods and receipt that I realized that there was a phone number scrawled across a scrap of paper. It made me laugh. Out loud. And it also makes me genuinely feel like a great big jerk that I can't take a compliment without dissecting it and trying to find the ulterior motive waiting to jump out and bite me.
Dismissing age as just a number, though, erases the actual experience of all of that living that has happened in that span of time. Things both big and small that conclude into the amalgamation of the person that we are becoming. Certainly, I would be offended if someone dismissed me as "just a baby" because I am arbitrarily younger than they are. That they would be moved to laughter because I found them attractive? Wow. That sucks. I have lived a lot in my not-quite-(gulp)-forty years; I have a lot to offer, damn it! That said, I often wonder if I will always feel like a kid. Am I the only grown up that feels like a kid tossed unceremoniously out into the world, just trying to keep my head above the rising tide of numbers gathering below me? And do I even *want* to feel every second of those numbers? [No. No, I don't.]
Here's the thing, though: when it comes to matters of more-than-friends, I think that's where the water starts getting murky for me, and I guess lots of other folks. My mom once freaked out, just a couple of years ago, in fact, that I find some guys her own age attractive. "He's an old man!" I volleyed back, " Who cares. LOOK AT HIM." (Rob Lowe, you still have it; I have thought so since I was a pre-teen.) But speaking of pre-teens, do I want my own daughter to ever entertain thoughts about guys her mother's age at any point in her life? Oh Hell No! I'm totally fine with riding the hypocrisy train where that's concerned.
Oh well, it is all what it is. The human condition is equal parts hilarious and horrifying. I guess most of the time I'm just glad to be along for the ride.
Monday, September 29, 2014
Send in the clowns.
I feel like the blink-blink-blink of the cursor on a blank page; waiting to span the syllables of something; some something that I hope turns out to have a decent, meaningful conclusion. I am going to carpe the shit of some diem, and tapdance my black letters all over this barren white; fill it up as I empty out.
That's what I feel.
The reality of the situation is that I also feel stuck in that short pause from blink to blink - there is no cursor, only the most cursory of allusions to a page, and the words are caught in my throat. "I wish I had an actual keyboard to type on; this tablet bullshit has worn thin," I think for the hundredth time. As true as that is, it also feels like an excuse to recuse myself from the task of facing my thoughts as they spill across the page. I don't want to look. Gawking at the corpse of your past is never easy; clumsy fingers reaching out to snatch you back to some point in time reminding you of what you had, or what you lost, or where you're still too angry and sick to peel back the bandages and assess the damage.
I have begun the ritual of writing: jamming some music into my ears to drown out the distracting silence, hot mug of tea near to hand, horrible cigarette smoldering in the ashtray. I am too old to be a hipster, but all of the cliches are there, earned honestly through my time so far on this planet. And I guess that's part of the big problem. I'm going to open my own little mental jewelry box where I've stored all of my most sacred thoughts, and instead of the ballerina popping up in endless pirouette to the musical chime, it's going to be some clown holding a busker's sign that says every negative thing we always tell ourselves; the music will be to the tune of sad trombone fanfare. Or, you know, that's what I tell myself.
The precursor to the big monsters in the closet is this. The modern dance of artistry looks a lot like bleeding feet en pointe; years of tiptoed survival summed up with a tidy satin bow. When the clown car is unpacked and the bruises and scrapes and scars are on full, naked, display, your inner ring leader takes a bow and you're left in charge of the popcorn mess in the aisles. The freak show you carry around in your brain still isn't sure you're capable of displaying their horrors properly, but you're all they've got; and so goes the dance; the show and telling of the soul.
That's what I feel.
The reality of the situation is that I also feel stuck in that short pause from blink to blink - there is no cursor, only the most cursory of allusions to a page, and the words are caught in my throat. "I wish I had an actual keyboard to type on; this tablet bullshit has worn thin," I think for the hundredth time. As true as that is, it also feels like an excuse to recuse myself from the task of facing my thoughts as they spill across the page. I don't want to look. Gawking at the corpse of your past is never easy; clumsy fingers reaching out to snatch you back to some point in time reminding you of what you had, or what you lost, or where you're still too angry and sick to peel back the bandages and assess the damage.
I have begun the ritual of writing: jamming some music into my ears to drown out the distracting silence, hot mug of tea near to hand, horrible cigarette smoldering in the ashtray. I am too old to be a hipster, but all of the cliches are there, earned honestly through my time so far on this planet. And I guess that's part of the big problem. I'm going to open my own little mental jewelry box where I've stored all of my most sacred thoughts, and instead of the ballerina popping up in endless pirouette to the musical chime, it's going to be some clown holding a busker's sign that says every negative thing we always tell ourselves; the music will be to the tune of sad trombone fanfare. Or, you know, that's what I tell myself.
The precursor to the big monsters in the closet is this. The modern dance of artistry looks a lot like bleeding feet en pointe; years of tiptoed survival summed up with a tidy satin bow. When the clown car is unpacked and the bruises and scrapes and scars are on full, naked, display, your inner ring leader takes a bow and you're left in charge of the popcorn mess in the aisles. The freak show you carry around in your brain still isn't sure you're capable of displaying their horrors properly, but you're all they've got; and so goes the dance; the show and telling of the soul.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
My Average Joe ~ Happy Father's Day
Today is such a bittersweet day for me. Father's Day. I see messages sent out by my friends into cyberspace - wishes of a happy day for their own dads, and they make me smile and they make me so very sad that I no longer have my own dad to send my wishes to. Rather than allow myself to sit and feel sorry for myself, I am determined to focus on the positive.
Friday, June 11, 2010
I don't think that means what you think that means
I know people that work really hard at being relevant on the internet. They retweet the latest gossip, the latest news, the latest trend; they have thousands of followers and admirers and fans. They are the elite. They blip and twitpic and status update; rehash every single minutia that everyone else has already presented to the unwashed masses in hopes of gaining fame, however small.
There's something you need to know about me.
The term "social media" makes my skin crawl in *most* cases. I grew up "social by circumstance, not by choice," which is a lot longer phrase than that which you may be familiar with. So long, in fact, that it never really caught on with the rest of the world. I'm sure you'd probably NOT be surprised with the number of people like me out there on the internet virtually patting your back. It's not that people like myself are so few in number, but I believe we've just adapted. We are the Darwin Fish of the ethernet, swimming through the bits that gain us legs and voices and .. perhaps, guts. Who knows?
It's not that I am anti-social.. well, in most cases. I thought for a long time that I really just didn't like people, and that was that. But it turns out that I DO like people... the ones that have the courage to be genuine, to reach out, to speak their minds fearlessly, to wear their heart on their sleeve; the ones that aren't trying to sell me their product, whether it be their idea or their body. It's not real if you have nothing to lose by exposing it, yes? And yes. If you have nothing to lose by my gaining it, it's not worth having, and I give you the same.
And that's it, really. I'm not a special little temperamental snowflake, not if you know me. Because if you know me, then you know a lot more like me, too ~ my fellow speakers of the heart. We aren't casting our nets into the murky depths of "maybe"; we have a definitive opinion, like it or not, and we aren't odd for voicing it. Liked or disliked, accepted or not, we are the "oddballs" that are courageously speaking our minds with little to lose. We are "scary" and "hypersensitive" and "mental" and "intsense". Only insofar as you are "scared" and "numb" and "unthinking" and "superficial."
That you could be so free in being yourself, and speaking your own mind; how I wish that for us all.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Time wasted is lessons learned
I don't know about you, but I'm one of those that puts my whole heart into a thing when I've decided to. Whether it's getting my hair done up exactly the way I intend to, or marketing my latest photography endeavor, I am "me", hear me roar. Or don't. And lots of times people don't; they choose not to. I expect it... most of the time. I've always found, for example, that most of my favorite photos that I want to promote don't get the recognition that I wish they would ~ perhaps I have quirky taste; I've come to accept that. My least favorites get all of the praise without any effort on my part, and my most valued treasures are dismissed.
I'm finding it's the same with ... other things. I'm finding that going to bat for people that I believe in is equally futile, and, as equally baffling, it's being dismissed by the very people I'm going to bat FOR. What? Of course this has completely revamped my thought process once again; why go to bat at all? Short answer is, I won't. Being the most ... vocal of the bunch, I will now become one of the most quiet, because I see that the very people I go to bat for aren't capable of taking is as seriously as I do. And that's okay. It makes me feel like a giant idiot and wonder why on earth they waste their time while hailing my name in the process, but outside of that, I have... my name to lose.
ah yeah, that.
"we want community, but not much that community," and "we want your feedback, but we're tired of hearing about that, even though we have no solution," and "we're here to show you our pretty faces, but uh, yeah... just make us look good. That's all we really appear to want." I suddenly feel like I've slipped down the rabbit hole for 10 months and am coming to with a room full of Auntie Em and the Wicked Witch of the West peering in through my window. I have never been a fan of The Wizard of Oz, and The WWW is one nasty little beast.
Internet, I have lost faith in you. From designers that paint prettier pictures than they know how to conjugate the bond they try to form with me, to people whom I respected that let me down again and again; what's a girl to make of it? Eat me? Fuck you? Which pill to choose.
Goodness, this entry is much too full of literary and cinematic garbage.... just like the rest of the world.
I guess it comes down to this: I am through with you. Maybe for now, maybe for ever. I've eaten your garbage and swallowed your swill, and won't make that mistake again. I may love you, but watching you use me to scramble to your imagined "top" is not a view I ever care to repeat. Good luck with it.
I'm finding it's the same with ... other things. I'm finding that going to bat for people that I believe in is equally futile, and, as equally baffling, it's being dismissed by the very people I'm going to bat FOR. What? Of course this has completely revamped my thought process once again; why go to bat at all? Short answer is, I won't. Being the most ... vocal of the bunch, I will now become one of the most quiet, because I see that the very people I go to bat for aren't capable of taking is as seriously as I do. And that's okay. It makes me feel like a giant idiot and wonder why on earth they waste their time while hailing my name in the process, but outside of that, I have... my name to lose.
ah yeah, that.
"we want community, but not much that community," and "we want your feedback, but we're tired of hearing about that, even though we have no solution," and "we're here to show you our pretty faces, but uh, yeah... just make us look good. That's all we really appear to want." I suddenly feel like I've slipped down the rabbit hole for 10 months and am coming to with a room full of Auntie Em and the Wicked Witch of the West peering in through my window. I have never been a fan of The Wizard of Oz, and The WWW is one nasty little beast.
Internet, I have lost faith in you. From designers that paint prettier pictures than they know how to conjugate the bond they try to form with me, to people whom I respected that let me down again and again; what's a girl to make of it? Eat me? Fuck you? Which pill to choose.
Goodness, this entry is much too full of literary and cinematic garbage.... just like the rest of the world.
I guess it comes down to this: I am through with you. Maybe for now, maybe for ever. I've eaten your garbage and swallowed your swill, and won't make that mistake again. I may love you, but watching you use me to scramble to your imagined "top" is not a view I ever care to repeat. Good luck with it.
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