You wander into the tent, a little skeptical, a little curious. You may know where you're going, but do you really want to know your final destination? You want to know what will happen with your career, your family, your whirlwind social life? I think that everyone wonders; everyone dreams of a perfect life in which they are able to achieve every goal and desire. Some may even be inherent; i personally think the desire for love is inherent, and that life is about fulfilling it. It's a multi-faceted road through chaos that we're living, but that happens to be a pretty significant facet in the lens through which I view life. So let's take a gander into the crystal ball, shall we?
Giddy infatuation, butterflies, need, desire, passion, insatiability, curiosity…
Constantly thinking about someone, missing them when they’re gone, thinking about someone when you open your eyes in the morning, allowing them to invade your head while you complete menial tasks, not wanting to sleep because a dream will likely fall short.
It’s not love. But it could be; if you’re one of the lucky ones who finds the person for whom you’d risk your heart, because one minute of the feeling in the depth of your soul is absolutely worth that risk. If you’re lucky, you might find it once. If you’re really lucky, you might find it multiple times. And others just might not ever run into what some consider to be the reason to live and breathe. It isn’t about success in a career, about the hobbies you love, about the places you go…all of these things might help to comprise the person who you’ve become or who you long to be, and thus I make no implication that these types of things are unimportant. However, the intangible, the things which you feel so deeply that they remain imprinted long after twinges of emotion may have subsided, the daily interaction with people who make an impression so deep that you think of them long after they’ve disappeared from your life, or continue to think about them with such incredible levels of affection, even after seeing them every day for years…it’s these things that make life worth living.
And then slowly, like a burglar creeping in through the window, or a spider weaving a web in the corner above your front door, life gets in the way. One forgets to kiss the one to whom they came home, fails to ask about the day they’ve had. They forget the times they’ve been hurt, devastated, heart-broken, betrayed; and they begin to lose sight of what it means to love, to care about someone, to think about them and consider their feelings within each action. They crawl into bed at night, a car length-divide between two disconnected bodies; two sets of eyes, staring at opposing walls, listening to the guarded breathing of the one whose back is turned to them in a stilted effort to ignore the sneaking wonder of what went wrong. Love can be everything, but to some people, it’s a state of being which they never seem to grasp; one through which they can never wade because they are too caught up with the only life preserver they have…the one for themselves. People change, evolve, life happens; but actual love is so deeply rooted that when the shit hits the fan, it may waver, it may become shaken and damaged, but it doesn't end. This is where I find issue with marriage, commitment, social interaction in general; too many humans lose sight of how to treat each other and the indescribable value of finding genuine, amazing people with whom you can be yourself.
Love is that moment when in the middle of an angry, disagreement, the object of your affection smiles at you and the anger dissipates. You remember how lucky you are to have found something so pure. You look at the way he smiles, hear the way he says your name, and you remember that life lies within the ability to love and be loved.
The people at Hallmark have been trying to put the most effective words to use for years, to display love in a way that can illuminate the feeling that makes a heart continue to beat. I’m truly not trying to do such. I don’t wish to define love or preach about how it feels or the importance of it. I merely voice my opinion to express how important it is to me.
I fight commitment like an onset of the swine flu. I like to be alone, I need space, room to be who I am without question and criticism; but also room to grow and improve and thrive with people who understand my flaws and love me for them, not just in spite of them. I fight the idea of relationships because I think that there are too few people in the world who truly understand love and view it in the way which I’ve grown to see it. I don’t imply that my way is the only way, or even the right way. However, it is my way. My armor is more reliable than my AmEx card and you can bet your ass, I don’t leave home without it. It’s a tough fucking world and I don’t take kindly to being wounded. However, I don’t wear the armor out of fear, I wear it to fight off the wounds that don’t even deserve to touch the skin; then I have time for those that are worth the pain, because as a wise man once mentioned: everyone is going to hurt you, you just have to figure out which ones are worth the pain. So I make my way through the world, happy with who I am, happy with the life I’ve built for myself and the interactions I’ve been privileged enough to have encountered. There have been some ugly ones and there are quite a few dents and gashes in that suit of armor, but they merely show that I’ve lived and haven’t spent my time afraid to step out onto the battlefield.
Life is about balance; striking a balance between your own needs and the needs of those whom you love; balance between work, family, friends, school, hobbies, errands; balance between the cooking, the cleaning, the sleep and the waking; the driving, the thriving, living and dying. Life is a house of cards, waiting for the slightest breeze to send those which are not properly balanced, tumbling to the ground. I don’t want to be alone forever; I think the need for companionship is inherent. However, I’m happy, I’m not incomplete, and I’d choose to be alone before I’d settle for anything less than actual love. I know it because I’ve felt it. There’s nothing like it in the world. If I don’t find it again, that’s ok. I’m going to live every second like it’s my last and have a damn good time doing it; but I’m ok with a little twinge of a dream that there’s someone amazing out there that can live up to the adventure and never take life or love for granted. Either way, I’m gonna have the time of my life, because you only get one and it’s ending one minute at a time.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
The Joust tent
“Perhaps your knight in shining armor is a mere boy in tin foil…”
I hear so many assertions that chivalry is dead, but I don’t buy it. Chivalry didn’t die, it just went on a long vacation from the shallow, bar-traipsing bitches who disease the world with a sense of entitlement merely because they have breasts; they taint the common opinion for the rest of the gender. However, men tend to do the same for their poor species; my male friends constantly complain that there aren’t any genuine, intelligent, worth-while girls to date, yet when they find them, they act like complete idiots.
I’m not necessarily looking for a knight, and I’d certainly like to do without the armor for once. I’m independent, I need an extreme of space, and I certainly don’t need to be rescued. In the inventory of armor, I’ve got plenty for the entire occupancy of the Round Table, it’d be nice to find someone who allowed me to shed it and perhaps let it get a little rusty.
I suppose that level of worthiness is completely dependent upon my own willingness; I hate to shed the armor and have to lift it all back up again when people prove to be ready to merely impale me with their sword, in nowhere near the way that such an innuendo could prove to be positive. No, we’re talking blood, and guts, not a flurry of erotica out of an Elizabethan romance.
So. Long story short, I shed the armor. I lost the joust. The knight walks out of the arena as though he’s won, when really, he overlooked what the prize really was. He spilled blood, yes. Not many have done so, congratulations. But he missed the actual main event.
Someone once told me that I presume too often, while I claim to merely assess the information that I’ve been given, and determine my own opinion based on such. I honestly am still unsure what other choice I have in a world where people cover themselves with armor and refuse to stand in the arena and just fight. If the opponent is kept hidden, I don’t know what I’m up against and I have to form a strategy accordingly. Or die.
I wanted a shield. I wanted my armor. But I took it off, and I got wounded. Now, bleeding, in the middle of the dust, crowd on its feet, I get back up. I stepped into the arena, I fought for what I wanted, and now I'll walk away, head held high because I did so. My opponent thought he won. Unfortunately, he failed to see, we should have been fighting together.
I hear so many assertions that chivalry is dead, but I don’t buy it. Chivalry didn’t die, it just went on a long vacation from the shallow, bar-traipsing bitches who disease the world with a sense of entitlement merely because they have breasts; they taint the common opinion for the rest of the gender. However, men tend to do the same for their poor species; my male friends constantly complain that there aren’t any genuine, intelligent, worth-while girls to date, yet when they find them, they act like complete idiots.
I’m not necessarily looking for a knight, and I’d certainly like to do without the armor for once. I’m independent, I need an extreme of space, and I certainly don’t need to be rescued. In the inventory of armor, I’ve got plenty for the entire occupancy of the Round Table, it’d be nice to find someone who allowed me to shed it and perhaps let it get a little rusty.
I suppose that level of worthiness is completely dependent upon my own willingness; I hate to shed the armor and have to lift it all back up again when people prove to be ready to merely impale me with their sword, in nowhere near the way that such an innuendo could prove to be positive. No, we’re talking blood, and guts, not a flurry of erotica out of an Elizabethan romance.
So. Long story short, I shed the armor. I lost the joust. The knight walks out of the arena as though he’s won, when really, he overlooked what the prize really was. He spilled blood, yes. Not many have done so, congratulations. But he missed the actual main event.
Someone once told me that I presume too often, while I claim to merely assess the information that I’ve been given, and determine my own opinion based on such. I honestly am still unsure what other choice I have in a world where people cover themselves with armor and refuse to stand in the arena and just fight. If the opponent is kept hidden, I don’t know what I’m up against and I have to form a strategy accordingly. Or die.
I wanted a shield. I wanted my armor. But I took it off, and I got wounded. Now, bleeding, in the middle of the dust, crowd on its feet, I get back up. I stepped into the arena, I fought for what I wanted, and now I'll walk away, head held high because I did so. My opponent thought he won. Unfortunately, he failed to see, we should have been fighting together.
Friday, November 13, 2009
The Blood Bath Tent
Strangely enough, as jaded, cynical, and bitter as I can be, I seem to have escaped all of the bullshit without too many unresolved trust issues; however, I’ve definitely got at least one: I don’t trust the request for complete honesty, because as much as people ask for it, they usually can’t handle it. I possess, and frequently use, a level of honesty that makes people extremely uncomfortable. Based on this, I’m too often labeled as intimidating, bitchy, or whatever negatively-denoting moniker people choose to fling at me. Plenty of people claim that they want to know the truth; they want to receive the information that makes the cogs turn in other’s heads. Yet when they get it, the reaction is much closer to that which would be produced had one gotten a bizarre form of sheep AIDS.
In any case, for the sake of my current thought, I really couldn’t care less about those people. Sadly, they probably comprise somewhere in the range of 90% of the general population, but I say fuck ‘em. What seems to be currently bouncing around in my gray matter, are the ones who have the balls to listen to and accept what they ask for. I’ve recently gotten closer to someone who can do that with such a level of maturity, sensitivity, and understanding, that it blows my fucking mind. So lo and behold: I’m NOT intimidating. I’m NOT too honest. Everyone else just happens to be scared shitless of the truth. I’ve not only been lucky enough to encounter someone who is brave enough to handle honesty, but who also clearly accepts me for exactly who I am. The result is the most open, bullshit-free, peaceful, thought-provoking, line of communication I’ve seen in a VERY long time.
So to a point, I’ve been consensually stripped. I’ve opened up more than I do on a regular basis, even within the common context of my blatant honesty. I’ve admitted weaknesses, I’ve spit in the face of the stigma regarding how people are SUPPOSED to interact with one another, and have been allowed the freedom to just be.
In the absence of trust issues, I’ve still admitted that I’ve got plenty of others; most prominently, commitment issues. Stemming partially from the hatred of unwanted obligation, the real core of the issue can be visibly seen upon my proverbial sleeve. My heart sits on the outside, and it resembles the cutting board in a butcher shop, after all the valuable parts have been swept away and put up for sale in a fingerprint-smeared glass case. Bottom line, my heart has been stabbed, obliterated, lacerated, walked-on, tread-through and smeared as much as anyone else's, and eventually, I mopped it up, shoved it all back together, and decided that another instance wasn’t worth the risk. I put the walls up, and put the heart in a tomb that even the most torqued-up chainsaws haven’t been able to penetrate.
So what happens when one comes along with a skillful scalpel? One so sharp, shiny, and precise, that I spread my arms, look the surgeon in the eye, and allow them to cut?
Palahniuk said, “In order to be truly happy, one must risk being completely cut open.” For so long, I held the armor in place anyway, because I didn’t believe the happiness was worth the risk. I’m happy with who I am, and I really questioned how another boot heel to the heart could potentially alter me too greatly.
Free from the drama, free from the bullshit games, I was given the chance to consider within my own twisted soul, whether or not I was right. And I was. The risk has never been worth it. And I’ve never let myself be cut open; until now. So I’m lying on the cutting table, with a few incisions, and I’m wondering what to do next. Because the scalpel is so skilled, and so brilliant, that I wonder if I may let my skin be stripped off, piece by piece, slowly and methodically. It must be slowly. And looking the surgeon in the eye, I’m not scared.
At times, I may still jump off the table and cover myself back up, like a frightened child under the covers. Or I may shiver a little at the thought of a particularly difficult cut over some previous scar tissue; but for once, I’ve allowed the cut to be made and I’m willing to bleed. I think I'm willing to lie on the table, willing to risk the pain, if the surgeon decides to continue cutting.
In any case, for the sake of my current thought, I really couldn’t care less about those people. Sadly, they probably comprise somewhere in the range of 90% of the general population, but I say fuck ‘em. What seems to be currently bouncing around in my gray matter, are the ones who have the balls to listen to and accept what they ask for. I’ve recently gotten closer to someone who can do that with such a level of maturity, sensitivity, and understanding, that it blows my fucking mind. So lo and behold: I’m NOT intimidating. I’m NOT too honest. Everyone else just happens to be scared shitless of the truth. I’ve not only been lucky enough to encounter someone who is brave enough to handle honesty, but who also clearly accepts me for exactly who I am. The result is the most open, bullshit-free, peaceful, thought-provoking, line of communication I’ve seen in a VERY long time.
So to a point, I’ve been consensually stripped. I’ve opened up more than I do on a regular basis, even within the common context of my blatant honesty. I’ve admitted weaknesses, I’ve spit in the face of the stigma regarding how people are SUPPOSED to interact with one another, and have been allowed the freedom to just be.
In the absence of trust issues, I’ve still admitted that I’ve got plenty of others; most prominently, commitment issues. Stemming partially from the hatred of unwanted obligation, the real core of the issue can be visibly seen upon my proverbial sleeve. My heart sits on the outside, and it resembles the cutting board in a butcher shop, after all the valuable parts have been swept away and put up for sale in a fingerprint-smeared glass case. Bottom line, my heart has been stabbed, obliterated, lacerated, walked-on, tread-through and smeared as much as anyone else's, and eventually, I mopped it up, shoved it all back together, and decided that another instance wasn’t worth the risk. I put the walls up, and put the heart in a tomb that even the most torqued-up chainsaws haven’t been able to penetrate.
So what happens when one comes along with a skillful scalpel? One so sharp, shiny, and precise, that I spread my arms, look the surgeon in the eye, and allow them to cut?
Palahniuk said, “In order to be truly happy, one must risk being completely cut open.” For so long, I held the armor in place anyway, because I didn’t believe the happiness was worth the risk. I’m happy with who I am, and I really questioned how another boot heel to the heart could potentially alter me too greatly.
Free from the drama, free from the bullshit games, I was given the chance to consider within my own twisted soul, whether or not I was right. And I was. The risk has never been worth it. And I’ve never let myself be cut open; until now. So I’m lying on the cutting table, with a few incisions, and I’m wondering what to do next. Because the scalpel is so skilled, and so brilliant, that I wonder if I may let my skin be stripped off, piece by piece, slowly and methodically. It must be slowly. And looking the surgeon in the eye, I’m not scared.
At times, I may still jump off the table and cover myself back up, like a frightened child under the covers. Or I may shiver a little at the thought of a particularly difficult cut over some previous scar tissue; but for once, I’ve allowed the cut to be made and I’m willing to bleed. I think I'm willing to lie on the table, willing to risk the pain, if the surgeon decides to continue cutting.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
The Peep Show Tent...
The dynamic of sex and gender: such a cliché utterance of human interaction that horns its way into everyday life. The economy of it, the bartering that everyone tries to ignore, the ridiculous games hidden beneath the façade of animalistic need, all of which end in the same stereotypical resultant scenarios. Inherently, humans need this, the chase, the game, the coy smiles and the fabricated conversation; all of it creates a guise under which we can hide and pretend that we care about something other than the skin to skin, sweaty, breathless interaction that really drives the rest of the bullshit to manifest in reality.
It’s a never-ending cycle; the supposition that men only want the ‘no-strings’ interaction and women want relationships. We perpetuate the misunderstanding because anything else is met by shock and disappointment at not upholding the fantasy. So ‘round and ‘round we go…batting the eyelashes, holding open the door, reiterating that we aren’t ‘looking for anything serious.’
It’s all about fear. Fear of commitment, fear of isolation, fear that someone might actually live up to the expectations that so many fall short of. I’m just as guilty of perpetuating the cycle, although I typically tend to relate to the ‘male’ point of view. I have the sex drive of a seventeen year-old boy. However, casual encounters bore me. I have no interest in hopping into bed with random people just to fulfill a need that a vibrator can accomplish (likely with more finesse and less effort). However, if a moment strikes me and I should decide that I fancy a little roll in the hay, I think I’m fully entitled to pursue such an interaction, which hardly implies that I’m looking to propose marriage. Of course, when I assert such an opinion, I’m again reinforcing gender roles, as I’ll get labeled the whore while the men within the same context are congratulated. I’m less than concerned with that.
What I’m concerned with is the overall cycle that should have been extinct by now. Humans evolve, psychology evolves, and yet still, we’re all caught up in the vicious, vapid circle of interactions that prohibit such evolution of the mind and the heart. Fuck the stereotypes, fuck what you’re ‘supposed to think and do.’ Live. By your own set of beliefs, needs and wants. If you don’t, you’re already dead anyway.
It’s a never-ending cycle; the supposition that men only want the ‘no-strings’ interaction and women want relationships. We perpetuate the misunderstanding because anything else is met by shock and disappointment at not upholding the fantasy. So ‘round and ‘round we go…batting the eyelashes, holding open the door, reiterating that we aren’t ‘looking for anything serious.’
It’s all about fear. Fear of commitment, fear of isolation, fear that someone might actually live up to the expectations that so many fall short of. I’m just as guilty of perpetuating the cycle, although I typically tend to relate to the ‘male’ point of view. I have the sex drive of a seventeen year-old boy. However, casual encounters bore me. I have no interest in hopping into bed with random people just to fulfill a need that a vibrator can accomplish (likely with more finesse and less effort). However, if a moment strikes me and I should decide that I fancy a little roll in the hay, I think I’m fully entitled to pursue such an interaction, which hardly implies that I’m looking to propose marriage. Of course, when I assert such an opinion, I’m again reinforcing gender roles, as I’ll get labeled the whore while the men within the same context are congratulated. I’m less than concerned with that.
What I’m concerned with is the overall cycle that should have been extinct by now. Humans evolve, psychology evolves, and yet still, we’re all caught up in the vicious, vapid circle of interactions that prohibit such evolution of the mind and the heart. Fuck the stereotypes, fuck what you’re ‘supposed to think and do.’ Live. By your own set of beliefs, needs and wants. If you don’t, you’re already dead anyway.
Friday, October 9, 2009
The ride begins...
The legendary, yet tragic little pseudo-love-story of Echo and Narcissus, ends with the self-involved bastard of a daffodil meeting his demise due to his unrequited love affair with his own reflection. Now, I think N was being a bit of an asshole, but this self-indulgent little fucker may have been onto something: who’s to say that he wasn’t well-justified to turn down all of his potential suitors, before becoming completely enthralled with the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen? Perhaps Echo, and these other said suitors just didn’t have what he needed, wanted, or deserved; in which case, shame on us for expecting him to settle with an inarticulate little nymph.
So, Narcissus finds himself in what appears to be a lose/lose situation: he is lusted after by mediocre specimens, yet the one thing he loves is unattainable. However, he was also spared the potentially tortured existence within the constraints of what is now the last legal form of slavery (yes, kids, I mean marriage); not to mention, his devoted relationship to his reflection was also free from the drama-filled croakings twittering around the rest of pond; free to spend each day appreciating his own aesthetics, he was completely oblivious of who was stroking which pussy willow or who was catching algae from someone else’s lily pad.
I look in the mirror, because it’s more real than what exists in the vapid façade of small-town social bullshit. Bottom line: at the end of the day, I’m all I’ve got. Narcissus may have died, but I’m still alive and I’m just looking to vent, laugh, whine, banter and smirk about the cursed and the vile, the worthless and the worthwhile, the shallow and the vain, the tears and the pain, the stupidity, the idiocy, the unbelievable traits of the human race…and how I remain sane while being one of them in the middle of this “bullshit, three-ring, circus sideshow of freaks.*” Feel free to come along; no height requirement, no safety restraints, but you may be forced to pass an IQ test before occupying a seat. Please keep your hands, arms, and anything else of value, inside the vehicle and please remain seated until the ride comes to a complete stop.
And don’t you fret, this carnival isn’t leaving town anytime soon.
*Aenema - Tool
So, Narcissus finds himself in what appears to be a lose/lose situation: he is lusted after by mediocre specimens, yet the one thing he loves is unattainable. However, he was also spared the potentially tortured existence within the constraints of what is now the last legal form of slavery (yes, kids, I mean marriage); not to mention, his devoted relationship to his reflection was also free from the drama-filled croakings twittering around the rest of pond; free to spend each day appreciating his own aesthetics, he was completely oblivious of who was stroking which pussy willow or who was catching algae from someone else’s lily pad.
I look in the mirror, because it’s more real than what exists in the vapid façade of small-town social bullshit. Bottom line: at the end of the day, I’m all I’ve got. Narcissus may have died, but I’m still alive and I’m just looking to vent, laugh, whine, banter and smirk about the cursed and the vile, the worthless and the worthwhile, the shallow and the vain, the tears and the pain, the stupidity, the idiocy, the unbelievable traits of the human race…and how I remain sane while being one of them in the middle of this “bullshit, three-ring, circus sideshow of freaks.*” Feel free to come along; no height requirement, no safety restraints, but you may be forced to pass an IQ test before occupying a seat. Please keep your hands, arms, and anything else of value, inside the vehicle and please remain seated until the ride comes to a complete stop.
And don’t you fret, this carnival isn’t leaving town anytime soon.
*Aenema - Tool
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