There is a piece of you in everything that I write, which is a damn shame because really and truly, 'you' don't exist. Well, that isn't strictly true, you do exist but only in my mind. You aren't yet complete, you are not quite the sum of your parts, yet. Nevertheless, here you are in every blog post that I befoul with which I befoul the Internet. Most of the time you are a big part of what I write, sometimes merely a blip like an airplane on a radar screen in some darkened room that a harassed controller has to identify as friend or foe.
To me at least you are both, friend and foe. Friend in the fact that you are the inspiration for some of my finest lines, even though my fine lines are still dross, they are the best I can do. And, for the most part, they are directly related to, or inspired by you. Foe in the fact that you are also the reason that I write what has been called some really depressing shit. For without you, and the things we have done and shared, the dispirited part of me would not be writing things that make other people (not you of course) cry. Oddly enough, you find that sentiment funny, which is even odder considering I am quite convinced you lack a true sens of humor. It is a part of the paradox that makes you, well you. The reason that you do 'exist' (in the broadest sense of the term), is because if you didn't I would have to invent you. However, make no mistake, I have invented you, or at least pieces of you.
Those pieces that I have painstakingly invented are the important bits, not the colour of your eyes, or your hair, or the size of your breasts. Those are mere details, details that do not overly concern me. Brown hair, red hair, blue hair, it matters not. Green eyes, brown eyes, red eyes make not one whit of difference. Flat chested, average sized breasts, or tits that hang down to your knees are not something to concern me overly much. Those are the physical traits that aren't important to the story of you. The story that may or may not have a happy ending. The story of why there are only pieces of you.
Of course that is the problem. The fundamental stumbling block to you. The fact that as an entire being, you don't exist. You can't really fully exist, because if you did then I think I would cease to exist. My existence would fold into yours like a well folded blanket placed on a hospital bed by a well meaning nurse. And, I have grown rather used to (if not entirely comfortable with) my existence. You see, it is the only existence I have known, and if my non-belief system is correct it will be the only existence I have, so you can see why I would be loathe to part with it just so you could fully become you. Not that I expect you to care, or at least the parts of you that do exist. I can also see your point of view. If the situation were reversed then I wouldn't hesitate to steamroll over your existence like a Panzer division over some Polish lancers in order to bring myself into being.
However, I got here first, and as they (those unnamed bastards) taught me in property law, 'first in time, first in right.' Not that I have accomplished a massive amount of anything with my existence to date, and I doubt I'll be curing cancer, writing the great American novel, or scoring the game winning goal that secures Sweden the World Cup anytime soon, but I kind of feel like I should be given the chance. After all, I am pretty sure you are a monster. A 'monster of the id' if you will, a being that if you were to come into being would have little else in mind but ending my existence. For that I need no help.
And so, you will have to remain pieces only, small parts of you, scattered throughout the world, in different places, time zones, states, and countries. Little bits of your existence that are not allowed to coalesce into one solid form. You have to remain a potential being, a being that is a mere shadow, not allowed to take to the main stage, an actor who's part has not yet be fully written playing a role that doesn't exist yet. A role that I can not allow you to audition for, a role that can not be filled, a role that has to remain only partially written in the recesses of my own mind. A mind that is, in many ways, already at war with itself over your partial existence. However, fear not, it is a mind that is loathe to and will never completely give you up, a mind that will continue to place little pieces of you in everything I write. I suspect you wouldn't have it any other way.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
A Hatful of Rain
'He still misses you, you know?' These words caused her to stiffen slightly, as I expected they would. It was barely noticeable unless you are paid to notice the small things in life. I am paid to notice the small things, plus I already knew the effect my words would have on her. It was subtle, but a practiced eye such as mine noticed the stiffening of the spine, and the tightening of the grip on the knife she was employing to cut up the tomatoes for the salad she was preparing. A brief thought that perhaps bringing this subject up to her while she was holding a sharp object made for stabbing people was not such a good idea, did wander through my head, but by that time it was too late. The subject was up, and logic would dictate that it would have to be bedded down again probably before the salad would be served.
The intensity of the cutting also changed ever so slightly, and I let out a small sigh of relief that it was the tomato, not my kidneys, or spine, that were going to pay the knife tax as it were. I figured she wasn't really receptive to what I had to say, but I felt duty bound to say it anyway. After all, the 'he' in question was what some people would call my best friend. Part of the problem with best friends is they make you feel that way, duty bound. Also, I wasn't entirely certain that he returned the feeling, i.e I think he was my best friend, but I wasn't sure that I was his best friend. Hell, on certain days I wasn't even sure we were friends at all, or that he had a best (or any) friend(s).
However, being a loyal bastard, I still felt the need to 'help.' After all, helping people with their problems help the rest of us forget our own problems for a while. I can fix your life easy as pie, my own life, well that is another story entirely. Why not try to fix the problems I can see, and ignore the problems I have? That way I get to feel like I've accomplished something, and maybe even feel slightly superior, and feeling superior around him took a lot of effort. He made people feel 'like a frog being boiled alive' a point of pride. Making other people feel inferior was both a science and an art form with him, and I was never really sure whether he did it on purpose or not. I like to think that he did it mostly by accident, but every now and then when you saw him in 'full voice' with the ever so hard to distinguish sneer in his voice, I became fairly certain he could 'boil a frog' whenever he felt like it.
'He would probably shank me if he knew I was saying anything at all, but I know he misses you horribly.' She hadn't bothered to turn around, and truth be told, I found it a lot easier to give my little prepared speech to her back. Sometimes looking people in the eye is a lot tougher in real life that it seems on TV. Besides, I am not the wordsmith of the group, that was him, the guy with a clever (or so he liked to think) saying for almost any situation. I was the plodder, the one you came to when you wanted something explained in easy to understand terms, and did not want to be made to feel an idiot for asking a simple question. I also knew that since we were not alone, I had a limited time to say my piece. Her patience with this subject, I knew very well, was going to be very limited, and there are only so many tomatoes that can die a valiant death to spruce up a salad.
'He thinks he's being clever, when he mentions something about you on a daily basis, but he's not' 'He thinks I am not hearing the shake in his voice, the subtle change in timbre that clues me into the emotion lying underneath.' Once again no response, though I didn't really expect one, she was good at not responding until it was time, he had told me that about her, telling me that it was one of the more remarkable things about her. A trait that he thought was 'better than a painting by Van Gogh.' I am not much of an art admirer, but I took him at his word. And, as she stood there in the kitchen either waiting for me to finish, or plotting where to stab me, I realized he was right. The ability to wait until the other person has finished talking is an ability that we all (him especially) need to learn.
'I know he treated you like rubbish, mainly because he told me all about it on a daily basis.' 'It made me want to stab him myself.' 'Watching his arrogance, and his idiocy.' 'It was painful to watch, almost as painful as his remorse, and his self-loathing.' Truth be told I have never seen a man so self-centered that has such a complete lack of self awareness. I knew she was listening because the tomato supply had been exhausted, and the salad was ready, but she hadn't moved an inch from the spot where she was when I came into the kitchen. It was an odd feeling, like we were drag racing time, and winning. That we had somehow made ourselves a 'time bubble' that the other guests at this little party were not allowed to penetrate. I also knew that it couldn't last that she would have to turn around eventually, and my temporary eloquence would fade immediately. I knew that she probably wasn't going to change her mind, and to be honest I didn't blame her. I just felt the need to express my opinion for what it was worth.
It was just my opinion, but one that was based on a considerable amount of time listening to his lies. The lies he told himself daily in our office, the lies he told himself to convince himself that he had moved on with his life (such as it was). On occasion, after we had left the office, and he was in his cups a bit, he would admit to these lies. With an overdone flourish of his hands (he liked to talk with his hands), he would proclaim 'at least I am being honest with you about my lies.' Then he would wink at me like I was depriving a village of a perfectly good idiot, and order us another round. 'Look we both know he is an idiot walking some sort of tightrope between despondency, and euphoria.' 'But he is my best friend, and I don't think I want to see him fall off of that tightrope on the side of despondency.' 'You, for whatever reason seemed to make him happy, or at least happy for him, which I know isn't exactly happy, but beggars can't be choosers.' 'I also understand if, after this, you don't really want to talk to me either, but I just wanted you to know that he misses you like a clown misses the circus.' 'And yes before you ask I stole that line from him.'
Still not getting a response, and realizing that I probably wasn't going to get one, and that my 'time bubble' was close to bursting, I turned towards the door. I knew that the over tomatoed salad was just the first course in the meal we were about to share, and that people other than myself were probably getting hungry. 'I just wanted you to know what I think, and what I see, I understand if you don't have anything to say.' As I turned to go back to the party, she finally managed to turn around, and with a world weary sigh that could have meant anything said 'Tell him this . . . .'
The intensity of the cutting also changed ever so slightly, and I let out a small sigh of relief that it was the tomato, not my kidneys, or spine, that were going to pay the knife tax as it were. I figured she wasn't really receptive to what I had to say, but I felt duty bound to say it anyway. After all, the 'he' in question was what some people would call my best friend. Part of the problem with best friends is they make you feel that way, duty bound. Also, I wasn't entirely certain that he returned the feeling, i.e I think he was my best friend, but I wasn't sure that I was his best friend. Hell, on certain days I wasn't even sure we were friends at all, or that he had a best (or any) friend(s).
However, being a loyal bastard, I still felt the need to 'help.' After all, helping people with their problems help the rest of us forget our own problems for a while. I can fix your life easy as pie, my own life, well that is another story entirely. Why not try to fix the problems I can see, and ignore the problems I have? That way I get to feel like I've accomplished something, and maybe even feel slightly superior, and feeling superior around him took a lot of effort. He made people feel 'like a frog being boiled alive' a point of pride. Making other people feel inferior was both a science and an art form with him, and I was never really sure whether he did it on purpose or not. I like to think that he did it mostly by accident, but every now and then when you saw him in 'full voice' with the ever so hard to distinguish sneer in his voice, I became fairly certain he could 'boil a frog' whenever he felt like it.
'He would probably shank me if he knew I was saying anything at all, but I know he misses you horribly.' She hadn't bothered to turn around, and truth be told, I found it a lot easier to give my little prepared speech to her back. Sometimes looking people in the eye is a lot tougher in real life that it seems on TV. Besides, I am not the wordsmith of the group, that was him, the guy with a clever (or so he liked to think) saying for almost any situation. I was the plodder, the one you came to when you wanted something explained in easy to understand terms, and did not want to be made to feel an idiot for asking a simple question. I also knew that since we were not alone, I had a limited time to say my piece. Her patience with this subject, I knew very well, was going to be very limited, and there are only so many tomatoes that can die a valiant death to spruce up a salad.
'He thinks he's being clever, when he mentions something about you on a daily basis, but he's not' 'He thinks I am not hearing the shake in his voice, the subtle change in timbre that clues me into the emotion lying underneath.' Once again no response, though I didn't really expect one, she was good at not responding until it was time, he had told me that about her, telling me that it was one of the more remarkable things about her. A trait that he thought was 'better than a painting by Van Gogh.' I am not much of an art admirer, but I took him at his word. And, as she stood there in the kitchen either waiting for me to finish, or plotting where to stab me, I realized he was right. The ability to wait until the other person has finished talking is an ability that we all (him especially) need to learn.
'I know he treated you like rubbish, mainly because he told me all about it on a daily basis.' 'It made me want to stab him myself.' 'Watching his arrogance, and his idiocy.' 'It was painful to watch, almost as painful as his remorse, and his self-loathing.' Truth be told I have never seen a man so self-centered that has such a complete lack of self awareness. I knew she was listening because the tomato supply had been exhausted, and the salad was ready, but she hadn't moved an inch from the spot where she was when I came into the kitchen. It was an odd feeling, like we were drag racing time, and winning. That we had somehow made ourselves a 'time bubble' that the other guests at this little party were not allowed to penetrate. I also knew that it couldn't last that she would have to turn around eventually, and my temporary eloquence would fade immediately. I knew that she probably wasn't going to change her mind, and to be honest I didn't blame her. I just felt the need to express my opinion for what it was worth.
It was just my opinion, but one that was based on a considerable amount of time listening to his lies. The lies he told himself daily in our office, the lies he told himself to convince himself that he had moved on with his life (such as it was). On occasion, after we had left the office, and he was in his cups a bit, he would admit to these lies. With an overdone flourish of his hands (he liked to talk with his hands), he would proclaim 'at least I am being honest with you about my lies.' Then he would wink at me like I was depriving a village of a perfectly good idiot, and order us another round. 'Look we both know he is an idiot walking some sort of tightrope between despondency, and euphoria.' 'But he is my best friend, and I don't think I want to see him fall off of that tightrope on the side of despondency.' 'You, for whatever reason seemed to make him happy, or at least happy for him, which I know isn't exactly happy, but beggars can't be choosers.' 'I also understand if, after this, you don't really want to talk to me either, but I just wanted you to know that he misses you like a clown misses the circus.' 'And yes before you ask I stole that line from him.'
Still not getting a response, and realizing that I probably wasn't going to get one, and that my 'time bubble' was close to bursting, I turned towards the door. I knew that the over tomatoed salad was just the first course in the meal we were about to share, and that people other than myself were probably getting hungry. 'I just wanted you to know what I think, and what I see, I understand if you don't have anything to say.' As I turned to go back to the party, she finally managed to turn around, and with a world weary sigh that could have meant anything said 'Tell him this . . . .'
Friday, April 20, 2012
The Doctor Lies
There is a expression connected to the show that states 'you'll always remember your first doctor'. I have found that to be true, I have gone back and watched some of the 9th and 10th doctor's but I (unlike some) prefer number 11. He was my first, and maybe watching Dr. Who is like losing your virginity, the first one is always special. I like the show so much that I went out, and bought my very own sonic screwdriver. Alas, my version does not open every lock in the universe, but it was worth a try. Somethings only the Doctor can do. The ginger next to the Doctor is one of his companions, Amelia Pond, the Doctor is fond of young, nubile women as traveling companions, and who is to blame him? I am also a BIG fan of Mlle. Pond, an admiration that used to cause me a lot of grief.
The point of this post, if it is to have a point, is that our Time Lord from Gallifrey has a number one rule. He has a bunch of rules, but the number one rule, the rule you must always remember, the rule you have to base your entire relationship with him upon, the rule that you can not forget no matter how many monsters are at the door to the TARDIS, is that the Doctor Lies. Ignore, or forget that rule to your cost. The Doctor didn't get to be his advanced age by telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth. A Time Lord operates under a whole different set of ethical rules that the 7 billion people on this planet, and you don't get the title 'Destroyer of Worlds' for being the white hat type of hero. In fact the 11th Doctor has been told on numerous occasion that the word 'doctor' has taken on a different meaning in various other cultures within which his fame has spread. It mean 'Mighty Warrior' to a number of people, and that should tell you a lot about the Doctor's personality.
I have shamelessly stolen the Doctor's number one rule with regards to this blog. I lie, I lie a lot, and I also think that if you lie, you should lie extravagantly. We all all lie, and we have all been lied to, until the day we die, we will be both liars and lied to. It is just merely an outgrowth of being human. We don't get to regenerate, or have two hearts like the Doctor, we are human, we have one heart, and when it breaks it hurts all the more for being the only one we have. Things that my vast readership get the joy of reading in these pages are not always true. I usually respond to the question of 'who/what was your latest post about?' with the answer 'I have an imagination, you know.' Well, I do have an imagination, and I bolster that imagination with a very refined ability, and an undying passion for lying.
If any of my readers see or think they see themselves in a post, or if several readers see or think they see themselves in one post, then I am (in my opinion) lying well. If you know me, and have talked to me before, and then read my post and hear my voice in your head, then I am lying well. I don't (always) lie, nor when I lie do I (always) mean to be hurtful. But sometimes mistakes are made, and people's feelings get hurt. I also have a saying about feelings and them getting hurt, but that applies only to my own feelings, not to anyone else's. I suppose that is about as close to a 'reader be ware' message as I am going to come, and I hope that if I have managed to hurt anyone's feelings that they realize I am 'so sorry' for doing it. I would suspect that part of the reason I have done that is because I have violated another of the Doctor's rules the one that states 'when you are scared don't run.'
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Morning
Morning limped into my room today, just like it has for the past 40 plus years. Bringing with it the beginning of another indistinguishable day. The moon is on its way out of the brightening sky, and the incessant noise of my alarm clock is making me regret the pint night I partook of last evening. I wish that I could transfer that alarm to my worst enemy, that being the bartender that was 'happy to see me' i.e. pour me pint after pint until I listed like a Spanish galleon homeward. However, I am sure that barkeep is sound asleep, safe in the knowledge that she successfully got me drunk enough to entertain her again.
Since I am not King, Emperor, or even a Crown Prince (drinking Crown Royal does not, it seems, bestow royalty upon a person), I will have to answer the clarion call of that fucking alarm that is buzzing every 9 minutes. Telling me 'hey playboy its time to get up, and by up I mean out of this warm bed, and get your fat ass to work.' It would appear my alarm is invested with the same time of sense of humour that makes my friends want to punch me on occasion. However, since I am in danger of being crushed by the sunbeam entering my room, I suppose I should toddle off to the shower. Over I roll, and I roll quite well, and to my quite unexpected surprise find that there appears to be another warm body occupying about 60 percent of my nice, warm bed. Not that the other body is that big mind you, it just seems she is a bit of a bed hog. Well this is both exciting and unexpected, and since I wear contacts, being blind as a bat without them, I squint over in her general direction to attempt to ascertain if I took a stranger home, or maybe it's the bartender that decided to get me shit-housed. Surely it can not be her, after all who would have been minding the bar if she went home with me?
Luckily for me, she is still drooling the drool of remorse into my guest pillow of regret. I ever so gently grope for the glasses that will solve the mystery of her identity, and discover, to my surprise, a whole heap of condoms on the bedside table. I think to myself 'Well those weren't there when I left to go out, so she must be a well prepared girl, god bless her.' I like a woman that comes to the party prepared, and knowing what she wants, and how to get it. Unsuccessful in locating my glasses, I decide to risk a closer inspection of my temporary bed mate. After all if what I think happened, did happen then I suspect she has already passed (at least to drunk me) the 'eyeball' test.
In fact, she has clearly, judging by both her, and my lack of clothing passed more than just the eyeball test. Well, I never claimed to be anything other than easy, and I certainly hope that won't be held against me. The alarm has now been told to calm down, and quietly shut down. After all, the fates have blessed me with a nice warm woman in my bed in the morning, I feel obligated to at least start the day out 'right'. As long as this nice girl is agreeable to that, then this day might not be as much of a clanger that my hangover would suggest. Since I at least pretend to be a gentlemen (even being a member of a newly formed club for gentlemen), I will not kiss (wink wink) and tell. Nor will I shame my lovely companion by giving away her identity. This is how every night should end, and every day begin.
Since I am not King, Emperor, or even a Crown Prince (drinking Crown Royal does not, it seems, bestow royalty upon a person), I will have to answer the clarion call of that fucking alarm that is buzzing every 9 minutes. Telling me 'hey playboy its time to get up, and by up I mean out of this warm bed, and get your fat ass to work.' It would appear my alarm is invested with the same time of sense of humour that makes my friends want to punch me on occasion. However, since I am in danger of being crushed by the sunbeam entering my room, I suppose I should toddle off to the shower. Over I roll, and I roll quite well, and to my quite unexpected surprise find that there appears to be another warm body occupying about 60 percent of my nice, warm bed. Not that the other body is that big mind you, it just seems she is a bit of a bed hog. Well this is both exciting and unexpected, and since I wear contacts, being blind as a bat without them, I squint over in her general direction to attempt to ascertain if I took a stranger home, or maybe it's the bartender that decided to get me shit-housed. Surely it can not be her, after all who would have been minding the bar if she went home with me?
Luckily for me, she is still drooling the drool of remorse into my guest pillow of regret. I ever so gently grope for the glasses that will solve the mystery of her identity, and discover, to my surprise, a whole heap of condoms on the bedside table. I think to myself 'Well those weren't there when I left to go out, so she must be a well prepared girl, god bless her.' I like a woman that comes to the party prepared, and knowing what she wants, and how to get it. Unsuccessful in locating my glasses, I decide to risk a closer inspection of my temporary bed mate. After all if what I think happened, did happen then I suspect she has already passed (at least to drunk me) the 'eyeball' test.
In fact, she has clearly, judging by both her, and my lack of clothing passed more than just the eyeball test. Well, I never claimed to be anything other than easy, and I certainly hope that won't be held against me. The alarm has now been told to calm down, and quietly shut down. After all, the fates have blessed me with a nice warm woman in my bed in the morning, I feel obligated to at least start the day out 'right'. As long as this nice girl is agreeable to that, then this day might not be as much of a clanger that my hangover would suggest. Since I at least pretend to be a gentlemen (even being a member of a newly formed club for gentlemen), I will not kiss (wink wink) and tell. Nor will I shame my lovely companion by giving away her identity. This is how every night should end, and every day begin.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Stylo
I am not a writer, nor will I ever become one. I have never been published, unless you count 'published' as either this blog or certain things I have written about my boss' (lack of) sexual prowess, and my ex's phone number (for a good time call) on certain bathroom walls. I doubt that is published in the conventional usage of the word, and I doubt that some desperate press will come, and take me away from my day job, and make me an author anytime soon.
However, I do read a lot, and I read a lot of obscure stuff. I like to think my reading is fairly extensive, and diverse enough to allow me to recognize both good and bad writing when I see it (or rather read it). That being said I have spent the lack few days reading a book who's author won the Nobel Prize for Literature. It wasn't solely for this book, but he didn't write a terrible lot of books, so I figure this book, in theory, had a lot to do with his winning the prize all author's aspire to win. I won't name this fellow by name, since I don't want to slander anyone. I will say that he is dead, which might not be a bad thing, and at some point in this post (though I won't tell you where) I will use the title of the book I have been reading by him.
Simply put, the book is awful. I mean that in the best possible way, but it is awful. The writing is a bit turgid, and the story is really nothing to get excited about. In my humble opinion a good book needs a least 2 of the following 3 things (at least). Good writing, good characters, or a good story. Those are the 3 basic things a book needs, in my opinion, to be 'good'. You can get by with a weakness in one category if you make it up with more strength in another. For example if your characters are a bit weak, or unsympathetic, then you better be a really good wordsmith, or have a really good story. It is hard to do, or we would all be in the running for the Grand Prize, but I (and call me old fashioned) think that a fellow who wins the Nobel Prize should be able to churn out a book that meets these requirements.
Of course, I am not on the selection committee, nor will I ever be, but I figure that I have read enough to be able to judge a book's worth. At least its worth to me, which is mainly all I care about, me. This book fails in all three categories mentioned above. The writing, by that I mean the sentence structure, the imagery, the actual words used, is adequate at best. The author is able to describe a scene well enough, and does fairly well with dialogue, but it is nothing special. It is workmanlike at best. Which would be fine, if the other two needs were met. Sadly (for me, the reader) they are not. Not a single character in the book (and I will admit I gave up after half way, but if you are waiting until after half way to introduce your first decent character, you are requiring quite an act of faith from your reader), is in any way, sympathetic or a character you feel any sort of connection to. I don't need heroic characters, in some ways a good villain is a lot more fun to have around, but I need a character who's appearance on the page doesn't make me groan with despair.
This book, that helped this fellow win the Nobel fucking Prize lacks any single character that makes me care even they are mentioned ever again. That is not a good sign. The story which I won't detail so as not to give away the book isn't particularly good either. There is no real mystery to the plot, no reason for this story to really be told. I am sure that the author is trying to tell his readers something, and maybe I am just too dense to 'get it' but I figure that if I don't get it neither will a lot of people. It is great to be vague (I should know), but at some point a story has to be told, one that makes the reader want to get to the end. It doesn't have to be action packed, or some great mystery solved, or full of explosions, but there needs to be a story that keeps me interested especially if your characters stink, and your writing is average.
Like I said, my opinion, is just that my opinion, and isn't worth the time it has taken to type this little rant, but I feel a bit cheated in the end because I know/hope that if this guy can win the Nobel Prize for this crap, then maybe I need to quit the day job, run off to Paris, and write my own novel. I lack the courage ( I think to do this), but after reading this dross of a book, maybe it isn't such a far fetched idea after all. Free copies will of course be provided to my massive readership, that should get rid of a least 4 copies.
However, I do read a lot, and I read a lot of obscure stuff. I like to think my reading is fairly extensive, and diverse enough to allow me to recognize both good and bad writing when I see it (or rather read it). That being said I have spent the lack few days reading a book who's author won the Nobel Prize for Literature. It wasn't solely for this book, but he didn't write a terrible lot of books, so I figure this book, in theory, had a lot to do with his winning the prize all author's aspire to win. I won't name this fellow by name, since I don't want to slander anyone. I will say that he is dead, which might not be a bad thing, and at some point in this post (though I won't tell you where) I will use the title of the book I have been reading by him.
Simply put, the book is awful. I mean that in the best possible way, but it is awful. The writing is a bit turgid, and the story is really nothing to get excited about. In my humble opinion a good book needs a least 2 of the following 3 things (at least). Good writing, good characters, or a good story. Those are the 3 basic things a book needs, in my opinion, to be 'good'. You can get by with a weakness in one category if you make it up with more strength in another. For example if your characters are a bit weak, or unsympathetic, then you better be a really good wordsmith, or have a really good story. It is hard to do, or we would all be in the running for the Grand Prize, but I (and call me old fashioned) think that a fellow who wins the Nobel Prize should be able to churn out a book that meets these requirements.
Of course, I am not on the selection committee, nor will I ever be, but I figure that I have read enough to be able to judge a book's worth. At least its worth to me, which is mainly all I care about, me. This book fails in all three categories mentioned above. The writing, by that I mean the sentence structure, the imagery, the actual words used, is adequate at best. The author is able to describe a scene well enough, and does fairly well with dialogue, but it is nothing special. It is workmanlike at best. Which would be fine, if the other two needs were met. Sadly (for me, the reader) they are not. Not a single character in the book (and I will admit I gave up after half way, but if you are waiting until after half way to introduce your first decent character, you are requiring quite an act of faith from your reader), is in any way, sympathetic or a character you feel any sort of connection to. I don't need heroic characters, in some ways a good villain is a lot more fun to have around, but I need a character who's appearance on the page doesn't make me groan with despair.
This book, that helped this fellow win the Nobel fucking Prize lacks any single character that makes me care even they are mentioned ever again. That is not a good sign. The story which I won't detail so as not to give away the book isn't particularly good either. There is no real mystery to the plot, no reason for this story to really be told. I am sure that the author is trying to tell his readers something, and maybe I am just too dense to 'get it' but I figure that if I don't get it neither will a lot of people. It is great to be vague (I should know), but at some point a story has to be told, one that makes the reader want to get to the end. It doesn't have to be action packed, or some great mystery solved, or full of explosions, but there needs to be a story that keeps me interested especially if your characters stink, and your writing is average.
Like I said, my opinion, is just that my opinion, and isn't worth the time it has taken to type this little rant, but I feel a bit cheated in the end because I know/hope that if this guy can win the Nobel Prize for this crap, then maybe I need to quit the day job, run off to Paris, and write my own novel. I lack the courage ( I think to do this), but after reading this dross of a book, maybe it isn't such a far fetched idea after all. Free copies will of course be provided to my massive readership, that should get rid of a least 4 copies.
Wednesday, April 04, 2012
Triste
The German author, Friedrich Traugott Gubler, once said of his friend, the Austrian writer Joseph Roth, that 'Roth should always be sad; the sadder he is, the better he writes.' Now that comment may or may not have been true, I wasn't lucky enough to be alive at the time Roth was, and so I didn't get to know him, and it is very difficult some 80 years after his death to read his most well written passages and divine the mood behind them. In many ways, that makes me sad, I think me and Herr Roth would have gotten along like a house on fire. Of course he had talent, and I don't but I think we could have overcome that problem over several glasses of schnapps.
Which is to say that Roth was a raging alcoholic, and it would eventually be his undoing, but that is a post for a later day. I have recently read his collected letters, and therefore, being the impressionable sort, you can expect at least two more "Joseph Roth" posts sometime in the future. I have read quite a bit of Roth's writings, and I have also read Stefan Zweig's writing. Roth and Zweig were friends, and frequent correspondents, and many of the letters in the book I read are their letters back and forth to one another. It was mentioned by the editor of the book that Roth was 10 times the writer that Zweig was, and that Zweig acknowledged that. If that is the case, and I have no reason to doubt its truth, then Roth must have been one HELL of a writer, because I've been moved to tears by the brilliance of Zweig's prose on more than one occasion. Yes, even I can weep when I am 'inspired' or in this case humbled. Reading 'true' writers can be a very humbling experience. Guys would can take the most mundane of situations, or words and turn them into something that should be inscribed in the annals of history for all of the world to read.
The quote about Roth and his sadness being his inspiration led me to thinking, something that usually pains me, but in this case it pained me even more. I have a sneaky suspicion that it might be true about me as well. If I write well at all, which is of course open to debate, I think it happens when I am saddest. Which, luckily for me, has happened a lot lately. Also, in an abundance of good fortune, even when I am blessed with a respite of happiness, I have several sources of sadness on which to draw. Sources that can, without even really trying, make the black clouds reappear in my brief sunny day. I don't know if these sources are doing it on purpose, and I certainly hope they aren't, but I am not sure. All I am sure about it that when I tap them sadness flows like beer from a keg. And like real beer, I drink this 'beer of sadness' down to the dregs. It makes for many a maudlin evening spent downing drinks with the several 'shifts' of my friends required to keep me company over the course of a night.
I had hopes of shedding this sadness that makes me a 'better writer' but after a considerable time spent alone, and thinking about it, I don't think I can. I think that perhaps, I am stuck with it, whether I want it or not. I also think that for the most part it is exactly one person's fault. Mine own. There should be, in theory, a way to shed this sadness. After all, if I made it, or allow it to happen, then who better to fix it, or to stop it from happening. I am not the swiftest horse in the stable, but I figure I would at least be on the board in that race, but I cannot for the life of me, fix this.
Of course, maybe fixing it isn't really the point. I am sure there are some pretty pills that could help, or maybe I need to find Jesus, or get out of the house into the sun more often. All of this things might help, they might fix me, if that is possible, or they might not. I am sure that, in theory, I should at least try, but in the fixing of me, isn't something going to be lost? The sad part of me, the part that might be the part writing this 'pity party' (for I am sure I know people that will call it that) might be eradicated, wiped out as it where. If that were to happen, it might be the best thing to have ever happened to me (though, sadly I think that the best thing to have happened to me as already happened, and I missed it, and/or pissed it away).
Happy me, jolly me, if he were to come into an almost full time existence, might be a lot of fun to be around. Hell, he might even be a lot of fun to BE, but would it be the same me? The 'me' that is still here in my 'lime tree bower', doing the math and having the numbers not match, and wondering if the candle is really worth the game. That 'me' the one that most of my 'friends' know, the one that can always be on call for a quick pint or five, the one that is typing this (I hope) decent blog post about himself, would cease to be. Out of existence like the dodo bird, of which I have a lot in common by the way. Perhaps this latest sadness shall pass, as several have in the past. But, in their passing, these saddnesses have each left a bruise or two on the black thing in my centre that passes for my soul.
Those bruises, as we shall call them, never actually fully heal. In many ways, calling them bruises is a misnomer, they should be called marks. Each of those marks stands for something, usually something of import, something that should have been and wasn't or, (worse maybe) something that was and shouldn't have been. It makes little difference to the small soul I possess, all it knows is that it has been inevitably changed, and probably not for the better. Eventually, and probably sooner rather than later, these marks will 'cover up' my entire soul. It will become indistinguishable, and will probably just drown in a sea of sadness. However, it hasn't yet, and considering I am probably past the half way point of my life, this could be considered a positive sign. Here's hoping.
Which is to say that Roth was a raging alcoholic, and it would eventually be his undoing, but that is a post for a later day. I have recently read his collected letters, and therefore, being the impressionable sort, you can expect at least two more "Joseph Roth" posts sometime in the future. I have read quite a bit of Roth's writings, and I have also read Stefan Zweig's writing. Roth and Zweig were friends, and frequent correspondents, and many of the letters in the book I read are their letters back and forth to one another. It was mentioned by the editor of the book that Roth was 10 times the writer that Zweig was, and that Zweig acknowledged that. If that is the case, and I have no reason to doubt its truth, then Roth must have been one HELL of a writer, because I've been moved to tears by the brilliance of Zweig's prose on more than one occasion. Yes, even I can weep when I am 'inspired' or in this case humbled. Reading 'true' writers can be a very humbling experience. Guys would can take the most mundane of situations, or words and turn them into something that should be inscribed in the annals of history for all of the world to read.
The quote about Roth and his sadness being his inspiration led me to thinking, something that usually pains me, but in this case it pained me even more. I have a sneaky suspicion that it might be true about me as well. If I write well at all, which is of course open to debate, I think it happens when I am saddest. Which, luckily for me, has happened a lot lately. Also, in an abundance of good fortune, even when I am blessed with a respite of happiness, I have several sources of sadness on which to draw. Sources that can, without even really trying, make the black clouds reappear in my brief sunny day. I don't know if these sources are doing it on purpose, and I certainly hope they aren't, but I am not sure. All I am sure about it that when I tap them sadness flows like beer from a keg. And like real beer, I drink this 'beer of sadness' down to the dregs. It makes for many a maudlin evening spent downing drinks with the several 'shifts' of my friends required to keep me company over the course of a night.
I had hopes of shedding this sadness that makes me a 'better writer' but after a considerable time spent alone, and thinking about it, I don't think I can. I think that perhaps, I am stuck with it, whether I want it or not. I also think that for the most part it is exactly one person's fault. Mine own. There should be, in theory, a way to shed this sadness. After all, if I made it, or allow it to happen, then who better to fix it, or to stop it from happening. I am not the swiftest horse in the stable, but I figure I would at least be on the board in that race, but I cannot for the life of me, fix this.
Of course, maybe fixing it isn't really the point. I am sure there are some pretty pills that could help, or maybe I need to find Jesus, or get out of the house into the sun more often. All of this things might help, they might fix me, if that is possible, or they might not. I am sure that, in theory, I should at least try, but in the fixing of me, isn't something going to be lost? The sad part of me, the part that might be the part writing this 'pity party' (for I am sure I know people that will call it that) might be eradicated, wiped out as it where. If that were to happen, it might be the best thing to have ever happened to me (though, sadly I think that the best thing to have happened to me as already happened, and I missed it, and/or pissed it away).
Happy me, jolly me, if he were to come into an almost full time existence, might be a lot of fun to be around. Hell, he might even be a lot of fun to BE, but would it be the same me? The 'me' that is still here in my 'lime tree bower', doing the math and having the numbers not match, and wondering if the candle is really worth the game. That 'me' the one that most of my 'friends' know, the one that can always be on call for a quick pint or five, the one that is typing this (I hope) decent blog post about himself, would cease to be. Out of existence like the dodo bird, of which I have a lot in common by the way. Perhaps this latest sadness shall pass, as several have in the past. But, in their passing, these saddnesses have each left a bruise or two on the black thing in my centre that passes for my soul.
Those bruises, as we shall call them, never actually fully heal. In many ways, calling them bruises is a misnomer, they should be called marks. Each of those marks stands for something, usually something of import, something that should have been and wasn't or, (worse maybe) something that was and shouldn't have been. It makes little difference to the small soul I possess, all it knows is that it has been inevitably changed, and probably not for the better. Eventually, and probably sooner rather than later, these marks will 'cover up' my entire soul. It will become indistinguishable, and will probably just drown in a sea of sadness. However, it hasn't yet, and considering I am probably past the half way point of my life, this could be considered a positive sign. Here's hoping.
Monday, April 02, 2012
Of Goblins, Monkeys, and Crosses
Real writers, by that I mean people other than me, have gotten their inspiration from all sorts of places. Quite a number of them have found their muse in a bar, or in several bars. I too have seen all sorts of blog inspiring activity going on at my local(s). However bar inspiration is a tricky, tricky thing. You have to go to the bar to find it, but while you are at the bar you have to do what comes naturally, which is to get sauced, right? A double edged sword in more than one way ( a four edged sword?). Two problems present themselves almost immediately. One you have to be there for the inspiration, but you can't get so drunk that you forget what inspired you. This is VERY difficult to accomplish. A pen and a piece of paper is useful, but in the modern world a i phone with a 'notes' application will be sufficient. The second problem is you have to stay sober(ish) enough to not provide inspiration for some other aspiring Ernest Hemingway. Also, quite tricky especially if your bartender likes to sometimes see how drunk they can get you.
These tales that I can regale you with aren't really that exciting, but they are a slice of American life as it were, and can, in the proper hands, and frame of mind provide at least some entertainment. Shall we start with the guy who drinks PBR in a glass with ice and a cherry through a straw? I think this is, or at least should be, against the law, and it takes a lot of effort not to punch the offender in the face. I mean PBR is a bad enough sin, but with fruit, over ice, through a straw? Outrageous, shameful, and downright awful. Or shall we discuss the other fellow who brings a 'drinking' glove to the bar? I've no idea why, and I don't really want to ask. Maybe his palms are sensitive to cold? Or the older gentleman with a hearing aid that he turns off 'when people start talking shit that I don't want to hear.' Or the extremely buff fellow that looked like he just came out of the gym going home with a girl my size, and I am not a small man. Or how about the fellow that has to be helped out of the bar by two of his buddies holding him vertical at 8 p.m? I want to party with that guy for sure. Or, the fellow who plays pool wearing two gloves, if you wear two gloves while playing pool, you had better be pretty fucking good, from what I could tell he wasn't that good, and that is just wrong.
Or we can talk about the bartenders? The one that, for my misdeeds, rightly refuses to serve me, or the one that I can have entire conversations with without either one of us speaking a word? Or the one that just keeps getting fired, and is about to be homeless? Or the one with the girlfriend doing a semester in Cambridge that still did the old fashioned writing letters thing. The one that heard I was a dab hand with words, and wanted me to help him with the letters. I helped him as best I could after all he had done the hard part, he had the feelings, my part was easy putting them into words. The wait staff are a professional drunks best friend. They sometimes tell us that 'hey your bar tab is getting to be awfully high' or better yet they call us a cab when they realize that even a pro like ourselves is too drunk to make it home alive.
These are the places where you walk in, and they call you by your first name, and have a pint of your choice of beer poured before your ass hits the seat. It is almost too comfortable, a place where you can get as tight as you want, and know that you will be looked after. As long as you take care of them, they will take care of you. You have your profession of drunk, they are bartender(s) it is a clear, simple relationship, and even if the lines sometimes blur it is one of the more important relationships you will create. You can't tell your boss some of the shit your tell your bartender, if you weren't out sinning against the world in the presence of your bartender, you wouldn't have anything to tell your priest, and you certainly can't tell the wife at home all the troubles you can unburden to your bartender.
If you're dedicated enough, you will go through several bartenders in your drinking career, some of them will fade into the mists of time and booze, and become somebody that you used to know, some may show up at your wedding, and not in a professional capacity, some will be there when your buddies (they count among that group) will pour the last drink you'll ever get on your grave. They are a diverse lot, and for the most part if you are not an idiot drunk, or a madman they will probably at least be very civil towards you. They do work on tips, but a good bartender, a bartender that you've established a rapport with, will not be concerned with your tipping. After all, if they are good at what they do, and you have any sort of breeding whatsoever, you will over tip them on principle. Good bartenders are hard to find, and over tipping is a sign of both respect for them as a professional, and a way of paying them back the good turns they will eventually do for you. And you will need good turns done for you, because at some point they will get you drunk enough so that you will need to be turned and pointed in the direction of your house. That is the revenge (so to speak) of a good bartender sometimes they like to get your hammered for their entertainment, after all drunk you can be quite the spectacle, or so at least you've heard. Most of the time you make a spectacle of yourself, you wake up with little memory of the event, for that you should thank (and write this type of 'love song to) your pal, the bartender.
These tales that I can regale you with aren't really that exciting, but they are a slice of American life as it were, and can, in the proper hands, and frame of mind provide at least some entertainment. Shall we start with the guy who drinks PBR in a glass with ice and a cherry through a straw? I think this is, or at least should be, against the law, and it takes a lot of effort not to punch the offender in the face. I mean PBR is a bad enough sin, but with fruit, over ice, through a straw? Outrageous, shameful, and downright awful. Or shall we discuss the other fellow who brings a 'drinking' glove to the bar? I've no idea why, and I don't really want to ask. Maybe his palms are sensitive to cold? Or the older gentleman with a hearing aid that he turns off 'when people start talking shit that I don't want to hear.' Or the extremely buff fellow that looked like he just came out of the gym going home with a girl my size, and I am not a small man. Or how about the fellow that has to be helped out of the bar by two of his buddies holding him vertical at 8 p.m? I want to party with that guy for sure. Or, the fellow who plays pool wearing two gloves, if you wear two gloves while playing pool, you had better be pretty fucking good, from what I could tell he wasn't that good, and that is just wrong.
Or we can talk about the bartenders? The one that, for my misdeeds, rightly refuses to serve me, or the one that I can have entire conversations with without either one of us speaking a word? Or the one that just keeps getting fired, and is about to be homeless? Or the one with the girlfriend doing a semester in Cambridge that still did the old fashioned writing letters thing. The one that heard I was a dab hand with words, and wanted me to help him with the letters. I helped him as best I could after all he had done the hard part, he had the feelings, my part was easy putting them into words. The wait staff are a professional drunks best friend. They sometimes tell us that 'hey your bar tab is getting to be awfully high' or better yet they call us a cab when they realize that even a pro like ourselves is too drunk to make it home alive.
These are the places where you walk in, and they call you by your first name, and have a pint of your choice of beer poured before your ass hits the seat. It is almost too comfortable, a place where you can get as tight as you want, and know that you will be looked after. As long as you take care of them, they will take care of you. You have your profession of drunk, they are bartender(s) it is a clear, simple relationship, and even if the lines sometimes blur it is one of the more important relationships you will create. You can't tell your boss some of the shit your tell your bartender, if you weren't out sinning against the world in the presence of your bartender, you wouldn't have anything to tell your priest, and you certainly can't tell the wife at home all the troubles you can unburden to your bartender.
If you're dedicated enough, you will go through several bartenders in your drinking career, some of them will fade into the mists of time and booze, and become somebody that you used to know, some may show up at your wedding, and not in a professional capacity, some will be there when your buddies (they count among that group) will pour the last drink you'll ever get on your grave. They are a diverse lot, and for the most part if you are not an idiot drunk, or a madman they will probably at least be very civil towards you. They do work on tips, but a good bartender, a bartender that you've established a rapport with, will not be concerned with your tipping. After all, if they are good at what they do, and you have any sort of breeding whatsoever, you will over tip them on principle. Good bartenders are hard to find, and over tipping is a sign of both respect for them as a professional, and a way of paying them back the good turns they will eventually do for you. And you will need good turns done for you, because at some point they will get you drunk enough so that you will need to be turned and pointed in the direction of your house. That is the revenge (so to speak) of a good bartender sometimes they like to get your hammered for their entertainment, after all drunk you can be quite the spectacle, or so at least you've heard. Most of the time you make a spectacle of yourself, you wake up with little memory of the event, for that you should thank (and write this type of 'love song to) your pal, the bartender.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Jaune
You are to be congratulated, you are a LOT smarter than I thought you were, though I never really thought you were the swiftest horse in the stable so that is not saying a whole lot, but you surprised me. I am not a man who likes surprises, but you knew that, and I am sure that finding out you surprised me makes this little 'victory' of yours even sweeter. And it is sweet isn't it? However, maybe you are not that smart after all, maybe you are just clever. And clever isn't quite the same as smart. Clever is an attempt to convince people you are smart, or smarter than you are, and clever sometimes takes so very much effort. It is like the expression 'close enough for government work' meaning let us do this, and hope that no one inspects the finished product too terribly closely.
Though you've been passing those types of inspections all your life haven't you? Maybe you are more than clever after all, but I am not so sure. You do seem to know an awful lot of things about an awful lot of things, and you are keen to downplay any sort of above average intelligence. That is until someone or something makes you mad, then you trot out all that wicked cleverness/intelligence and point it at the offending target like some sort of intelligence cannon, intent upon blasting the offender back into the intelligence stone age. It is sometimes a sight to see, you carving some, what is to your eyes an offensive idiot, up like a xmas goose. You take a special pride in being a son of a bitch to them, and try your best to make them not 're-offend'. All without realizing, or maybe you do realize and just don't care, what a complete bastard it makes you appear to be. Who gave, or gives you the right to judge other people's intelligence? When you are 'passing' as it where.
And you are 'passing', you know. What is worse is you know that I know you are 'passing.' Which I am sure, and I hope, makes you furious. You see I am not a government inspector, and I don't get paid to approve things with just a passing glance. I might not be wicked smart like you are rumored to be, and I am not a deep thinker, but I can spot a fake a mile away, and well you are a fake. You might be a well turned out fake, but a fake you are nonetheless. It isn't a war crime to be a fake, but I would imagine it is a very scary experience. Going out in public, or worse sitting at home in private wondering everyday if someone (other than your loyal follower me) is going to find out that you are a fake and denounce you.
Of course, I won't denounce you, I can't, not after your latest 'triumph.' Not after the latest trick you've pulled off, it might not have been your best, but it was certainly in the top five, maybe even top three. It is a trick that does make me stand back and whistle with admiration at how you managed to pull it off without anyone (except of course me, the sad clown) noticing all the smoke and mirrors you used to make it work. To denounce you after that act of deception would just be cruel, like drawing eyebrows on the Mona Lisa. It might not have been perfect, but to 'expose' it would be like ruining a work of art, and I love art even if I can't draw something.
In fact, the more I admire your latest act of fooling the world, the more I think maybe you aren't really a fake after all, and the ironic part of it all is I don't think you realize it. You have been a fake for so long, and you hide so much of yourself behind a impregnable veil of self-loathing that I think you've begin to believe your own lie. I truly think that you are intelligence, but aren't smart enough to figure that out for yourself, and I understand it is a bit of an paradox, but you are full of those aren't you? Perhaps if you stopped trying so hard, and so well to convince other people you are smart, and just let them past that wall you've erected around yourself, you might find that you are actually as intelligent as a lot of people (you think you've fooled) think you are.
Hopefully, if you 'allow' that to happen you can stop wasting the talent that whatever being rules this big, empty universe has granted you to some good use. Instead of blasting people with your intelligence when they disturb the balance of your life, you will accept that your balance isn't the ultimate balance. That you, in spite of your overwhelming belief to the contrary, are not the center of the world. There are seven billion people on this planet, and I am fairly certain that somewhere, some of them could profit from your intelligence (other than you of course). If you turn that lighthouse of your intelligence on, instead of hiding it behind the fog of cleverness, then I would actually be proud to call you a friend, rather than just be proud of how you've fooled all of the friends you do possess.
Though you've been passing those types of inspections all your life haven't you? Maybe you are more than clever after all, but I am not so sure. You do seem to know an awful lot of things about an awful lot of things, and you are keen to downplay any sort of above average intelligence. That is until someone or something makes you mad, then you trot out all that wicked cleverness/intelligence and point it at the offending target like some sort of intelligence cannon, intent upon blasting the offender back into the intelligence stone age. It is sometimes a sight to see, you carving some, what is to your eyes an offensive idiot, up like a xmas goose. You take a special pride in being a son of a bitch to them, and try your best to make them not 're-offend'. All without realizing, or maybe you do realize and just don't care, what a complete bastard it makes you appear to be. Who gave, or gives you the right to judge other people's intelligence? When you are 'passing' as it where.
And you are 'passing', you know. What is worse is you know that I know you are 'passing.' Which I am sure, and I hope, makes you furious. You see I am not a government inspector, and I don't get paid to approve things with just a passing glance. I might not be wicked smart like you are rumored to be, and I am not a deep thinker, but I can spot a fake a mile away, and well you are a fake. You might be a well turned out fake, but a fake you are nonetheless. It isn't a war crime to be a fake, but I would imagine it is a very scary experience. Going out in public, or worse sitting at home in private wondering everyday if someone (other than your loyal follower me) is going to find out that you are a fake and denounce you.
Of course, I won't denounce you, I can't, not after your latest 'triumph.' Not after the latest trick you've pulled off, it might not have been your best, but it was certainly in the top five, maybe even top three. It is a trick that does make me stand back and whistle with admiration at how you managed to pull it off without anyone (except of course me, the sad clown) noticing all the smoke and mirrors you used to make it work. To denounce you after that act of deception would just be cruel, like drawing eyebrows on the Mona Lisa. It might not have been perfect, but to 'expose' it would be like ruining a work of art, and I love art even if I can't draw something.
In fact, the more I admire your latest act of fooling the world, the more I think maybe you aren't really a fake after all, and the ironic part of it all is I don't think you realize it. You have been a fake for so long, and you hide so much of yourself behind a impregnable veil of self-loathing that I think you've begin to believe your own lie. I truly think that you are intelligence, but aren't smart enough to figure that out for yourself, and I understand it is a bit of an paradox, but you are full of those aren't you? Perhaps if you stopped trying so hard, and so well to convince other people you are smart, and just let them past that wall you've erected around yourself, you might find that you are actually as intelligent as a lot of people (you think you've fooled) think you are.
Hopefully, if you 'allow' that to happen you can stop wasting the talent that whatever being rules this big, empty universe has granted you to some good use. Instead of blasting people with your intelligence when they disturb the balance of your life, you will accept that your balance isn't the ultimate balance. That you, in spite of your overwhelming belief to the contrary, are not the center of the world. There are seven billion people on this planet, and I am fairly certain that somewhere, some of them could profit from your intelligence (other than you of course). If you turn that lighthouse of your intelligence on, instead of hiding it behind the fog of cleverness, then I would actually be proud to call you a friend, rather than just be proud of how you've fooled all of the friends you do possess.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
The Toy Solider
I have been accused, both lately, and multiple times in my past, of hating children. I guess my general misanthropy does extend to the children of the world, but I do not hate them more so than I dislike humankind in general. After all, to quote Henry Blake, I am a former child myself. Not that I can remember my childhood, except for a couple of events, one which I am about to relate, is mostly a blank. Either it was a rather boring time, or I have blacked it mostly out for some deep, dark reason that the wolf that raised me isn't sharing with me.
Truth is that I don't really understand children. They are a complete mystery to me, and why anyone wants to have them also is a bit of a puzzler. I guess they somehow, someway make our live complete? I always thought that it was incumbent upon me to make my life 'complete' after all it is my life. No one else should have to complete it for me. That is perhaps the underlying problem with my lack of a desire to procreate. Children are like a free radical, they go off in all sorts of unexpected directions (especially in crowded stores), and I suppose they take our lives in unexpected directions as well. I am, and never really have been a fan of the unexpected, or maybe (at this is very possible) I am just a coward.
These little replicas of ourselves demand a lot of time, money, and attention, and I am quite sure I am not up to the task. I am the son of a bad father, and one of the few things I have an almost undying faith in is that I would be a second generation bad father. It is a fear that is quite debilitating, and makes me impossible to plan a future with, and makes me want to sail away for Singapore. Many a relationship has founded upon the rock of my childish (pun intended) fear of becoming a father as shitty as my own. I understand that by realizing what a crap father I had, I should be able to recognize the mistakes he made with me, and not repeat them, but as I said most of my childhood is a blank, and just because I realize his mistakes does not mean that I would not be condemned to repeat them.
One part of my childhood that isn't a blank, that came back to me just recently, and quite unexpectedly is the following cautionary tale. I was about 9 years old, and had recently been given a toy solider. The details of who gave me this gift, and why it became my absolute favourite toy are a bit hazy. I just remember that I LOVED that fucking toy solider. I don't think it was anything that any other child would consider special. This was so long ago that it was just a simple toy solider, no bells or whistles. It did not come fully loaded with an RPG that could launch from a distance, nor did it have a jeep, or any other accessory. It was simple a toy soldier. As I said children are a mystery, it is a mystery to me to this day why I liked that damn toy soldier so much, but I did.
However, after several weeks of adoring this toy soldier, I (for reasons that escaped me then as they do now) took it out one fine day to the local 'creek' and upon calm reflection, or at least as much calm reflection a 9 year old can muster, threw it into the muddy waters of that creek. It landed with a plop, and sank without a trace. It was a toy soldier, not a toy sailor, and I guess it just couldn't swim. As I stood there on that bridge being asked the 'why the hell did you just do that' question by my relatives, I realized that perhaps I had made a mistake, and I really did not want to be without my toy soldier. However, he was gone and lost forever, and the watery grave to which I had consigned him was not going to release him back to me.
When this little event of my childhood came flooding back to me the other day, I knew pretty immediately what my past was trying to tell my present. It is not a overly good story, and I have told it in my usual vague, poor way. However, it seems that even at the tender age of nine I was my own worst enemy, throwing away the best things in my life, either in a fit of pique, or in some twisted attempt to make myself less dependent upon other people or things. Now here I am some 32 years later, and still throwing away the best things in my life. It is both incredibly stupid, and incredibly sad. More so stupid I (and I am sure others) would say. I suppose it just shows that I have learned so very little from the age of nine. Because when I throw something away, I generally do it in a way that does not allow for retrieval.
At nine that is childish, after all I was a child, children do that kind of stuff. At my current age it is still childish, and unforgivable. In the 32 intervening years since that day when my toy soldier took his last, fatal swim, I have learned so very much, and so very little all at the same time. There is no moral to this story, and I don't think that as sad as I am writing it, I am able to provide a pithy, snappy ending. I am sorry that so many things had to end the way of the toy soldier, and even more sad that at least one more thing will probably end the same way, but that is a story for another day. For today's purposes, let us just pause and give a moment's silence for the death of a brave man/toy soldier. He didn't deserve his fate, at the hands of a fickle 9 year old version of me, but he was brave until the end. Here is hoping that we all are.
Truth is that I don't really understand children. They are a complete mystery to me, and why anyone wants to have them also is a bit of a puzzler. I guess they somehow, someway make our live complete? I always thought that it was incumbent upon me to make my life 'complete' after all it is my life. No one else should have to complete it for me. That is perhaps the underlying problem with my lack of a desire to procreate. Children are like a free radical, they go off in all sorts of unexpected directions (especially in crowded stores), and I suppose they take our lives in unexpected directions as well. I am, and never really have been a fan of the unexpected, or maybe (at this is very possible) I am just a coward.
These little replicas of ourselves demand a lot of time, money, and attention, and I am quite sure I am not up to the task. I am the son of a bad father, and one of the few things I have an almost undying faith in is that I would be a second generation bad father. It is a fear that is quite debilitating, and makes me impossible to plan a future with, and makes me want to sail away for Singapore. Many a relationship has founded upon the rock of my childish (pun intended) fear of becoming a father as shitty as my own. I understand that by realizing what a crap father I had, I should be able to recognize the mistakes he made with me, and not repeat them, but as I said most of my childhood is a blank, and just because I realize his mistakes does not mean that I would not be condemned to repeat them.
One part of my childhood that isn't a blank, that came back to me just recently, and quite unexpectedly is the following cautionary tale. I was about 9 years old, and had recently been given a toy solider. The details of who gave me this gift, and why it became my absolute favourite toy are a bit hazy. I just remember that I LOVED that fucking toy solider. I don't think it was anything that any other child would consider special. This was so long ago that it was just a simple toy solider, no bells or whistles. It did not come fully loaded with an RPG that could launch from a distance, nor did it have a jeep, or any other accessory. It was simple a toy soldier. As I said children are a mystery, it is a mystery to me to this day why I liked that damn toy soldier so much, but I did.
However, after several weeks of adoring this toy soldier, I (for reasons that escaped me then as they do now) took it out one fine day to the local 'creek' and upon calm reflection, or at least as much calm reflection a 9 year old can muster, threw it into the muddy waters of that creek. It landed with a plop, and sank without a trace. It was a toy soldier, not a toy sailor, and I guess it just couldn't swim. As I stood there on that bridge being asked the 'why the hell did you just do that' question by my relatives, I realized that perhaps I had made a mistake, and I really did not want to be without my toy soldier. However, he was gone and lost forever, and the watery grave to which I had consigned him was not going to release him back to me.
When this little event of my childhood came flooding back to me the other day, I knew pretty immediately what my past was trying to tell my present. It is not a overly good story, and I have told it in my usual vague, poor way. However, it seems that even at the tender age of nine I was my own worst enemy, throwing away the best things in my life, either in a fit of pique, or in some twisted attempt to make myself less dependent upon other people or things. Now here I am some 32 years later, and still throwing away the best things in my life. It is both incredibly stupid, and incredibly sad. More so stupid I (and I am sure others) would say. I suppose it just shows that I have learned so very little from the age of nine. Because when I throw something away, I generally do it in a way that does not allow for retrieval.
At nine that is childish, after all I was a child, children do that kind of stuff. At my current age it is still childish, and unforgivable. In the 32 intervening years since that day when my toy soldier took his last, fatal swim, I have learned so very much, and so very little all at the same time. There is no moral to this story, and I don't think that as sad as I am writing it, I am able to provide a pithy, snappy ending. I am sorry that so many things had to end the way of the toy soldier, and even more sad that at least one more thing will probably end the same way, but that is a story for another day. For today's purposes, let us just pause and give a moment's silence for the death of a brave man/toy soldier. He didn't deserve his fate, at the hands of a fickle 9 year old version of me, but he was brave until the end. Here is hoping that we all are.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Me and Rube Goldberg
A couple of days ago, in a fit of goofiness, I purchased, on the cheap, a Rube Goldberg machine. It is quite the machine, and has taken me the majority of two days to assemble. If you don't know what a Rube Goldberg machine is, there are many very informative websites that can explain it much better than I can. Mostly, these website use drawings, and I can not draw for shit. Never have been able to draw, never will be able to draw. Therefore, the explanation will have to be fully provided by someone else. I will just give you the highlights, this machine is designed to perform a simple task (it doesn't matter what that task is) in the most elaborate, complex way possible. Using as many convoluted steps that are barely connected, as possible.
In many ways, my life is a Rube Goldberg machine writ large. I like the complex, and sometimes I get a little carried away, and ahead of myself when I am having, what to me, is a brilliant idea. Therefore, I figured I needed to purchase a Goldberg machine in order to see if perhaps it would somehow make the arc of my life easier to ascertain. It is an unwieldy bastard, and that is a trait we have in common, which I figured is a good sign. However, being unwieldy and complex might be a lot of fun from the outside, but from the inside it is a right pain in the ass, this I was, much to my dismay, to discover when I tried to assemble my wonderful new toy.
I am not the most practical of mechanical men, I understand the theory behind 'righty tighty, lefty loosey' but that is as far as I usually get. The theory is sound, my application of the theory generally dissolves into me trying to figure out what is left to the screw, as opposed as left to me, and then begins to take in the rotation of the Earth upon is axis. Which generally leads to a LOT of swearing, and me throwing the offending tool/item into/unto something or just away. Why I thought that I would every possess the ability to put together a Rube Goldberg machine boggles the imagination. But, here I was trying my very best, which is to say failing miserably.
I thought I had it all sorted out, I even had the drawing to compare it too, and the finished product, and my assembly looked identical. Looked identical, but there was (and still is as I type this) some fundamental, hard to see, difference. Which lead to me doing two things, one,almost killing my fool self when I turned it on for the first time, and two almost burning down my entire apartment complex. After a few moments of sheer terror at my near death experience, and a few more moments of swearing, I decided (why I don't know) to attempt to 'fix' the problem. Not, in hindsight, a particularly good idea.
I, it would appear, am not overly adept at fixing certain things. Rube Goldberg machines are one of those things that I cannot, for the life of me, seem to fix. I understand the theory, I am able to see the pattern, 'do the math' and have a solid grounding of what is supposed to happen. The theory behind the machine is not a great mystery, but I seem to possess a remarkable ability to put together things with an important part missing. It almost works, I can tell it wants to work, it is struggling to work like a fat man struggles to breath after eating too many 'fat man pancakes', but it just cannot get every part of itself going in the same direction at the same time. And that is pretty fucking critical to the working of anything, especially a Rube Goldberg machine.
I have spent quite some time, thought (and I like to believe I am a fairly solid thinker), and energy trying to fix this infernal machine. This device that I thought that, while being so very, very complex was going to make my life 'complete' as it were, has turned into an absolute stone the crows disaster. This was not mentioned in the manual at all, but the true tragic part of this tale is that Rube Goldberg machines are a 'buyer beware' kind of deal. They do not come with a money back guarantee, and they are very difficult to find replacement parts for, you know in case you, in a fit of blind rage, took a hammer to one of its core components.
Of course, after that blind rage wears off, and you look around at your newly wrecked Rube Goldberg machine, is when you start to feel remorse, and quite sad. It was an once in a lifetime type of machine, and your dumb, arrogant, childish, fearful, ass took a hammer to its core, and shattered it into pieces that all the King's horses, and all the King's men cannot seem to put together again. Je suis desole.
In many ways, my life is a Rube Goldberg machine writ large. I like the complex, and sometimes I get a little carried away, and ahead of myself when I am having, what to me, is a brilliant idea. Therefore, I figured I needed to purchase a Goldberg machine in order to see if perhaps it would somehow make the arc of my life easier to ascertain. It is an unwieldy bastard, and that is a trait we have in common, which I figured is a good sign. However, being unwieldy and complex might be a lot of fun from the outside, but from the inside it is a right pain in the ass, this I was, much to my dismay, to discover when I tried to assemble my wonderful new toy.
I am not the most practical of mechanical men, I understand the theory behind 'righty tighty, lefty loosey' but that is as far as I usually get. The theory is sound, my application of the theory generally dissolves into me trying to figure out what is left to the screw, as opposed as left to me, and then begins to take in the rotation of the Earth upon is axis. Which generally leads to a LOT of swearing, and me throwing the offending tool/item into/unto something or just away. Why I thought that I would every possess the ability to put together a Rube Goldberg machine boggles the imagination. But, here I was trying my very best, which is to say failing miserably.
I thought I had it all sorted out, I even had the drawing to compare it too, and the finished product, and my assembly looked identical. Looked identical, but there was (and still is as I type this) some fundamental, hard to see, difference. Which lead to me doing two things, one,almost killing my fool self when I turned it on for the first time, and two almost burning down my entire apartment complex. After a few moments of sheer terror at my near death experience, and a few more moments of swearing, I decided (why I don't know) to attempt to 'fix' the problem. Not, in hindsight, a particularly good idea.
I, it would appear, am not overly adept at fixing certain things. Rube Goldberg machines are one of those things that I cannot, for the life of me, seem to fix. I understand the theory, I am able to see the pattern, 'do the math' and have a solid grounding of what is supposed to happen. The theory behind the machine is not a great mystery, but I seem to possess a remarkable ability to put together things with an important part missing. It almost works, I can tell it wants to work, it is struggling to work like a fat man struggles to breath after eating too many 'fat man pancakes', but it just cannot get every part of itself going in the same direction at the same time. And that is pretty fucking critical to the working of anything, especially a Rube Goldberg machine.
I have spent quite some time, thought (and I like to believe I am a fairly solid thinker), and energy trying to fix this infernal machine. This device that I thought that, while being so very, very complex was going to make my life 'complete' as it were, has turned into an absolute stone the crows disaster. This was not mentioned in the manual at all, but the true tragic part of this tale is that Rube Goldberg machines are a 'buyer beware' kind of deal. They do not come with a money back guarantee, and they are very difficult to find replacement parts for, you know in case you, in a fit of blind rage, took a hammer to one of its core components.
Of course, after that blind rage wears off, and you look around at your newly wrecked Rube Goldberg machine, is when you start to feel remorse, and quite sad. It was an once in a lifetime type of machine, and your dumb, arrogant, childish, fearful, ass took a hammer to its core, and shattered it into pieces that all the King's horses, and all the King's men cannot seem to put together again. Je suis desole.
Monday, March 05, 2012
Mountains of Mourne
"I know this will come as a shock to you, and I doubt you will believe me, but she was a gold digger." "We all knew it, but I'm the only one who has decided to tell you, that's what you get for getting me drunk on a random Tuesday."
Those (un)kind words, were uttered in my direction fairly recently, and have caused a bit of an upheaval in my life. They led me to thinking, which is almost always a dangerous thing, about their veracity. It was not a pleasant thinking trip, and I would not recommend it to anyone else. It required a lot of thought, and a lot of thought is (mostly) beyond my overtaxed brain now days. But when I set out to determine whether or not I am a sap or not, I generally try to marshal my thoughts like a Panzer division, and have them roll over any doubts that may exist.
As I sat there in that bar alone (my companion had given up the ghost already), drinking yet another (one too many) beers, I begin to seriously consider her comment. It was not said out of any malice towards the other person, after all she barely knew the person in question, and it was not said to make me feel like a fool, though it did manage to accomplish that feat quite nicely. I rarely either need any help, or particularly care to be made to either appear foolish, or to feel like a fool. Therefore, this comment left a rather bitter taste in my mouth, that, sadly to say, even the multiple beers I consumed after its pronouncement were unable to wash away.
The thinking that it lead to was, for the most part, unpleasant. I got to balancing the 'costs' of the relationship of which she was speaking of, and I begin to realize that perhaps she was correct. I've never really considered such an idea before, and it was quite an eye opener when I began to do the math. Math, never one of my stronger suits, led me to the inevitable conclusion that perhaps people could see me as a bit of a gold mine. While still being a prole, and living in an absolute dump of an apartment, I do receive, what to many would be considered a fairly decent salary (of course, I earn every damn penny of it).
Of course that salary comes with a cost, that cost being the massive amounts of student loan/credit card debit that the classical education that I like to (wrongly) claim that I possess. I went to a LOT of school, and I owe a LOT of money to a lot of people. I don't really want for anything, but I am not going to retire to the south of France anytime soon, or probably ever. It is possible for a certain tier of people to consider me 'well off' though that adjective is not one I would use to describe me, well fed springs to mind.
If I had any politics whatsoever I would probably be considered leaning slightly to the left, a long line of rabble rousting exists in my thinking, and I am not a fan of the 'right'. Therefore, in several of my relationships there has been a (sometimes unspoken) rule that follows the 'from each according to their ability to pay, to each according to their need' type of arrangement. Mostly, it worked, and since I was the larger purse in the pot, I paid somewhat more than my share. Which, to me, is fair. I do not come from money, and subscribe to the theory that you can't take it with you, so spend it while you can (my heirs, if I ever produce any, will be sorely disappointed).
That disappointment is, I figure, something similar to the one I experienced when I logically concluded that my companion of the evening was correct, I had been 'gold dug' as it were. I haven't the faintest idea as to why really, and I certainly felt an idiot for not seeing it sooner, but there it was in the number so hastily scribbled on numerous bar napkins. Proof that my idiocy knows no bounds, and has a fairly high price tag. Sadly for the digger, and I suppose my one saving grace is the fact that really, and truly I am not a gold mine in either a financial or personal way. I am a bit of a wreck, and I will (as mentioned before) more than likely die poor (and alone if certain people are to be believed). I suppose that makes me feel a little bit better to realize that even if I do sparkle a bit like real gold, what I really and truly am under that shiny surface is simply fool's gold.
Those (un)kind words, were uttered in my direction fairly recently, and have caused a bit of an upheaval in my life. They led me to thinking, which is almost always a dangerous thing, about their veracity. It was not a pleasant thinking trip, and I would not recommend it to anyone else. It required a lot of thought, and a lot of thought is (mostly) beyond my overtaxed brain now days. But when I set out to determine whether or not I am a sap or not, I generally try to marshal my thoughts like a Panzer division, and have them roll over any doubts that may exist.
As I sat there in that bar alone (my companion had given up the ghost already), drinking yet another (one too many) beers, I begin to seriously consider her comment. It was not said out of any malice towards the other person, after all she barely knew the person in question, and it was not said to make me feel like a fool, though it did manage to accomplish that feat quite nicely. I rarely either need any help, or particularly care to be made to either appear foolish, or to feel like a fool. Therefore, this comment left a rather bitter taste in my mouth, that, sadly to say, even the multiple beers I consumed after its pronouncement were unable to wash away.
The thinking that it lead to was, for the most part, unpleasant. I got to balancing the 'costs' of the relationship of which she was speaking of, and I begin to realize that perhaps she was correct. I've never really considered such an idea before, and it was quite an eye opener when I began to do the math. Math, never one of my stronger suits, led me to the inevitable conclusion that perhaps people could see me as a bit of a gold mine. While still being a prole, and living in an absolute dump of an apartment, I do receive, what to many would be considered a fairly decent salary (of course, I earn every damn penny of it).
Of course that salary comes with a cost, that cost being the massive amounts of student loan/credit card debit that the classical education that I like to (wrongly) claim that I possess. I went to a LOT of school, and I owe a LOT of money to a lot of people. I don't really want for anything, but I am not going to retire to the south of France anytime soon, or probably ever. It is possible for a certain tier of people to consider me 'well off' though that adjective is not one I would use to describe me, well fed springs to mind.
If I had any politics whatsoever I would probably be considered leaning slightly to the left, a long line of rabble rousting exists in my thinking, and I am not a fan of the 'right'. Therefore, in several of my relationships there has been a (sometimes unspoken) rule that follows the 'from each according to their ability to pay, to each according to their need' type of arrangement. Mostly, it worked, and since I was the larger purse in the pot, I paid somewhat more than my share. Which, to me, is fair. I do not come from money, and subscribe to the theory that you can't take it with you, so spend it while you can (my heirs, if I ever produce any, will be sorely disappointed).
That disappointment is, I figure, something similar to the one I experienced when I logically concluded that my companion of the evening was correct, I had been 'gold dug' as it were. I haven't the faintest idea as to why really, and I certainly felt an idiot for not seeing it sooner, but there it was in the number so hastily scribbled on numerous bar napkins. Proof that my idiocy knows no bounds, and has a fairly high price tag. Sadly for the digger, and I suppose my one saving grace is the fact that really, and truly I am not a gold mine in either a financial or personal way. I am a bit of a wreck, and I will (as mentioned before) more than likely die poor (and alone if certain people are to be believed). I suppose that makes me feel a little bit better to realize that even if I do sparkle a bit like real gold, what I really and truly am under that shiny surface is simply fool's gold.
Thursday, March 01, 2012
A tour
They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Well this saves me three thousand (give or take) words, explaining the uselessness of the world's worst xmas gift. It is, as I mentioned before, going on a tour. Next stop Miami.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Dejeuner
If you wanted to not be a prole, or rude, you would find a better way of writing. --Anonymous
As I have mentioned before on these pages, I am the son of a plumber and a factory worker. There isn't much more of a prole background to be found that is more prole than mine. I am not overly proud of it but there is the square root of fuck all I can do about it. My mantra of 'once a prole always a prole' is a firmly held belief. You might see some Joe average ass hat win the lottery, and buy the fancy cars, the big house, and surround themselves with opulence, but they are just trying to compensate for being a prole. They are just the nouveau riche now, it doesn't change their fundamental make up one little bit.
Truth be told, while I am not proud of my prole background, I have come to embrace it. Not that I have a lot of choice, but either way I can't hide from it. A true prole is the enemy of pretense, and all of those fancy places that people would pretend to pretense like to shop, be seen, and (mostly) eat, are places that proles like myself feel the most uncomfortable. It is the angry proles, like myself, that also feel the most contempt for these types of places. I have personally found that the pretentiousness of a place can be measured by the fact that (in my part of the country at least) they serve shrimp and grits. It is an article of faith that if a restaurant has shrimp and grits on the menu, proles such as myself will not be wanting to partake of the menu. Price matters in a lot of things, food is one of the few things that I am not so sure about. Maybe if it is steak, but a grit is pretty much a grit, and one of the FEW foods that I refuse without a doubt to EVER eat, and a shrimp is pretty much a shrimp. They don't use fancy nets to catch the fancy shrimp.
This is to say, that for the most part, even if I wanted not to be a prole, I feel I don't have a lot of choice. I can certainly 'pass' for a non-prole if the occasion demands it. I can, if I want to (which is that hard part, getting me to want to) carry on the most pretentious of conversation with the best of the pretense lot. However, I rarely feel the need to, and usually doing it makes me feel slightly dirty. Never try to deny what you are, no matter what kind of Eliza Doolittle bullshit people try to pull on you, be true to yourself, and (if possible) your roots. Civilized society isn't the only place were you can have intellectually refined conversations, and I have had more intellectually challenging conversations over BBQ pork, than I have ever had over a plate of shrimp and grits.
The atmosphere that you are paying so dearly for may be all well and good, but more likely than not, some prole is cooking that forty dollar entree you ordered, and making fuck all to do it. The one hundred and fifty bucks you plop down on ONE meal, ordered to satisfy your appetite, and your desire to be one of the 'in' crowd, could probably feed a family of three for three or four days. However, that is a distressing thought, and the 'in' crowd (the pretense lot) probably doesn't like to think too many distressing (or any) thoughts, they would ruin the ambivalence.
There has been, in my very limited, experience one thing that does level the playing field between us proles and the pretense lot. There is generally one area where no matter the fancy finishing school, the pretty dresses, the acting classes, the elocution lessons, the piano teacher, or the riding lessons proles and pretense are the same. It is the one place where most of the female members of the pretense lot become, though not as often, nor as crudely I am sure, what Napoleon, that well known lover of the ladies, liked to call baby factories. Of course the big difference is the pretense lots babies get to own the factory, the prole lots (like the wolf that raised me) get to work in them.
I hope that answers the first part of Anonymous' comment about choosing not to be a prole. I guess the simpler answer would be even if I wanted to, I couldn't but I figured I would also try to address the second part of her comment about finding a better way of writing, by using this response to practice my writing 'talent'. It is a very limited talent, and trust me Anonymous, if I could just 'find' a better way of writing I would. However, I fear/know that a better way of writing is not to be found at your local Starbucks, tucked amongst the lattes and the cafe du laits. I fear that for me a 'better way of writing' is a bridge too far, but since the internet allows me to do it for free, and I sometimes get a lot of pleasure out of both the act of writing, and some of the responses I get, I fear that I am here to stay after all.
Therefore, like the good prole that I am, lacking the funds to purchase a 'better way of writing' I keep plugging away at this keyboard (since I type this blog, it's too tedious to hand write), in the vain hopes that a 'better way of writing' will appear. If it does I will be pleasantly surprised, like a child at Christmas that gets exactly what they asked for.
As I have mentioned before on these pages, I am the son of a plumber and a factory worker. There isn't much more of a prole background to be found that is more prole than mine. I am not overly proud of it but there is the square root of fuck all I can do about it. My mantra of 'once a prole always a prole' is a firmly held belief. You might see some Joe average ass hat win the lottery, and buy the fancy cars, the big house, and surround themselves with opulence, but they are just trying to compensate for being a prole. They are just the nouveau riche now, it doesn't change their fundamental make up one little bit.
Truth be told, while I am not proud of my prole background, I have come to embrace it. Not that I have a lot of choice, but either way I can't hide from it. A true prole is the enemy of pretense, and all of those fancy places that people would pretend to pretense like to shop, be seen, and (mostly) eat, are places that proles like myself feel the most uncomfortable. It is the angry proles, like myself, that also feel the most contempt for these types of places. I have personally found that the pretentiousness of a place can be measured by the fact that (in my part of the country at least) they serve shrimp and grits. It is an article of faith that if a restaurant has shrimp and grits on the menu, proles such as myself will not be wanting to partake of the menu. Price matters in a lot of things, food is one of the few things that I am not so sure about. Maybe if it is steak, but a grit is pretty much a grit, and one of the FEW foods that I refuse without a doubt to EVER eat, and a shrimp is pretty much a shrimp. They don't use fancy nets to catch the fancy shrimp.
This is to say, that for the most part, even if I wanted not to be a prole, I feel I don't have a lot of choice. I can certainly 'pass' for a non-prole if the occasion demands it. I can, if I want to (which is that hard part, getting me to want to) carry on the most pretentious of conversation with the best of the pretense lot. However, I rarely feel the need to, and usually doing it makes me feel slightly dirty. Never try to deny what you are, no matter what kind of Eliza Doolittle bullshit people try to pull on you, be true to yourself, and (if possible) your roots. Civilized society isn't the only place were you can have intellectually refined conversations, and I have had more intellectually challenging conversations over BBQ pork, than I have ever had over a plate of shrimp and grits.
The atmosphere that you are paying so dearly for may be all well and good, but more likely than not, some prole is cooking that forty dollar entree you ordered, and making fuck all to do it. The one hundred and fifty bucks you plop down on ONE meal, ordered to satisfy your appetite, and your desire to be one of the 'in' crowd, could probably feed a family of three for three or four days. However, that is a distressing thought, and the 'in' crowd (the pretense lot) probably doesn't like to think too many distressing (or any) thoughts, they would ruin the ambivalence.
There has been, in my very limited, experience one thing that does level the playing field between us proles and the pretense lot. There is generally one area where no matter the fancy finishing school, the pretty dresses, the acting classes, the elocution lessons, the piano teacher, or the riding lessons proles and pretense are the same. It is the one place where most of the female members of the pretense lot become, though not as often, nor as crudely I am sure, what Napoleon, that well known lover of the ladies, liked to call baby factories. Of course the big difference is the pretense lots babies get to own the factory, the prole lots (like the wolf that raised me) get to work in them.
I hope that answers the first part of Anonymous' comment about choosing not to be a prole. I guess the simpler answer would be even if I wanted to, I couldn't but I figured I would also try to address the second part of her comment about finding a better way of writing, by using this response to practice my writing 'talent'. It is a very limited talent, and trust me Anonymous, if I could just 'find' a better way of writing I would. However, I fear/know that a better way of writing is not to be found at your local Starbucks, tucked amongst the lattes and the cafe du laits. I fear that for me a 'better way of writing' is a bridge too far, but since the internet allows me to do it for free, and I sometimes get a lot of pleasure out of both the act of writing, and some of the responses I get, I fear that I am here to stay after all.
Therefore, like the good prole that I am, lacking the funds to purchase a 'better way of writing' I keep plugging away at this keyboard (since I type this blog, it's too tedious to hand write), in the vain hopes that a 'better way of writing' will appear. If it does I will be pleasantly surprised, like a child at Christmas that gets exactly what they asked for.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
The Antidote
In certain circles my last post was a bit 'unnecessarily cruel, and rude.' This post won't be cruel or rude so it seems I am making progress. However, I would not go so far as to say it is going to be all sunshine and lollipops either, but you take your chances as they come.
The above photo is of one of the BEST xmas gifts I have ever received. I received it this xmas, right on time, not a week late, and it rocks. It is, as you can tell, a watch. Something I had been without for a very long while, and therefore the person giving this as a gift was spot on in their picking something I would need, use, and want theory. Before I received this excellent gift, I used my cell phone as my way of telling time, and it was quite annoying to a lot of people around me. They always thought I was being rude by checking my phone while I was in their company. It was not usually me doing anything but checking the time, but it made a few people upset. It also became, an annoying habit even to me.
It is a pretty nice watch, and unlike the world's worst gift it was neither cheap nor it is cheaply made. Not that price is what matters, it isn't. I was born poor, raised poor, and will probably die poor, therefore price matters but not in the way one would think. Just because something costs a lot more doesn't make it a better gift. In fact, a watch of a similar price as the world's worst gift would have been just as stunning of a gift, but that ship (I suppose) has sailed. I wear it daily, and I get a great deal of use out of it. I have all but stopped the annoying habit of pulling my phone out of my pocket just to check the time, and I try not to check it for anything else if I am 'out' with someone. It has been a struggle breaking that habit, but I am winning that battle (slowly).
Of course the higher the price, does (usually) mean the higher the quality, but after all it is a watch. It has one purpose, to tell me the time, I don't need a ton of bells and whistles to tell me the time, just the time will do. I am (in more ways than one) a very simple man. I don't need overly fancy shit. I find it to be a bit pretentious, after all once a prole always a prole, and proles don't (by definition) wear or own a whole lot of fancy shit. Simple things to do simple tasks is usually the prole way, mainly because we can't afford any better, but after a while we just convince ourselves that fancy shit is a sign of decay, and we don't want to decay, now do we?
The person who bought me this wonderful trinket knew (and still knows) every little bit of the information I am painstakingly sharing with you via this blog post. It isn't overly complicated, and it isn't rocket science. That person didn't have to ask anybody (or bodies) else what would be a good gift for me, they just saw that I didn't have a watch, when directly to a store, looked at the watches on display, and picked out one they figured I would like. They even kept the receipt just in case they had made a poor choice. Which is a pretty good idea, just to be on the safe side, one never knows when a salesperson is going to steer you wrong.
I've been told the whole process from beginning to end took about 20 minutes and that was because they stopped to eat a pretzel. Simple, easy, and right on the money as far as a good gift, hard to believe such a miracle is possible considering the other gift I received this xmas, but there the watch is on my wrist, a constant reminder that when someone puts more than 5 seconds of thought into giving someone a gift, they can get it spot on. Who was this gift giving genius? This person that knew exactly what I wanted, then proceeded to, with precision the German army would be proud of, go and obtain this marvelous gift, well I figure his identity is pretty obvious. It is me. To me, for me, from me. The best gifts usually are.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
The Thought that Counts?
Sometimes inspiration can be found in the oddest places, in this case it was found in disintergration. The above photos are of the WORST christmas gift that I have ever received, and I used to get underwear EVERY christmas from my grandmother. At least I could wear the underwear and get some use out of them. This gift is as useless as it is shittyly made.
In case the pictures aren't clear enough, it is a pen. Yes a ballpoint pen! A Cross 3502 ballpoint pen made in China, and it is crap. This is the age of the computer, the ipad, the iphone, and I fear that 'fancy' pens, as this undeservedly purports to be, are going the way of the dinosaur. Meaning that they will soon become extinct, no longer necessary, unable to adapt, and all that good stuff that evolution teaches us that are smart enough to listen. The other sad part is that this isn't even that 'fancy' it is chrome, not silver, and it is a ball point pen. I did use it once, to see how it wrote, and it was about as smooth as your average BIC of which I could have bought about 90 of for the price paid for this one crap pen. It did come in a fancy box, which probably cost twice as much as the actual pen, but a pig in a dress is still a pig, it just happens to be in a dress.
I suppose you are wondering who would give me such an outdated, outmoded, piece of crap as a christmas gift? Well, I won't name any names because that is cruel, but it was a recent ex that, for reasons known only to her, purchased this crap pen as a gift. I do use a pen daily to scrawl my name over a bunch of 'official' documents, but that is all I do sign my name, and I use a Pilot G-2 pen for that purpose. Actually, I use a lot of those pens, because on any given day I lose about 2 of them. My office buys a lot of pens. They are not heirlooms that we hold onto like grim death. And the person who bought me the 'fancy' pen knew that, which is another reason the gift is shit.
I have been accused (by this ex, and others) of ruining holidays, and I probably do, but when I go to the trouble of buying you a gift it is a gift that you will like. You see, I put some thought into my gifts, I find out the kinds of things you like, and the kinds of things you don't like. I even try to sort out the kinds of things you might actually use. I know that is a radical idea in the gift giving world, and it is probably the reason I gave up buying gifts long ago. I understand the whole concept of thought that counts stuff, that is why I put thought into my gifts, but how much (bad) thought could have gone into a fucking pen! I did state that I will never use it, but I have since relented that idea, and have struck upon a new idea. I am going to send this pen on a fantastic voyage. I am going to post pics of it doing absoultely nothing in all types of places, beacuse it is functionally useless, and I think people need to know that.
I almost felt bad for the Cross pen company, then I realized they are shilling this type of pen for between 20-30 bucks, and it is (cheaply) made in China, for probably about 3 bucks. Therefore, I don't feel bad for the company, I feel bad for the consumer. Not that I think there is, or should be much of a market for such a crap item, but clearly somebody buys them, and them pawns them off as christmas gifts. The sadder part is that the person that bought me this crap gift had been dating me for almost 11 months, and even asked what (to her) she considered my 'best' friend what she should get me. His reply was certainly not 'a useless overpriced, poorly made, pen that he will NEVER use.' I know, I asked him, and he assured me that he didn't suggest such as bad gift, not even as a joke.
It is perhaps an asshole thing to do, calling someone out for giving a crap gift, but then again I am an asshole. And, more importantly, I think I was wronged. I gave great gifts, I got shit gifts in return, and I was the one that ruined fucking Christmas? I have to call bullshit on that, and on a lot of other things that need not concern us at the moment. If it is the thought that counts, and this is all the thought you can muster then I weep for your unborn children, they will be buffoons no matter who the sperm donor may be.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Rothian
I didn't exactly lie when I said wasn't going to write anything for a while. I am still not going to (except for this brief introduction), but sometimes life just makes sense. Sometimes when you least expect it, life puzzle pieces fall into place. And sometimes you chance upon a word, a song, or (in this case) a letter written by someone else, someone you don't even know that makes it all clear as crystal. What follows is that moment for me.
It is part of a letter written by the Austrian writer Joseph Roth to his friend Bernard von Brentano. This is how my life is summed up at the moment. I lack the talent to put it into words, but lucky for me I had the good fortune to read Joseph Roth, you should too sometime.
My dear friend, I'm becoming more and more solitary. More manifest in the details of life, in matters of taste, food, clothing, restaurants, and pleasures than in question of principle or philosophy. . . . Even my wife is withdrawing from me, for all her love. She is normal, and I am what you'd have to all insane. . . . Anything and everything is capable of provoking me. The conversation at another table, a look, a dress, a walk. It's really not "normal." I'm afraid I'm going to have to foreswear society, and break off all ties. I no believe anything I am told. I see through a magnifying glass. I peel the skins off people and things to see their hidden secrets---after that, you really can't believe anything. I know, before the object of my scrutiny knows, how it will adapt, how it will evolve, what it will do next. It might change utterly. But my knowledge of it is such that it will do exactly what I think it will do. . . I am becoming dangerous to ordinary decent people because of my knowledge of them.
It makes for an atrocious life. It precludes all of love and most of friendship. My mistrust kills all warmth, as bleach kills most germs. I no longer understand the forms of human intercourse. A harmless conversation chokes me. I am incapable of speaking an innocent word. I don't understand how people utter banalities. How they manage to sing. How the manage to play charades. . . . I am starting to hate decency, where---as is so often the case---- it's paired with limited intelligence. The merely decent are beginning to hate me back. It can't go on. It can't go on.
Joseph Roth
It is part of a letter written by the Austrian writer Joseph Roth to his friend Bernard von Brentano. This is how my life is summed up at the moment. I lack the talent to put it into words, but lucky for me I had the good fortune to read Joseph Roth, you should too sometime.
My dear friend, I'm becoming more and more solitary. More manifest in the details of life, in matters of taste, food, clothing, restaurants, and pleasures than in question of principle or philosophy. . . . Even my wife is withdrawing from me, for all her love. She is normal, and I am what you'd have to all insane. . . . Anything and everything is capable of provoking me. The conversation at another table, a look, a dress, a walk. It's really not "normal." I'm afraid I'm going to have to foreswear society, and break off all ties. I no believe anything I am told. I see through a magnifying glass. I peel the skins off people and things to see their hidden secrets---after that, you really can't believe anything. I know, before the object of my scrutiny knows, how it will adapt, how it will evolve, what it will do next. It might change utterly. But my knowledge of it is such that it will do exactly what I think it will do. . . I am becoming dangerous to ordinary decent people because of my knowledge of them.
It makes for an atrocious life. It precludes all of love and most of friendship. My mistrust kills all warmth, as bleach kills most germs. I no longer understand the forms of human intercourse. A harmless conversation chokes me. I am incapable of speaking an innocent word. I don't understand how people utter banalities. How they manage to sing. How the manage to play charades. . . . I am starting to hate decency, where---as is so often the case---- it's paired with limited intelligence. The merely decent are beginning to hate me back. It can't go on. It can't go on.
Joseph Roth
Thursday, February 09, 2012
Iron Clad
This may be the last thing that I write for a while, and by a while I mean a long, long time. A measure of time that might be forever. I have in the past 24 hours come to realize that I am not, in any shape, form, or fashion, good at communicating. Via text, blog post, or in person, I am clearly bad at expressing myself. Everything, I say or write is either wrong, or well let's just stick with wrong. Being wrong all the time about everything has a unhealthy effect on one's being. It just begins to wear down a person's 'soul' like water does to a stone over the years. Though unlike the stone, my particular soul, does not take a polish. It just wears down, and at this rate there isn't going to be any soul left very soon.
That loss of soul as it were sounds bloody awful, and I can not seem to arrest it's erosion. I am not sure that going silent will help, but I am willing to give it a shot. After all, the words I have been using have seemed to caused a lot of misunderstandings, and me a lot of grief. A quick glance over these pages will reinforce that opinion. I am not good at this, I am not going to become good at this, and doing things badly isn't really an option. I am not good at so many things that it boggles the imagination. Some of them I have to continue to do just in order to get around in the world, but this is not one of them, and this I can, and have to stop. It just seems that I am a flat head screw driver in a world full of Phillip's headed screws. Useless, and out of place. A tool that has lost its purpose for existing is no longer a tool, it is superfluous.
I have tried, but can no longer ignore the signals that 'mission control' is sending. It has been painful obvious to anyone with half a brain (i.e. NOT me), that this is not working. It is a clear indictment of me that I haven't figured it out before now. I wish I could say I have an excuse other that stupidity, but I don't. I won't try to defend myself, for there is no defense for me. Maybe the truth of the matter is that it has been pure vanity that has been propelling this blog along for quite some time. It is time to turn this ship of vanity towards the sun and steam straight ahead. Burn up and burn out all at the same time. The ashes might make a wonderful pile. However, I doubt that pile would cause too much concern except for the person or persons who would have to clean it.
I do hope that somewhere, someone, may have gotten some enjoyment from all of this drivel. From this extended 'love song' to everyone I know, but I doubt it, and even if they have, well the miscommunication by far outnumber the enjoyments. It is an article of (my limited) faith that once you start have miscommunication, then you are never quite the same again. Miscommunication is like a snowball rolling down hill very fast. It gathers speed and mass, and just rolls over everything in its path. It is that snowball of miscommunication, that force of nature that I cannot seem to arrest, cannot seem to control or guide that has rolled right on over me, and left me blue from the cold. Things, especially certain things, become brittle when they get cold, and when things get brittle, they break. This is broken, and I do not believe that, at present, I have the ability to fix it. As Rimbaud, a real writer, figured out a long, long time ago, and with such brilliant insight, there comes a point where a 'writer' has to stop 'recording' and just merely stop writing. This is the point at which I find myself today, I hope (I guess) that it isn't a fixed point, and I will be able to move past it. I also hope that my (all too few) readers have gotten some pleasure from this journey, but for now this is my exit, and I need to gather my belongings, return my ticket, and get off this train.
That loss of soul as it were sounds bloody awful, and I can not seem to arrest it's erosion. I am not sure that going silent will help, but I am willing to give it a shot. After all, the words I have been using have seemed to caused a lot of misunderstandings, and me a lot of grief. A quick glance over these pages will reinforce that opinion. I am not good at this, I am not going to become good at this, and doing things badly isn't really an option. I am not good at so many things that it boggles the imagination. Some of them I have to continue to do just in order to get around in the world, but this is not one of them, and this I can, and have to stop. It just seems that I am a flat head screw driver in a world full of Phillip's headed screws. Useless, and out of place. A tool that has lost its purpose for existing is no longer a tool, it is superfluous.
I have tried, but can no longer ignore the signals that 'mission control' is sending. It has been painful obvious to anyone with half a brain (i.e. NOT me), that this is not working. It is a clear indictment of me that I haven't figured it out before now. I wish I could say I have an excuse other that stupidity, but I don't. I won't try to defend myself, for there is no defense for me. Maybe the truth of the matter is that it has been pure vanity that has been propelling this blog along for quite some time. It is time to turn this ship of vanity towards the sun and steam straight ahead. Burn up and burn out all at the same time. The ashes might make a wonderful pile. However, I doubt that pile would cause too much concern except for the person or persons who would have to clean it.
I do hope that somewhere, someone, may have gotten some enjoyment from all of this drivel. From this extended 'love song' to everyone I know, but I doubt it, and even if they have, well the miscommunication by far outnumber the enjoyments. It is an article of (my limited) faith that once you start have miscommunication, then you are never quite the same again. Miscommunication is like a snowball rolling down hill very fast. It gathers speed and mass, and just rolls over everything in its path. It is that snowball of miscommunication, that force of nature that I cannot seem to arrest, cannot seem to control or guide that has rolled right on over me, and left me blue from the cold. Things, especially certain things, become brittle when they get cold, and when things get brittle, they break. This is broken, and I do not believe that, at present, I have the ability to fix it. As Rimbaud, a real writer, figured out a long, long time ago, and with such brilliant insight, there comes a point where a 'writer' has to stop 'recording' and just merely stop writing. This is the point at which I find myself today, I hope (I guess) that it isn't a fixed point, and I will be able to move past it. I also hope that my (all too few) readers have gotten some pleasure from this journey, but for now this is my exit, and I need to gather my belongings, return my ticket, and get off this train.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Apollo
The following list is far from comprehensive, or remotely complete, but I am (as I have mentioned before) a lazy, lazy man.
First, there was Becky. The first girl in my love rodeo. The girl I lost my virginity to oh so many years ago. It was a mutual deflowering, and as you would expect it was (at least the first time) pretty brutal. It was probably like watching a killer whale taunt, and kill a baby seal. It was short, nasty, and I am not sure if either of us enjoyed it too terribly much. However, after a few more attempts, we got things in the right spot, and I found 'the' spot, and we began a wonderful, happy relationship. This was back before the war, and in the small town where I was reared, when you deflower a girl, it was only supposed to end one way. And that way, isn't recollecting events over 20 years later without Bethany in the room. It was SUPPOSED to end happily ever after, and it did for Bethany and another fine fellow (a former friend) they are happily married with 3 children, or at least they were the last I heard. She promised she loved me, and wanted to spend the rest of my life with me, clearly she was talking to the wrong guy when she told me that, and I wonder if she told him the same thing. She seems to have meant it, and least when she told him, me not so much. She left.
Years later, there was Yvonne. An exotic name for an exotic woman, from another country she was (and still is I suppose) some place that most of the people I grew up with have never heard. Did I mention I am from a very small, very redneck town? Not that it mattered, by the time Yvonne and I crossed paths, I had been out of that place for a very long time. Yvonne was a very, very bright girl, which makes why she took up with me an even greater mystery. However, at the time it was not a mystery that I wanted to explore to deeply. She too, said a lot of nice things about and to me, and even offered to take me back to the exotic place of her birth to live our lives out together. She is still in this country, and dating a wonderful fellow, i.e. not me. She had a pretty bad accident, and was not quite the same woman after, she became a woman who did not suffer fools gladly, and I am, without a shadow of a doubt, a fool. She too left.
Then there was Eileen, and as the name imply she was a redhead with a LOT of Irish in her. Tall, thin, pale, and young. She was (at the time) a walking embodiment of the perfect woman for me. However, while she had quite a bit of musical talent, she wasn't the swiftest horse in the stable. I am far from being a genius, but sometimes Eileen and I were reduced to awfully lengthy discussions about the colour yellow. Now, I like yellow as much as the next fellow, I even painted a bathroom yellow once, but there isn't a whole lot new to say about the colour yellow. But she was tall, thin, young, pale, and covered in freckles, so I managed to overlook the 'yellow thing' for as long as I was able. She was another girl that I deflowered, and that really seems to mean a lot to women. She eventually became a long distance relationship, and I flew many a mile to see her. I came close to asking her to make it permanent, but the distance and the 'yellow thing' were just too much for me to cope with. She also told me, in different words, that she would have said 'yes' if I had asked. The other big problem with Eileen was I met Anna (see below) when she moved away. They were together the perfect woman, it was a damn shame that there were two of them. She is now married with three children, and happy as a clam. Good on her. She too left.
Then there was Lisa, Lisa was another fiery redhead that actually had 2 'bites at the cherry'. Round 1 was also many years ago, and it was more of a fling than anything else. She was, at the time, a long distance relationship, and I drove a lot miles to see her on more than one occasion. She was an exciting girl, and pretty sharp herself. However, the distance, and time were against us, and she faded into the mists of time. Then one day out of the blue, I got an email from her, I've no idea how she found me, or why she wanted to find me, but she did. It was an instant reconnect, but there was still distance involved. We talked for hours on the phone, and if you know me at all, you know I don't really talk on the phone. We planned almost our entire lives out during those phone calls. We fell back into love during those chats, and then it all when pear shaped. We talked about everything during round 2 of our relationship, and the breaking point was, of all things, Charles Baudelaire. She pretty much told me "It's Baudelaire or me." Well, on my bedside table is a book of Baudelaire's poetry. The whereabouts of Lisa, I do not know. I like to think I made the right choice, but she promised she loved everything about me (including my love of literature), and she left.
Then there was Alice, Alice was a fellow student of history, and a lovely girl. However, Alice was a bit too frail for me. She had (and presumably still has) a fairly significant illness, that made our relationship a lot harder to conduct. It wasn't any sort of illness that prevented the good stuff, it just made her tired a lot. She once told me "if you asked me to marry you right now, I would say yes.' Guess what? I quickly changed the subject, and moved on to less dangerous relationship waters. It was probably a wise decision, since after me Alice decided to revenge fuck my best friend. This is one of the reasons that I no longer have a best friend. She has recently became engaged, and I am happy for her, and hope that the lucky groom's best man isn't too handsome. She too left.
Then came Nancy. Fancy Nancy as I liked to call her. She was not amused by that nickname, and I quickly found out that Nance wasn't amused by much of anything. Those who I allow to know me these days, will (hopefully) tell you that I am a pretty funny guy. Funny as in HA HA, not funny as someone who like to wear a lot of chartreuse scarves. I never really understood Nancy, and I don't think Nancy ever really tried to understand me. It was, in spite of all this misunderstanding, a torrid affair, and my roommate at the time was so impressed he once, clapped when she left the house after a night at the opera (as he liked to call it, I'm certain you can guess why). She wasn't amused about that either, but she certainly did care enough to want to sign up as a permanent ticket holder, if you catch my meaning. However, operas have limited runs, and she too left.
Then came Anna, Anna was, when put together with Eileen (see above) the perfect woman. Anna was (and I am still sure is) one of the few women I have dated that was miles smarter than I am, and I don't date dumb women. Except for the fact that they have dated me, which causes their sanity, not their intelligence, to be called into question, I love intelligent woman. Anna was a fucking overachieving genius, and why she fell for me was completely unfathomable to me. She was smart, funny, well read, well spoken, and a a for sure keeper for almost any man in the world. Any man but, yours truly it seems. We had a really, really rocky relationship that was defined by, me still having feelings for Eileen, and one other fact that I have only ever told 4 people about. This is not the time to reveal what that fact/issue was. There may never be a time to reveal that fact again, and I hope that Anna has forgiven me, even though she said she never would, and I peg her as a woman of her word. She is also married now with at least one child. I heard from her about three years ago when her team, the Saints, beat my Vikings in the NFC championship game. It was not a consolation email, it was a gloating email. It led me to believe that Anna has not forgiven me, and truth be told, she probably shouldn't. I thought many a night how she was a keeper, and she really was. She too left.
Then came Esther, I married Esther, and that should tell you all you need to know. If you want to know more, I suggest you read "Portraits of a Marriage" by Sandor Marai. A good book that will tell you a lot of things about Esther and I, even if she's never read it, or is ever going to read it. She too left.
As I said this isn't a complete list of all of my follies, and I am sure there will be more follies to come, but to each of these wonderful women I told one important story. I won't go too far into the details of the story (more of a theory) that I shared with women, because I don't share it that often. It has to do with numbers, and each of them will understand exactly what I mean by that. It is not a happy theory, but it is a theory that I believe in strongly. A theory is just that a theory, something that isn't a law but something that can be shown to happen again and again under the same set of circumstances. Thus we get a theory. Each of these women, to whom I owe both a massive debt, and a heartfelt apology, to, have helped me show that my theory, as depressing as it is, is sound. It is another tragedy that I will have to deal with, and it makes me very sad. Sometimes being right about things hurts a lot more than being wrong.
P.S. There is no hidden agenda or meaning in the post, but there is, if you try hard enough to find it, a hidden message.
First, there was Becky. The first girl in my love rodeo. The girl I lost my virginity to oh so many years ago. It was a mutual deflowering, and as you would expect it was (at least the first time) pretty brutal. It was probably like watching a killer whale taunt, and kill a baby seal. It was short, nasty, and I am not sure if either of us enjoyed it too terribly much. However, after a few more attempts, we got things in the right spot, and I found 'the' spot, and we began a wonderful, happy relationship. This was back before the war, and in the small town where I was reared, when you deflower a girl, it was only supposed to end one way. And that way, isn't recollecting events over 20 years later without Bethany in the room. It was SUPPOSED to end happily ever after, and it did for Bethany and another fine fellow (a former friend) they are happily married with 3 children, or at least they were the last I heard. She promised she loved me, and wanted to spend the rest of my life with me, clearly she was talking to the wrong guy when she told me that, and I wonder if she told him the same thing. She seems to have meant it, and least when she told him, me not so much. She left.
Years later, there was Yvonne. An exotic name for an exotic woman, from another country she was (and still is I suppose) some place that most of the people I grew up with have never heard. Did I mention I am from a very small, very redneck town? Not that it mattered, by the time Yvonne and I crossed paths, I had been out of that place for a very long time. Yvonne was a very, very bright girl, which makes why she took up with me an even greater mystery. However, at the time it was not a mystery that I wanted to explore to deeply. She too, said a lot of nice things about and to me, and even offered to take me back to the exotic place of her birth to live our lives out together. She is still in this country, and dating a wonderful fellow, i.e. not me. She had a pretty bad accident, and was not quite the same woman after, she became a woman who did not suffer fools gladly, and I am, without a shadow of a doubt, a fool. She too left.
Then there was Eileen, and as the name imply she was a redhead with a LOT of Irish in her. Tall, thin, pale, and young. She was (at the time) a walking embodiment of the perfect woman for me. However, while she had quite a bit of musical talent, she wasn't the swiftest horse in the stable. I am far from being a genius, but sometimes Eileen and I were reduced to awfully lengthy discussions about the colour yellow. Now, I like yellow as much as the next fellow, I even painted a bathroom yellow once, but there isn't a whole lot new to say about the colour yellow. But she was tall, thin, young, pale, and covered in freckles, so I managed to overlook the 'yellow thing' for as long as I was able. She was another girl that I deflowered, and that really seems to mean a lot to women. She eventually became a long distance relationship, and I flew many a mile to see her. I came close to asking her to make it permanent, but the distance and the 'yellow thing' were just too much for me to cope with. She also told me, in different words, that she would have said 'yes' if I had asked. The other big problem with Eileen was I met Anna (see below) when she moved away. They were together the perfect woman, it was a damn shame that there were two of them. She is now married with three children, and happy as a clam. Good on her. She too left.
Then there was Lisa, Lisa was another fiery redhead that actually had 2 'bites at the cherry'. Round 1 was also many years ago, and it was more of a fling than anything else. She was, at the time, a long distance relationship, and I drove a lot miles to see her on more than one occasion. She was an exciting girl, and pretty sharp herself. However, the distance, and time were against us, and she faded into the mists of time. Then one day out of the blue, I got an email from her, I've no idea how she found me, or why she wanted to find me, but she did. It was an instant reconnect, but there was still distance involved. We talked for hours on the phone, and if you know me at all, you know I don't really talk on the phone. We planned almost our entire lives out during those phone calls. We fell back into love during those chats, and then it all when pear shaped. We talked about everything during round 2 of our relationship, and the breaking point was, of all things, Charles Baudelaire. She pretty much told me "It's Baudelaire or me." Well, on my bedside table is a book of Baudelaire's poetry. The whereabouts of Lisa, I do not know. I like to think I made the right choice, but she promised she loved everything about me (including my love of literature), and she left.
Then there was Alice, Alice was a fellow student of history, and a lovely girl. However, Alice was a bit too frail for me. She had (and presumably still has) a fairly significant illness, that made our relationship a lot harder to conduct. It wasn't any sort of illness that prevented the good stuff, it just made her tired a lot. She once told me "if you asked me to marry you right now, I would say yes.' Guess what? I quickly changed the subject, and moved on to less dangerous relationship waters. It was probably a wise decision, since after me Alice decided to revenge fuck my best friend. This is one of the reasons that I no longer have a best friend. She has recently became engaged, and I am happy for her, and hope that the lucky groom's best man isn't too handsome. She too left.
Then came Nancy. Fancy Nancy as I liked to call her. She was not amused by that nickname, and I quickly found out that Nance wasn't amused by much of anything. Those who I allow to know me these days, will (hopefully) tell you that I am a pretty funny guy. Funny as in HA HA, not funny as someone who like to wear a lot of chartreuse scarves. I never really understood Nancy, and I don't think Nancy ever really tried to understand me. It was, in spite of all this misunderstanding, a torrid affair, and my roommate at the time was so impressed he once, clapped when she left the house after a night at the opera (as he liked to call it, I'm certain you can guess why). She wasn't amused about that either, but she certainly did care enough to want to sign up as a permanent ticket holder, if you catch my meaning. However, operas have limited runs, and she too left.
Then came Anna, Anna was, when put together with Eileen (see above) the perfect woman. Anna was (and I am still sure is) one of the few women I have dated that was miles smarter than I am, and I don't date dumb women. Except for the fact that they have dated me, which causes their sanity, not their intelligence, to be called into question, I love intelligent woman. Anna was a fucking overachieving genius, and why she fell for me was completely unfathomable to me. She was smart, funny, well read, well spoken, and a a for sure keeper for almost any man in the world. Any man but, yours truly it seems. We had a really, really rocky relationship that was defined by, me still having feelings for Eileen, and one other fact that I have only ever told 4 people about. This is not the time to reveal what that fact/issue was. There may never be a time to reveal that fact again, and I hope that Anna has forgiven me, even though she said she never would, and I peg her as a woman of her word. She is also married now with at least one child. I heard from her about three years ago when her team, the Saints, beat my Vikings in the NFC championship game. It was not a consolation email, it was a gloating email. It led me to believe that Anna has not forgiven me, and truth be told, she probably shouldn't. I thought many a night how she was a keeper, and she really was. She too left.
Then came Esther, I married Esther, and that should tell you all you need to know. If you want to know more, I suggest you read "Portraits of a Marriage" by Sandor Marai. A good book that will tell you a lot of things about Esther and I, even if she's never read it, or is ever going to read it. She too left.
As I said this isn't a complete list of all of my follies, and I am sure there will be more follies to come, but to each of these wonderful women I told one important story. I won't go too far into the details of the story (more of a theory) that I shared with women, because I don't share it that often. It has to do with numbers, and each of them will understand exactly what I mean by that. It is not a happy theory, but it is a theory that I believe in strongly. A theory is just that a theory, something that isn't a law but something that can be shown to happen again and again under the same set of circumstances. Thus we get a theory. Each of these women, to whom I owe both a massive debt, and a heartfelt apology, to, have helped me show that my theory, as depressing as it is, is sound. It is another tragedy that I will have to deal with, and it makes me very sad. Sometimes being right about things hurts a lot more than being wrong.
P.S. There is no hidden agenda or meaning in the post, but there is, if you try hard enough to find it, a hidden message.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Bulkheads
In the past month, I have had my ass handed to me emotionally twice. Once was at work, and once was in my personal life. I try very hard to keep them separated, but sometimes, given the subject matter of my job, they bleed over into each other. When I first started my job over nine years ago, I swore not to let it define me as a person, I fear, after those nine long years, that I have failed in that task. I really want to be more than the sum of my parts, but I fear I am failing at that goal (as I do at most things I try).
These two 'ass handings' have led me to become what I hate the most (other than my father), an emotional 'wreck.' Normally, I am not the most emotive of fellows, and I try very hard to compartmentalize my emotions. It is not the easiest of tasks, but I have been accused of doing it quite successfully in the past. I say accused, because the person making the claim about my ability to compartmentalize things, was not saying it in a positive light. The emotion ass whipping I received at work, I can do sod all about, it was delivered from on high, and a mere worker ant such as myself can not nothing about it. Not that I didn't at least try, but as I mentioned earlier, I am a professional when it comes to trying and failing. Seymour Skinner doesn't have anything on me in the failing department.
The work beating wasn't even given to me to my face, it had to be delivered to me by someone other than the architect, I guess that is what minions are for, to do all the unpleasant tasks that the throne would find off-putting. Either way it was done, and I'm still struggling to determine how much of my pride, and other important bits of me survived. It is going to be a bit of a slog, but it looks as if I'll survive, at least for a while. Though I fear the matter has merely been delayed, and will not be denied.
At least the personal beating took place to my face, though in retrospect I wonder if that makes it better or worse. I wasn't overly surprised that it happened, but I was, and still am surprised at it swiftness and its brutality. These things are not for the weak of will nor the faint of heart. I didn't think I was either, but as flail about trying to understand what is happening, I fear that I might just be both. That is not something that I find particularly pleasant, or easy to admit. Things have recently begun to fall apart, and there is a growing concern that the centre cannot hold, and that is a oddly frightening notion to attempt to wrap my head around.
The bulwarks that I painstakingly built over so very many years have begun to collapse like a house of cards on a very windy day, and the 'ship of me' the only ship I have, is listing dramatically to the left. Taking on water at an alarming rate, and is caught on a lee shore that will be very difficult to navigate off of. I have put all hands to the pumps, but the only hands I have are mine own, and as referenced above, me doing something equals me failing at something. It is a gift, one of the many I would like to return but can't, seems I've lost that receipt as well.
All of this is to say that if the melancholy expressed on these pages, has been, or gets too bad, at least now some of the sources have been identified, and perhaps that is the first step to building better, stronger bulkheads. I guess failure does have its purpose. My watching the compartments I build be breached with such ease, I now understand that unless I want to stay under these waves tonight, I will have to build with more care, and more cruelty. Whether I am up to the task remains to be seen, and I wouldn't bet on me if I were you. But, then again if I were you, I wouldn't be having these problems in the first place would I?
These two 'ass handings' have led me to become what I hate the most (other than my father), an emotional 'wreck.' Normally, I am not the most emotive of fellows, and I try very hard to compartmentalize my emotions. It is not the easiest of tasks, but I have been accused of doing it quite successfully in the past. I say accused, because the person making the claim about my ability to compartmentalize things, was not saying it in a positive light. The emotion ass whipping I received at work, I can do sod all about, it was delivered from on high, and a mere worker ant such as myself can not nothing about it. Not that I didn't at least try, but as I mentioned earlier, I am a professional when it comes to trying and failing. Seymour Skinner doesn't have anything on me in the failing department.
The work beating wasn't even given to me to my face, it had to be delivered to me by someone other than the architect, I guess that is what minions are for, to do all the unpleasant tasks that the throne would find off-putting. Either way it was done, and I'm still struggling to determine how much of my pride, and other important bits of me survived. It is going to be a bit of a slog, but it looks as if I'll survive, at least for a while. Though I fear the matter has merely been delayed, and will not be denied.
At least the personal beating took place to my face, though in retrospect I wonder if that makes it better or worse. I wasn't overly surprised that it happened, but I was, and still am surprised at it swiftness and its brutality. These things are not for the weak of will nor the faint of heart. I didn't think I was either, but as flail about trying to understand what is happening, I fear that I might just be both. That is not something that I find particularly pleasant, or easy to admit. Things have recently begun to fall apart, and there is a growing concern that the centre cannot hold, and that is a oddly frightening notion to attempt to wrap my head around.
The bulwarks that I painstakingly built over so very many years have begun to collapse like a house of cards on a very windy day, and the 'ship of me' the only ship I have, is listing dramatically to the left. Taking on water at an alarming rate, and is caught on a lee shore that will be very difficult to navigate off of. I have put all hands to the pumps, but the only hands I have are mine own, and as referenced above, me doing something equals me failing at something. It is a gift, one of the many I would like to return but can't, seems I've lost that receipt as well.
All of this is to say that if the melancholy expressed on these pages, has been, or gets too bad, at least now some of the sources have been identified, and perhaps that is the first step to building better, stronger bulkheads. I guess failure does have its purpose. My watching the compartments I build be breached with such ease, I now understand that unless I want to stay under these waves tonight, I will have to build with more care, and more cruelty. Whether I am up to the task remains to be seen, and I wouldn't bet on me if I were you. But, then again if I were you, I wouldn't be having these problems in the first place would I?
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Heureux
'I just want you to be happy' three, not one, not two, but THREE different people have told me that in the last week. As if happiness is something that I can order off of the Wendy's 99 cent menu. Which is why I gave the reply 'happiness is not on the menu.' The tricky part of the statement is that, in their own way (I think) each of them actually meant it. They actually want me to be happy. Why, I don't know, nor do I particularly care. The fact that when one of them told me 'they wanted me to be happy' they were in the middle of making me decidedly unhappy is an irony that was probably only evident to me.
The other two 'happy wishers' have also, at different times been in a position to make me happy, and or sad depending. I am just now beginning to realize that is my fault not theirs. The fact that I allow another person or persons to control my mood or emotions is just plain stupidity on my part, and it is something that will have to be changed, and soon. To continue to allow any other human being, and I am using that term very broadly, to have the ability to influence or determine my feelings is deplorable. I can not for the life of me sort out how the blue fuck, I allowed myself to be placed into such a position, but here I am. However, just because I am here, doesn't mean I am going to STAY here, and I think that a certain self-adjustment shall be made. Self-adjustments are the hardest to make, but when they are pulled off properly they are well worth it.
Each of these 'happy' souls also told me that they thought I would make a good father, again I had to disabuse them of that notion as well. As a card carrying misanthrope, and a cynic of the brutal type, I am fairly certain I would make an awful, awful father. My normal response is to say that i do not like children, and in many ways that is still true, but being a former child myself, I have now determined that it is the parents that I don't like. I certainly didn't like one of my at all, and the other one is currently not speaking to me, so maybe that colours my thinking a little bit, but I am beginning to warm to the idea of disliking parents.
I am sure that most parents do the best they can rearing their offspring, but it's just that most of them also do a really shit job of it. Children, from what I have been told, do not come with an instruction manual, and even worse, seem to have a mind of their own. Though I am not sure I am ever going to be ready to have children, mainly because of the potential 'motherships' out there seem to have disqualified, or disabled themselves in one way or another. There is a reason for this, but I lack the words (or the courage you pick) to explain that reason. It is just sufficient for now to say that their actions could never be reconciled with their words.
This happiness that these well meaning people wished me, is something that I am going to have to find myself. A lot of people will tell you that happiness is the presence of something, cold beer, warm women, a large piece of unguarded chocolate, can and may provide you happiness, but it is fleeting happiness. After the beer has been drunk, the chocolate eaten, and the woman has left (and each of these things will happen), then you are right back where you started, unhappy. That is if, of course, you allow the presence of things to make you happy. Another theory is it is the absence of things that can make you happy, the absence of pain, the absence of hunger, or maybe even the absence of people can make you happy. Once again a flawed theory, you are going to experience pain again, unless you die, you are going to get hungry again, and people just have a tendency of getting in the way. Leaving you back were you started, unhappy.
Happiness might be a bit too much to hope for, and besides is it really necessary? After all there exist in this world people who go out of their way to attempt to ruin other people's happiness. Almost seems pointless to find happiness if there is just someone who is going to try to take it away. Perhaps happiness is a house in the burbs, 2.5 children, and the white picket fence that we all liked to gently mock as rebellious free thinkers in our student days. Or maybe it is some radiant city, that lets us drink for free, never age, and not have to go to work in the morning. Either way it is something that while elusive, need not be exclusive.
The other two 'happy wishers' have also, at different times been in a position to make me happy, and or sad depending. I am just now beginning to realize that is my fault not theirs. The fact that I allow another person or persons to control my mood or emotions is just plain stupidity on my part, and it is something that will have to be changed, and soon. To continue to allow any other human being, and I am using that term very broadly, to have the ability to influence or determine my feelings is deplorable. I can not for the life of me sort out how the blue fuck, I allowed myself to be placed into such a position, but here I am. However, just because I am here, doesn't mean I am going to STAY here, and I think that a certain self-adjustment shall be made. Self-adjustments are the hardest to make, but when they are pulled off properly they are well worth it.
Each of these 'happy' souls also told me that they thought I would make a good father, again I had to disabuse them of that notion as well. As a card carrying misanthrope, and a cynic of the brutal type, I am fairly certain I would make an awful, awful father. My normal response is to say that i do not like children, and in many ways that is still true, but being a former child myself, I have now determined that it is the parents that I don't like. I certainly didn't like one of my at all, and the other one is currently not speaking to me, so maybe that colours my thinking a little bit, but I am beginning to warm to the idea of disliking parents.
I am sure that most parents do the best they can rearing their offspring, but it's just that most of them also do a really shit job of it. Children, from what I have been told, do not come with an instruction manual, and even worse, seem to have a mind of their own. Though I am not sure I am ever going to be ready to have children, mainly because of the potential 'motherships' out there seem to have disqualified, or disabled themselves in one way or another. There is a reason for this, but I lack the words (or the courage you pick) to explain that reason. It is just sufficient for now to say that their actions could never be reconciled with their words.
This happiness that these well meaning people wished me, is something that I am going to have to find myself. A lot of people will tell you that happiness is the presence of something, cold beer, warm women, a large piece of unguarded chocolate, can and may provide you happiness, but it is fleeting happiness. After the beer has been drunk, the chocolate eaten, and the woman has left (and each of these things will happen), then you are right back where you started, unhappy. That is if, of course, you allow the presence of things to make you happy. Another theory is it is the absence of things that can make you happy, the absence of pain, the absence of hunger, or maybe even the absence of people can make you happy. Once again a flawed theory, you are going to experience pain again, unless you die, you are going to get hungry again, and people just have a tendency of getting in the way. Leaving you back were you started, unhappy.
Happiness might be a bit too much to hope for, and besides is it really necessary? After all there exist in this world people who go out of their way to attempt to ruin other people's happiness. Almost seems pointless to find happiness if there is just someone who is going to try to take it away. Perhaps happiness is a house in the burbs, 2.5 children, and the white picket fence that we all liked to gently mock as rebellious free thinkers in our student days. Or maybe it is some radiant city, that lets us drink for free, never age, and not have to go to work in the morning. Either way it is something that while elusive, need not be exclusive.
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