Winter is officially here, and with it comes snow to join the cold and the dark. At least my sleeping patterns have become somewhat orthodox. Although, it's a little too late to make a difference. Especially where my mood is concerned. I'd hoped to get into the holiday spirit by now. There's nothing yet.
I'm still living off of distractions, and they've been narrowed down to songs that do nothing but exacerbate the ho-hum running through my body. And a recent introspective crisis, not unlike the first, certainly hasn't had a welcome effect. I've come to realize the mistake of the bridges I'd burned. I've been trying to rebuild them, but the process isn't going as I'd hoped. As lightning quick as modern technology allows us to communicate, it's still so slow and removed as to seem cruel.
I don't know what to do. I have the will, but lack the ability. I just can't get it right. That second, most important step eludes me still. A forthrightness is required, but at the same time, you can't force anyone to act. They must arrive on their own. And when you don't even know if they want to, it becomes all the more excruciating.
Playing it cool gets you nowhere. You'd become a victim of your own trappings. You're not trying to pick someone up. You're extending your hand and hoping that someone reciprocates. And when you extend that hand, only to have it ignored, you feel more the fool than ever. But you owe it to yourself, and you owe it to them. So you try.
Sunday, December 7
Thursday, November 13
...I'll be shining all day long, even when the sun is gone
It's been cold here, lately. Cold and dark and I feel like an Eskimo. It's been consistently dreary and dark for about a week, and I can't get a damn thing done because of it. My sleep schedule is shot. I've been waking up at four in the afternoon and going to bed at five in the morning. Lather, rinse, repeat. These last couple days, however, I've gotten up at four in the afternoon, gone to bed at nine in the evening, and woken up again at two in the morning, only to eventually go back to bed around noon to start the horrible process over again.
It's been cold, it's been dark, I've been tired, and I don't know why. I've done nothing for days. But other than chores--which I haven't done--I haven't had anything to do. I wake up too late to get out, I stay up too late to have anything else, and I've basically been on a cycle of music, podcasts, and sleep. And cursing the weather.
I don't mind the cold, really, or the rain. But the dark is unforgivable, and especially so with my horrendous sleep patterns. I've been sleeping the days away as it is, and even when I'm up, there's no day left. The passing of the autumnal equinox is not something of which I approve. I already feel as though I miss out on enough without there just generally being less for me to experience.
I can only hope that the Thanksgiving holiday will pass unnoticed and make way for the gaiety of the Christmas season. I despise winter, but I adore the festivities that it introduces. It is gray and sullen now, but soon my eyes will be awash in red and green twinkles. The come down will be harsh and unforgiving, but hopefully the build up is enough for me to keep afloat. At least until the tragedies that are January and February.
It's been cold, it's been dark, I've been tired, and I don't know why. I've done nothing for days. But other than chores--which I haven't done--I haven't had anything to do. I wake up too late to get out, I stay up too late to have anything else, and I've basically been on a cycle of music, podcasts, and sleep. And cursing the weather.
I don't mind the cold, really, or the rain. But the dark is unforgivable, and especially so with my horrendous sleep patterns. I've been sleeping the days away as it is, and even when I'm up, there's no day left. The passing of the autumnal equinox is not something of which I approve. I already feel as though I miss out on enough without there just generally being less for me to experience.
I can only hope that the Thanksgiving holiday will pass unnoticed and make way for the gaiety of the Christmas season. I despise winter, but I adore the festivities that it introduces. It is gray and sullen now, but soon my eyes will be awash in red and green twinkles. The come down will be harsh and unforgiving, but hopefully the build up is enough for me to keep afloat. At least until the tragedies that are January and February.
Wednesday, November 5
...Today.
~~I haven't done anything for a while. I did eventually make some decorations with my niece, and I did eventually make those speakers. But I've only done two things since then: I got a new ID and I voted.
And we won.
In light of that, I have participated in grand symposiums. One such dissertation was initiated by an enthused Swedish woman named Emma, thrilled by the events that have taken place over the last 24 hours in America, and by association, the world.
I present my response to her unabashed gaiety, and I once again borrow from my favorite philosophers.
The best day to be is today...
And we won.
In light of that, I have participated in grand symposiums. One such dissertation was initiated by an enthused Swedish woman named Emma, thrilled by the events that have taken place over the last 24 hours in America, and by association, the world.
I present my response to her unabashed gaiety, and I once again borrow from my favorite philosophers.
The best day to be is today...
Emma, there's a reason martyrdom is such a strong force. After the Bush administration, many things became martyrs: civil freedoms, the ambition for a united and peaceful future, the impression that the United States of America represented the best and brightest that the world has to offer. Whereas history represents martyrs as personalities, the modern generation's martyrs are represented as ideals. And ironically, the same ideals that have become victims now are the very same ideals that built this country and all it stood for.
The ingeniousness of those original ideals being that this country was drafted in the present, but blueprinted to forever be the nation of the future. It has come full circle many times; through the civil war, two world wars, the 1960s, and now the beginning of the 21st century. It's a cycle that the country is destined to repeat forever. We must always be reminded why it is that we came to be. And that is why our nation's greatest strength is a result of our greatest weaknesses. No matter what happens, no matter how hard the fight, no matter how long it takes, right is might. Just as it was in the past, it is now. It is the attacks that have been and will be endured that steels our purpose. What doesn't kill the search makes it stronger. What tries to kill that search makes it invincible.
It is in that way that we can be thankful for the past eight years. It is in that way that we can be thankful for the economic crisis. And it is in that way that we can be thankful for the struggles the world met on and since September 11th. Only with the odds so stacked against us have we been able to realize just how powerful we all are. Only through the sacrifices that have been and are yet to be made--those willing and unwilling--can the true force be realized in the search for what is rightful and good.
Today merely represents the inevitable result of the constant, progressive march towards social equality and equanimity. We are more civilized a people today than the world has ever known. But this is not the apex of our species, and the cycle will continue. As the architects of the United States knew inherently, only by the actions we take now can we predict what is yet to come. And in that respect, today is the only day, and old times make way for the new.
Tuesday, October 21
...Someone alone fell asleep by the phone, waiting like a dog for a bone
I've been in a tinkering mood. Every once in a while I get the urge to create. Usually I satisfy myself by taking pictures. Sometimes I write, though it is a rare occurrence these days. Other times I find myself getting crafty. I'll find a cute little project to do with my niece. I think I'll make some Halloween decorations with her soon.
The other day I performed an aperture modification on my Holga. In the next few days, I think I'll be building a speaker setup for my mp3 player. I've elicited a potato chip can for the housing. When I get a little money together to develop some film, I'll modify the Holga for 35mm and run some through.
It's all in an effort to add a bit of substance to the monotony of constantly doing nothing. Every little bit gives me a reason to get up and move around. Every little bit passes a little bit of time, as if some future event in my life--some enlightening moment--is there on the calendar, just waiting for me to catch up. It all plays into this destructive attitude I have that somehow things will come to be without my express intervention. But then, up until now, everything in life has been handed to me. And when all of a sudden I was asked to make something happen, I was understandably lost.
So maybe all of these little side projects are just practice. Maybe I'm just building up my confidence for the more demanding task. Perhaps the contentedness I feel when creating things stems from having accomplished some feat of my own volition. I become enthused with myself. If I can do this, I think to myself, what's to stop me from doing more?
I haven't found that out yet.
The other day I performed an aperture modification on my Holga. In the next few days, I think I'll be building a speaker setup for my mp3 player. I've elicited a potato chip can for the housing. When I get a little money together to develop some film, I'll modify the Holga for 35mm and run some through.
It's all in an effort to add a bit of substance to the monotony of constantly doing nothing. Every little bit gives me a reason to get up and move around. Every little bit passes a little bit of time, as if some future event in my life--some enlightening moment--is there on the calendar, just waiting for me to catch up. It all plays into this destructive attitude I have that somehow things will come to be without my express intervention. But then, up until now, everything in life has been handed to me. And when all of a sudden I was asked to make something happen, I was understandably lost.
So maybe all of these little side projects are just practice. Maybe I'm just building up my confidence for the more demanding task. Perhaps the contentedness I feel when creating things stems from having accomplished some feat of my own volition. I become enthused with myself. If I can do this, I think to myself, what's to stop me from doing more?
I haven't found that out yet.
Tuesday, October 7
...Wake up, wake up, wake up, we are only a part of a dream
I still haven't been able to fix my sleep schedule. I set my alarm clock, but it's only as good as the GIANT SNOOZE BUTTON on the top of the contraption. I have no issues with hitting that button. Or downright ignoring the alarm. Not any more, though. I've become proactive.
Thanks to a little program mentioned over at Lifehacker, I now have a weapon to combat my slumbering ways. Courtesy of WakeUpOnStandBy, I have created a custom Dr. Dog alarm clock. Everyday at 12:35 pm, my computer will rise from its own sleep to trumpet me awake with a stimulating tune from what has already been a great source of motivation for this project.
Unlike my actual alarm clock, I will not be able to simply reach over and hit that exploitative snooze button. If I wish to stifle the psychedelic reveille, I will be forced to literally wake up and waddle to the other side of the room, where my computer is located.
My only limitation now will be the volume of my speakers, and boy do they go high.
Thanks to a little program mentioned over at Lifehacker, I now have a weapon to combat my slumbering ways. Courtesy of WakeUpOnStandBy, I have created a custom Dr. Dog alarm clock. Everyday at 12:35 pm, my computer will rise from its own sleep to trumpet me awake with a stimulating tune from what has already been a great source of motivation for this project.
Unlike my actual alarm clock, I will not be able to simply reach over and hit that exploitative snooze button. If I wish to stifle the psychedelic reveille, I will be forced to literally wake up and waddle to the other side of the room, where my computer is located.
My only limitation now will be the volume of my speakers, and boy do they go high.
Tuesday, September 30
...He don't believe in God, but he believes in those who say they do; the ones like you
This project was based on a dream I had one night. It called into question everything about myself. Who I am, what I do, and what I want. I had another dream and it made me question even more. Everything up to this point has found some time during the day to swim through my consciousness, so it's no surprise that it reappeared in my subconscious.
I've been considering the validity of my intentions with art school, my ability to acquire a job, and even my eating habits. I've been shirking responsibilities since last week. I've been waking up late every day, I've not been doing my exercises, and I've been playing into the very distractions that I know are at the heart of some of my problems. They've all come back to me in the form of a midnight reminder.
The details were not straightforward. Or they were as straightforward as can be. The point is that I can't tell. All I know is what happened and I can only surmise what it might have meant. What I do know is that it was not unlike the dream that brought me here. Once again the subject was myself and longing. And a girl.
It started with my attempts to sneak into a church. That's questionable detail number one. The church was, in fact, in session. Once I had finally infiltrated the building through a side door, for whatever reason, I ran into another obstacle. The church was letting out. In order to keep my intentions a secret, I was forced to mingle into the line as it wandered out the front door. When I had finally exited the building, my makeshift congregation began to disperse, and to my left was the girl.
She was shorter than I am, and she had slightly-longer-than-shoulder-length brown hair. Upon cursory observations, she was cute. There was something odd about her, though. For one, she was wearing a Chelsea FC jersey. The name on the back read Essien (alluding to CFC midfielder Michael Essien) and the number was 8 (strangely, though, this number corresponds to CFC midfielder Frank Lampard). Needless to say, I am a fan, and apparently so was she. And while the initial thought of the girl wearing the jersey was intriguing, it was how the girl looked that made me take notice. She looked lonely.
I took it upon myself to cheer up the sullen lass and issued her a hearty, "Go Chels!". The connection was made, but what happened next is unexplained. We suddenly appeared in a crowded cafeteria. While a line was forming at the lunch counter, I was approaching a fold-up bench-style table like the ones I sat at in middle school. On the table was an assortment of trays with an assortment of lunches. What I remember next was getting one of the last trays and being upset at the poor meal that I was stuck with. I sat down. She sat beside me, never speaking or looking above her nose, but never pulling away. I began to feel as though she was a freshman or a sophomore and I was the kind upperclassman who had befriended her.
Across from her sat two individuals from the church. One of them was an adamant female Christian. She was harsh and bellicose in the advocation of her beliefs. She seemed to me like the Parker Posey of religion. Eventually a theological debate erupted when I calmly stated my acceptance of all religions. All the while the Chelsea girl sat beside me, quiet and reserved. And I woke up.
But with the strange circumstances of the dream and the unexplainable events that took place, there was only one thing that stuck with me in a meaningful way. The girl. I had spotted her out of the corner of my eye and I had taken her under my wing. Our relationship was never defined beyond that point. Was I simply being nice to a girl who needed a friend, or was there more to it than that? And if there was more motivation to our meeting, why was she the lonely one and I the champion?
I thought about it at length and I am still left with only assumptions. At first I just thought it represented an easy situation. I literally walked into it, simply and effortlessly. It was practically set out on a platter for me to respond. This makes sense, given my aversion to complicated situations (read: college and work). But as I write this, I'm slowly coming to the conclusion that the why is more crucial than the how, or the what. And it's something that the original inspirational girl shares with the recent one.
There are times when I want to smile and hug her. And there are times when I want to pull her close and squeeze her until everything is OK. As I realize now, thats what I wanted to do with the Chelsea girl. I wanted to grab her and hold her until it was all right again. I didn't want her to feel anything but loved. Anything else would've made me ache.
Maybe I'm looking for that feeling to be returned.
I've been considering the validity of my intentions with art school, my ability to acquire a job, and even my eating habits. I've been shirking responsibilities since last week. I've been waking up late every day, I've not been doing my exercises, and I've been playing into the very distractions that I know are at the heart of some of my problems. They've all come back to me in the form of a midnight reminder.
The details were not straightforward. Or they were as straightforward as can be. The point is that I can't tell. All I know is what happened and I can only surmise what it might have meant. What I do know is that it was not unlike the dream that brought me here. Once again the subject was myself and longing. And a girl.
It started with my attempts to sneak into a church. That's questionable detail number one. The church was, in fact, in session. Once I had finally infiltrated the building through a side door, for whatever reason, I ran into another obstacle. The church was letting out. In order to keep my intentions a secret, I was forced to mingle into the line as it wandered out the front door. When I had finally exited the building, my makeshift congregation began to disperse, and to my left was the girl.
She was shorter than I am, and she had slightly-longer-than-shoulder-length brown hair. Upon cursory observations, she was cute. There was something odd about her, though. For one, she was wearing a Chelsea FC jersey. The name on the back read Essien (alluding to CFC midfielder Michael Essien) and the number was 8 (strangely, though, this number corresponds to CFC midfielder Frank Lampard). Needless to say, I am a fan, and apparently so was she. And while the initial thought of the girl wearing the jersey was intriguing, it was how the girl looked that made me take notice. She looked lonely.
I took it upon myself to cheer up the sullen lass and issued her a hearty, "Go Chels!". The connection was made, but what happened next is unexplained. We suddenly appeared in a crowded cafeteria. While a line was forming at the lunch counter, I was approaching a fold-up bench-style table like the ones I sat at in middle school. On the table was an assortment of trays with an assortment of lunches. What I remember next was getting one of the last trays and being upset at the poor meal that I was stuck with. I sat down. She sat beside me, never speaking or looking above her nose, but never pulling away. I began to feel as though she was a freshman or a sophomore and I was the kind upperclassman who had befriended her.
Across from her sat two individuals from the church. One of them was an adamant female Christian. She was harsh and bellicose in the advocation of her beliefs. She seemed to me like the Parker Posey of religion. Eventually a theological debate erupted when I calmly stated my acceptance of all religions. All the while the Chelsea girl sat beside me, quiet and reserved. And I woke up.
But with the strange circumstances of the dream and the unexplainable events that took place, there was only one thing that stuck with me in a meaningful way. The girl. I had spotted her out of the corner of my eye and I had taken her under my wing. Our relationship was never defined beyond that point. Was I simply being nice to a girl who needed a friend, or was there more to it than that? And if there was more motivation to our meeting, why was she the lonely one and I the champion?
I thought about it at length and I am still left with only assumptions. At first I just thought it represented an easy situation. I literally walked into it, simply and effortlessly. It was practically set out on a platter for me to respond. This makes sense, given my aversion to complicated situations (read: college and work). But as I write this, I'm slowly coming to the conclusion that the why is more crucial than the how, or the what. And it's something that the original inspirational girl shares with the recent one.
There are times when I want to smile and hug her. And there are times when I want to pull her close and squeeze her until everything is OK. As I realize now, thats what I wanted to do with the Chelsea girl. I wanted to grab her and hold her until it was all right again. I didn't want her to feel anything but loved. Anything else would've made me ache.
Maybe I'm looking for that feeling to be returned.
Monday, September 22
...Ain't it strange how a man who lives for nothing can change
When I was in school I dreamt of the day when I could finally leave. I was pulling my hair out wanting to escape from the classrooms, run through the halls screaming, and out the double doors. I spent my time wanting nothing more to do with it and never gave continued education a second thought. I knew college wasn't for me. To me, the concept of college was like asking a newly released Vietnam POW if he'd like to vacation in Da-Nang. So I skated through my courses, giving the bare minimum effort. All I wanted to do was get in and get out as easily and quickly as possible.
I never dreamt, however, of the day when I would want to go back. That's what I've been doing for the past two days. But then I also didn't like photography until after grade school. I didn't like it until I was already out for a year, had a job, and bought my digital camera for more than two-hundred dollars (still the largest individual purchase I've made to date). Art had been an interest of mine since kindergarten. If you had asked me what my aspirations were when I was five, I would have said either astronaut or painter. Further on down the line, I would have answered cartoonist. The problem here, though, was that I could never draw a lick.
Sure, I doodled often and even went so far as to read instructional books on the subject, but I just wasn't any good. I was always more of an idea person and never one to take them to fruition. I couldn't name the number of characters and situations I came up with. The number of times I actually did something with them, on the other hand, is zero. This of course was before I started taking pictures. This was before I found out that photography was the perfect method of artistic expression for a guy like me. All you have to do is take a simple machine, find something interesting to point it at, and let it go to work. It can be a more complex process than that, but the fantastic thing about photography is that it doesn't have to be. Just focus, click the release, and a product comes out. But my heart wants more.
Which is why I've been considering art school, and only considering. There are a number of obstacles that keep me from acting out my wishes, not the least of which is the expense. A four-year program at the Columbus College of Art & Design, for example, runs around a cool thirty-k. Expense isn't everything, though, as the actual logistics of applying and enrolling also represent roadblocks. I don't know the first step of applying to college. I don't even know if my grades were exceptional enough (and I'm fairly certain they were not). I don't know what I would need, what I would need to have done, who to speak with, ad infinitum. Even then, I'd still have the immense problem of paying for all of it (I read a statistic that said 85% of CCAD students were making use of one form of student aid or another).
So the one thing that I never thought I'd want to do-- the one plan that I could have for my life that actually leads to a future-- is seemingly impossible for me to accomplish. It's an idea I can't afford to give up on, though. I don't know if it's even remotely feasible, but I know it will stick in my gut until I know for sure. I'll have to look into it a little deeper and see what I can dig up.
The situation is unfortunate. I finally have a substantive strategy and yet it leaves me with no control over the outcome. A twist that I hope does not become a pattern.
I never dreamt, however, of the day when I would want to go back. That's what I've been doing for the past two days. But then I also didn't like photography until after grade school. I didn't like it until I was already out for a year, had a job, and bought my digital camera for more than two-hundred dollars (still the largest individual purchase I've made to date). Art had been an interest of mine since kindergarten. If you had asked me what my aspirations were when I was five, I would have said either astronaut or painter. Further on down the line, I would have answered cartoonist. The problem here, though, was that I could never draw a lick.
Sure, I doodled often and even went so far as to read instructional books on the subject, but I just wasn't any good. I was always more of an idea person and never one to take them to fruition. I couldn't name the number of characters and situations I came up with. The number of times I actually did something with them, on the other hand, is zero. This of course was before I started taking pictures. This was before I found out that photography was the perfect method of artistic expression for a guy like me. All you have to do is take a simple machine, find something interesting to point it at, and let it go to work. It can be a more complex process than that, but the fantastic thing about photography is that it doesn't have to be. Just focus, click the release, and a product comes out. But my heart wants more.
Which is why I've been considering art school, and only considering. There are a number of obstacles that keep me from acting out my wishes, not the least of which is the expense. A four-year program at the Columbus College of Art & Design, for example, runs around a cool thirty-k. Expense isn't everything, though, as the actual logistics of applying and enrolling also represent roadblocks. I don't know the first step of applying to college. I don't even know if my grades were exceptional enough (and I'm fairly certain they were not). I don't know what I would need, what I would need to have done, who to speak with, ad infinitum. Even then, I'd still have the immense problem of paying for all of it (I read a statistic that said 85% of CCAD students were making use of one form of student aid or another).
So the one thing that I never thought I'd want to do-- the one plan that I could have for my life that actually leads to a future-- is seemingly impossible for me to accomplish. It's an idea I can't afford to give up on, though. I don't know if it's even remotely feasible, but I know it will stick in my gut until I know for sure. I'll have to look into it a little deeper and see what I can dig up.
The situation is unfortunate. I finally have a substantive strategy and yet it leaves me with no control over the outcome. A twist that I hope does not become a pattern.
Saturday, September 20
...I'm chasing the only game in town that's running itself right back into the ground
For the past couple of days I've been doubting myself. Doubting this entire situation, really. To be honest, when I had the idea, I wasn't sure if I'd be able to keep it going. Obviously I wasn't able to keep up the pace I had created for myself within the first two days. The whole plan and everything surrounding it sort of got to me, and for a second I started falling back into my old ways of distracting myself into complacency. Oh, one day away from it won't hurt, I thought. I'll play some games, watch a bit of TV, chat with a friend. But then it carried over to today, when I realized what was happening. And while chatting for a while was a nice change, the overall experience just wasn't conducive behavior.
I don't want to get to a point where I say to myself, "Oh, I feel good today, I can stop". Because I know what that's going to lead to and it's the same cycle I've been living in for almost a decade. As I said to my friend last night, I've felt like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, re-living the same one day over again. Except in my case, it's actually been separate days. I know that's not getting me anywhere, so I must do whatever is in my power to keep it from happening again.
I have a saying that I like to apply to myself: Losers are people who have failed, and I haven't tried anything, therefor I can't be a loser. I used to think that was a good thing. I figured that made me better, somehow. That somehow it meant I still had the potential within me, and all that was left was to make something of it. In a way, I guess that's right. But I was wrong about it making me better. At least losers have tried to do something with themselves, even if nothing came of it. That's something they can put on their record. Meanwhile, I don't even have a record. I'm already starting in the hole.
The problem at hand now is that I don't have a plan beyond this. Yes, there is a vague and basic itinerary (do something with yourself -> get a job you don't hate -> get a love life -> success), but there is little else. I've been having thoughts beyond this, and some of those thoughts have become ideas. Ideas that will hopefully give me a little strength and encouragement to push forward. Now it's a matter of taking those ideas, making them happen, and seeing where they take me. Time to stop shuffling my feet and execute more than just Step One. Today is the only day, and old times make way for the new.
I don't want to get to a point where I say to myself, "Oh, I feel good today, I can stop". Because I know what that's going to lead to and it's the same cycle I've been living in for almost a decade. As I said to my friend last night, I've felt like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, re-living the same one day over again. Except in my case, it's actually been separate days. I know that's not getting me anywhere, so I must do whatever is in my power to keep it from happening again.
I have a saying that I like to apply to myself: Losers are people who have failed, and I haven't tried anything, therefor I can't be a loser. I used to think that was a good thing. I figured that made me better, somehow. That somehow it meant I still had the potential within me, and all that was left was to make something of it. In a way, I guess that's right. But I was wrong about it making me better. At least losers have tried to do something with themselves, even if nothing came of it. That's something they can put on their record. Meanwhile, I don't even have a record. I'm already starting in the hole.
The problem at hand now is that I don't have a plan beyond this. Yes, there is a vague and basic itinerary (do something with yourself -> get a job you don't hate -> get a love life -> success), but there is little else. I've been having thoughts beyond this, and some of those thoughts have become ideas. Ideas that will hopefully give me a little strength and encouragement to push forward. Now it's a matter of taking those ideas, making them happen, and seeing where they take me. Time to stop shuffling my feet and execute more than just Step One. Today is the only day, and old times make way for the new.
Friday, September 19
...If you're always on the go, make an angel in the snow and freeze
I've been driving myself batty. I've got to give it a rest today. Try not to listen to any songs that will drive me to tears tonight, that sort of thing. Which is a little hard when the majority of your music collection is on the melancholy end of the spectrum (why does Ben Lee have to be so damn poignant all the time?). Hopefully I'll be able to complete a thought tomorrow.
Thursday, September 18
...And what you thought was a hurricane was just the rustling of the wind
Tuesday night marked the last day without electricity. The remnants of Ike swept up towards middle America and its gusts knocked out power to around half a million Ohioans. It's still out for about half of those people. Ours went out Sunday afternoon, and we'd been sitting by lantern light since. Boredom set in for most folks, I'm sure, by hour one. At least they could get out after the storm, start the cleaning process, and prepare for the coming week of simple living. I, on the other hand, keep a very odd schedule. Awake until six in the morning, then asleep until two-thirty that afternoon.
So what was a respite to many, getting together outside and bonding around a chainsaw and a game of corn hole, was for myself hours of sitting in the dark while struggling to tune in bad radio stations and reading dimly lit books. There's only so much one can do without electricity, and even less in the middle of the night. It was not entirely pleasant, though I admit that at this point I feel a tinge of nostalgia. My mind wasn't being muddled by what are considered our modern conveniences; no computers, no internet, no television, no video games. These are only conveniences when you actually need them. The other 80% of the time, they are distractions. I missed my computer for the singular fact that all of my music is stored within, but the majority of the experience was a welcome vacation. I had time to consider many things, of which I used to consider a specific few (pretty much the main issues covered in the previous writing). It was during this time that I started the exercise, determined to make a substantial commitment to my cause.
But I know that the schedule I keep, natural disaster or no, is not acceptable. Therein lies a problem, however, as I notoriously despise the concept of sleep. It's not the sleep itself that I don't embrace. It's the fact that, as I slumber, the world moves without me. This feeling is also the cause of what I considered until a recent revelation to be chronic procrastination. I do not in fact procrastinate, I'm just a victim of my own deep-seated desires to never miss a beat. I always feel that, no matter what I'm doing, I'm excluding myself from some ethereal event. So I sit around, doing nothing, so as to not miss out on what is essentially more examples of nothing. This leads to my dysfunctional sleep patterns. I stay up all night and a portion of the day, and sleep for the rest. My proactivity therefore becomes a catalyst of the problem. I know it must change, but the convincing of my brain and my body to go along with this is the tricky business.
Today, I went to bed at eight in the morning. I had been up since four in the afternoon the day before (I had willed myself to remain in bed due to having nothing to wake up to in our temporary modern dark age). I woke up at two-thirty, did fifty, and got on the computer to check in on my strictly-maintained internet world. Nothing had changed. I subjected myself to some much needed musical and photographic inspiration (I hadn't seen her image since the power went out) and headed downstairs. I proceeded to wash and dry two loads of towels in preparation for my overdue shower.
So I waited. Waited for the laundry to finish, waited for my mother to return from work, and waited for others to take their own overdue showers. But mostly I was waiting for my mother. One problem that presented itself about a year ago was the absence of my longtime barber. He was the only man I trusted, as he was the only one who ever did it just right. He was old school. A one-room shop with one stool, and the famous striped pole. And while he could not perform basic medical procedures, as was the purpose of the barbers of yore, he was well versed in the art of men's hair cuttery. Except my aging, long term barber up and left after many, many years. Sure, there is another barber just up the street, but he's not my barber. This, compounded with a general lack of money, lead to my hair growing far longer than I was comfortable wearing it.
So I waited for my mother, and after she had arrived, I asked her to wield the scissors against my unacceptably long mane. That she did. It must be said, though, that she is not particularly well versed in the barber arts, and results are always highly questionable. But I don't care now. Much like the aspects of my personal life, I'm simply sick of the status quo. Now the hair that was weighing me down is gone. No longer does it drape down to my shoulders and curl outward away from my neck, only to fall to my face from the slightest incline. My head is lighter now and my resolve stronger. One infinitesimal step towards my goal has been completed, but it's still one more step than before.
In a little while I will go brush my teeth. After that, I'm sure some more lurking around on my digital devices will take place. Then I will complete my pre-sleep procedures (I'll be throwing in some reverses to my regimen tonight), and I will remove to my bed. I'll place my head upon the pillow and rest; a little softer tonight and a little easier.
After all, that's why I'm here.
So what was a respite to many, getting together outside and bonding around a chainsaw and a game of corn hole, was for myself hours of sitting in the dark while struggling to tune in bad radio stations and reading dimly lit books. There's only so much one can do without electricity, and even less in the middle of the night. It was not entirely pleasant, though I admit that at this point I feel a tinge of nostalgia. My mind wasn't being muddled by what are considered our modern conveniences; no computers, no internet, no television, no video games. These are only conveniences when you actually need them. The other 80% of the time, they are distractions. I missed my computer for the singular fact that all of my music is stored within, but the majority of the experience was a welcome vacation. I had time to consider many things, of which I used to consider a specific few (pretty much the main issues covered in the previous writing). It was during this time that I started the exercise, determined to make a substantial commitment to my cause.
But I know that the schedule I keep, natural disaster or no, is not acceptable. Therein lies a problem, however, as I notoriously despise the concept of sleep. It's not the sleep itself that I don't embrace. It's the fact that, as I slumber, the world moves without me. This feeling is also the cause of what I considered until a recent revelation to be chronic procrastination. I do not in fact procrastinate, I'm just a victim of my own deep-seated desires to never miss a beat. I always feel that, no matter what I'm doing, I'm excluding myself from some ethereal event. So I sit around, doing nothing, so as to not miss out on what is essentially more examples of nothing. This leads to my dysfunctional sleep patterns. I stay up all night and a portion of the day, and sleep for the rest. My proactivity therefore becomes a catalyst of the problem. I know it must change, but the convincing of my brain and my body to go along with this is the tricky business.
Today, I went to bed at eight in the morning. I had been up since four in the afternoon the day before (I had willed myself to remain in bed due to having nothing to wake up to in our temporary modern dark age). I woke up at two-thirty, did fifty, and got on the computer to check in on my strictly-maintained internet world. Nothing had changed. I subjected myself to some much needed musical and photographic inspiration (I hadn't seen her image since the power went out) and headed downstairs. I proceeded to wash and dry two loads of towels in preparation for my overdue shower.
So I waited. Waited for the laundry to finish, waited for my mother to return from work, and waited for others to take their own overdue showers. But mostly I was waiting for my mother. One problem that presented itself about a year ago was the absence of my longtime barber. He was the only man I trusted, as he was the only one who ever did it just right. He was old school. A one-room shop with one stool, and the famous striped pole. And while he could not perform basic medical procedures, as was the purpose of the barbers of yore, he was well versed in the art of men's hair cuttery. Except my aging, long term barber up and left after many, many years. Sure, there is another barber just up the street, but he's not my barber. This, compounded with a general lack of money, lead to my hair growing far longer than I was comfortable wearing it.
So I waited for my mother, and after she had arrived, I asked her to wield the scissors against my unacceptably long mane. That she did. It must be said, though, that she is not particularly well versed in the barber arts, and results are always highly questionable. But I don't care now. Much like the aspects of my personal life, I'm simply sick of the status quo. Now the hair that was weighing me down is gone. No longer does it drape down to my shoulders and curl outward away from my neck, only to fall to my face from the slightest incline. My head is lighter now and my resolve stronger. One infinitesimal step towards my goal has been completed, but it's still one more step than before.
In a little while I will go brush my teeth. After that, I'm sure some more lurking around on my digital devices will take place. Then I will complete my pre-sleep procedures (I'll be throwing in some reverses to my regimen tonight), and I will remove to my bed. I'll place my head upon the pillow and rest; a little softer tonight and a little easier.
After all, that's why I'm here.
Wednesday, September 17
...I only wanted to begin
I've started doing crunches. Fifty in the morning and fifty before bed. It's a new step for me, as the only other exercise regimen I've maintained was PE warm-ups from grade school. Then it was merely overstated stretching and wiggling. Arm circles, toe touches, a sit-up or a push-up thrown in for good measure. After that, the extent of my physical exertion could be chalked up to short bike rides here and there, or the day-to-day running around I did as a not-so-valued member of the IGA grocery staff. The result? Lean legs, sticks for arms, and what can only be described as baby fat that never received the memo from my pituitary gland. To be fair, it wasn't the only one to miss the message (I was entirely incapable of growing a decent amount of facial hair until shortly after high school).
But now things will be different. Now I'm stepping up my game. And it's only been (hmm...one, two...), well how long it's taken to reach this point is not important. I'd be the first to admit that I have a problem with motivation (I graduated from high school in 2007, despite the fact that my senior year proper took place the three years prior). What's important is that I'm here now. I know what must be done if I'm to salvage my existence.
Which conveniently brings me to the crux of the matter, i.e. my existence. Everyone, at some point in their life, questions their existence. Such questions as, "where did I come from?", "what is my purpose in life?", and "what happens after it's all said and done?". Well, I've proposed to myself a different query: Who are you and what difference does it make whether or not anyone else knows the answer? It's a question that's far more specific to my case, but it requires a reply that is no less complex than typical existential wonder. I'll start slowly.
I was born May 22nd, 1986. That puts my age at twenty-two years. But for a few unrecognizable years spent in Florida, I've lived in Ohio my entire life. More specifically, the south side of Columbus. I attended the same middle and high school as my mother and her family. My two older siblings also attended said high school. I got my first, and so far only job right out of high school (the first "right out of high school"), at the aforementioned IGA. I was an employee for roughly one year and seven months. At the end of this period, I happily quit my part-time position in search of brighter things. I have yet to find those things. My brother followed, somewhat forcibly, in my father's footsteps. My sister became a mother, not unlike her mother before her. And I...well, I'm writing this now. If you see some discrepancies there, believe me when I tell you that they do not go unnoticed (not by myself, my mother, my father, my sister...et al).
If there is one accomplishment that I can hold on to, it's the fact of my graduation and the subsequent diploma. I'm the fabled "first in the family". This feat might be enough to sustain me at this relatively young age, had it not been for the fact that I waited until three years after my senior year to finally achieve this goal. However, a gold stamp and embossed lettering are not enough to carry me aloft. Not in my family's eyes, any way. As for myself, I could care less about the piece of paper. For me, there are much greater things at stake than simple academia. Not the least of which is my sanity.
I'm in between jobs, which is to say I receive no income for having done no work and I'm living at home with my parents. I'm also currently single. This, of course, is a misleading statement, as I have never not been single. That's even including an odd little event in my early teens when the little neighbor girl, about three years my junior and of whom I wasn't particularly fond, asked by note if I would be her boyfriend. I begrudgingly accepted for fear that I would be forever alone if I didn't act quickly. I never was her boyfriend, however, as you can't be the boyfriend of a person when you're neither emotionally involved with them, nor know their name (it might have started with an L, but don't hold me to this). It might also help the relationship if you ever speak to each other, or occupy the same room as one another.
Social interaction with my few remaining friends is scarce at best. At worst, we become unaware of whether or not we are still alive. But then it's hard to maintain active friendships when you're literally too anxious to pick up the phone and call them, lest someone unfamiliar answers on the other end and drives you into a panic attack. Also there's the problem of being a modern day hermit in your own home (honestly, it's a wonder people keep any friends at all).
To all of this I have remained generally indifferent. I've always felt relatively content doing little and having done nothing. I've empathized with the main character in the film Office Space. Sure, there have been times when I've been overcome with cabin fever. I've been sullen. But nothing a good episode of MST3K and a night's rest couldn't cure. In my life, I've experienced more severe melancholy over the simple issue of going to school that day. It was not entirely uncommon for me to become so depressed in the mornings that I would be reduced to tears. It started some time in middle school and lasted up until senior year (when my half-sized schedule permitted me to leave for home at noon). Even then it only ever lasted until class let out that afternoon. Now, though, I am unsure of my contentedness. As the song that inspired the title of this writing states, "I'm thinking about bliss, and bliss is all dressed up and there's no one to dance with". I'm not satisfied with myself anymore. Complacency is no longer enough to please me. It's as if one day I woke up and it was different.
On Saturday it was different. On Saturday I was depressed by a dream from which I had awoken. In this dream I had something, and then when I woke up it was gone. I've had such dreams before. I would arise to find that the fun I was having was cut short by reality. In this dream, however, I lost something far greater. In this dream I had more than ever, and then when I woke up I had lost it all.
In this dream, I had love. Then as quickly as it was in my hands, the sun's rays had taken it away. The girl's face, among other details, is a blur at this point, though I'm fairly sure of who it was. In this dream, at some gathering or another, we had found each other. We had held each other and we had kissed. Something the waking me had never experienced before. In the dream, we were there, and in the dream I went to attend to some other matter. Before we could find each other again, I was up. It had indeed been a dream, and I was sad. It has been four days now, and the feeling hasn't left me.
It was on that day that I found a photo of that girl and I haven't stopped looking at it. It was on that day that she inspired me. However I could bring myself to do it, little by little, I would do things differently. As it says later in the song, "it's OK for you to care, cause I can taste you everywhere, and while its true all straight things must bend, I only wanted to begin".
So I've started doing crunches. Fifty in the morning and fifty before bed. It's a new step for me.
But now things will be different. Now I'm stepping up my game. And it's only been (hmm...one, two...), well how long it's taken to reach this point is not important. I'd be the first to admit that I have a problem with motivation (I graduated from high school in 2007, despite the fact that my senior year proper took place the three years prior). What's important is that I'm here now. I know what must be done if I'm to salvage my existence.
Which conveniently brings me to the crux of the matter, i.e. my existence. Everyone, at some point in their life, questions their existence. Such questions as, "where did I come from?", "what is my purpose in life?", and "what happens after it's all said and done?". Well, I've proposed to myself a different query: Who are you and what difference does it make whether or not anyone else knows the answer? It's a question that's far more specific to my case, but it requires a reply that is no less complex than typical existential wonder. I'll start slowly.
I was born May 22nd, 1986. That puts my age at twenty-two years. But for a few unrecognizable years spent in Florida, I've lived in Ohio my entire life. More specifically, the south side of Columbus. I attended the same middle and high school as my mother and her family. My two older siblings also attended said high school. I got my first, and so far only job right out of high school (the first "right out of high school"), at the aforementioned IGA. I was an employee for roughly one year and seven months. At the end of this period, I happily quit my part-time position in search of brighter things. I have yet to find those things. My brother followed, somewhat forcibly, in my father's footsteps. My sister became a mother, not unlike her mother before her. And I...well, I'm writing this now. If you see some discrepancies there, believe me when I tell you that they do not go unnoticed (not by myself, my mother, my father, my sister...et al).
If there is one accomplishment that I can hold on to, it's the fact of my graduation and the subsequent diploma. I'm the fabled "first in the family". This feat might be enough to sustain me at this relatively young age, had it not been for the fact that I waited until three years after my senior year to finally achieve this goal. However, a gold stamp and embossed lettering are not enough to carry me aloft. Not in my family's eyes, any way. As for myself, I could care less about the piece of paper. For me, there are much greater things at stake than simple academia. Not the least of which is my sanity.
I'm in between jobs, which is to say I receive no income for having done no work and I'm living at home with my parents. I'm also currently single. This, of course, is a misleading statement, as I have never not been single. That's even including an odd little event in my early teens when the little neighbor girl, about three years my junior and of whom I wasn't particularly fond, asked by note if I would be her boyfriend. I begrudgingly accepted for fear that I would be forever alone if I didn't act quickly. I never was her boyfriend, however, as you can't be the boyfriend of a person when you're neither emotionally involved with them, nor know their name (it might have started with an L, but don't hold me to this). It might also help the relationship if you ever speak to each other, or occupy the same room as one another.
Social interaction with my few remaining friends is scarce at best. At worst, we become unaware of whether or not we are still alive. But then it's hard to maintain active friendships when you're literally too anxious to pick up the phone and call them, lest someone unfamiliar answers on the other end and drives you into a panic attack. Also there's the problem of being a modern day hermit in your own home (honestly, it's a wonder people keep any friends at all).
To all of this I have remained generally indifferent. I've always felt relatively content doing little and having done nothing. I've empathized with the main character in the film Office Space. Sure, there have been times when I've been overcome with cabin fever. I've been sullen. But nothing a good episode of MST3K and a night's rest couldn't cure. In my life, I've experienced more severe melancholy over the simple issue of going to school that day. It was not entirely uncommon for me to become so depressed in the mornings that I would be reduced to tears. It started some time in middle school and lasted up until senior year (when my half-sized schedule permitted me to leave for home at noon). Even then it only ever lasted until class let out that afternoon. Now, though, I am unsure of my contentedness. As the song that inspired the title of this writing states, "I'm thinking about bliss, and bliss is all dressed up and there's no one to dance with". I'm not satisfied with myself anymore. Complacency is no longer enough to please me. It's as if one day I woke up and it was different.
On Saturday it was different. On Saturday I was depressed by a dream from which I had awoken. In this dream I had something, and then when I woke up it was gone. I've had such dreams before. I would arise to find that the fun I was having was cut short by reality. In this dream, however, I lost something far greater. In this dream I had more than ever, and then when I woke up I had lost it all.
In this dream, I had love. Then as quickly as it was in my hands, the sun's rays had taken it away. The girl's face, among other details, is a blur at this point, though I'm fairly sure of who it was. In this dream, at some gathering or another, we had found each other. We had held each other and we had kissed. Something the waking me had never experienced before. In the dream, we were there, and in the dream I went to attend to some other matter. Before we could find each other again, I was up. It had indeed been a dream, and I was sad. It has been four days now, and the feeling hasn't left me.
It was on that day that I found a photo of that girl and I haven't stopped looking at it. It was on that day that she inspired me. However I could bring myself to do it, little by little, I would do things differently. As it says later in the song, "it's OK for you to care, cause I can taste you everywhere, and while its true all straight things must bend, I only wanted to begin".
So I've started doing crunches. Fifty in the morning and fifty before bed. It's a new step for me.
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