Sunday, January 30, 2011

Clearance.

Content: The individual items or topics that are dealt with in a publication or document.

Content: Desiring no more than what one has; satisfied.

Homographs crop up more often than one realizes.
-~-
Subject One presents with the following:
Highly intelligent- well versed in many areas from music, to literature, and a wide array of unexpected topics. Humour based on any number of themes, ranging from offensive to bad puns. Extra credit for the latter.
-~-
When one is used to focusing at a certain depth, like a laser aimed to penetrate the veneer and read information stored beyond, there is always the unintended consequence of moving one's own secrets to a different level-often times to the surface, other times even deeper.
-~-
Subject Two insists on erratic inconsistencies. Confidence levels generally meet or exceed expected levels for one at the subject's age and status, unless presented with minute, nearly undetectable forms of outside observance. These seem to create a feedback loop that renders Subject two incapable of decision or basic conversation. More study is required to determine levels of self-awareness in aforementioned situations.
-~-
It's a tale told through small motions, gestures, a look in the eye.
Using the toe of one shoe to casually pick at the heel of the other. The steps from the table to the chair, sliding it forward, a slow and practiced crossing of the leg, a bow of the head to speak closer.
I catch the curve, from the brow, into the eye, down the cheek. Without realizing, my finger begins attempting to trace this line on the table. I can't quite capture it, there is a sharp inside cut that in reality astounds me, but I'm unsure if I could ever put it on paper. My artistic abilities are very niche and unskilled.
The media of condensation on the plastic table-top, fortunately, is impermanent and not being precise is par for the course.
I was being watched. The imperfect line becomes a mobius strip. I scold myself for doing things if I know I'm too afraid to explain my actions.
-/_
Concert: A performance given by one or more singers, instrumentalists, or both.

Concert: To act together in harmony.
_\-
The first step to solving a problem is identifying it.
To kill a monster you need to know its name.
This is just to say:

I'm afraid of
opening up,
even though I'm sure
you'd allow it.

We're both looking
for some warmth
against the bite
of being alone

Forgive me,
for being so distant,
you are so sweet,
and I am so broken, so cold.

Monday, January 24, 2011

Day(s).

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. beep. beep. beep. Snooze button. Repeat if desired.

Mornings are relative. I'm in a fog of dream sometimes. Lately it has actually led to... inconsistencies. Trouble distinguishing from imagination and reality, conciousness and the realms of trickery; momentarily I'm forced to fight to scramble and put the pieces back into place. This task is becoming more and more difficult.

If necessary, drawer is on the right. Two pills for normal, three for extra. Not yet a part of the routine. Fighting to keep it that way.

You only need to use a pea sized amount. All the way in the back for good measure.

Shaving cream is optional. Required depending on age of razor.

Overly expensive and watery shampoo. Natural remedies for human ailments gone awry.

I can handle the early day. I deprive my mind of enough of it's proper rest, so that it only has the cognitive ability to perform routine tasks and rudimentary social behavior. I don't have to think. About her. About me. About the past.

About the future.

With this I can buffer myself with certitude. Self-reliance. An ability to have clarity without doubt. Without blame.

Brew unsweet on the left machine, sweet on the right. Full A, four cups sugar. Repeat. Stock. Set-up. Script. Sell. Spray. Sweep. Serve. Silver. Section. Sidework. Signature. Repeat if desired.

The problem with muscle memory is this: once your brain is no longer actively focused on thinking about the task at hand, it is left unconstrained. It wanders. Unless you force it to focus it will dredge of every problem left unsolved. Tedium is the enemy.

Throw yourself into the task. You don't have to think if all you think about is activity. Maintain a mindset never at rest. Take an interest. An active interest is too dangerous. Enough to keep the mind occupied. If you're lucky you can keep this up all day.

Break/separate.

The glint of sunlight off the rim of a cup forms a web of light to the table below. Illusions are beginning to replace my reality, I realize as I reach out to brush it off.

There are cracks in my mind, and they're starting to leak.

Anything can be a religion, if you apply the proper amount of effort. You just have to have an unshakable faith in it. Fear, love, murder, sex, TV, politics. I've seen people who had enough faith in faith alone that it could be a religion. I've found myself at the foot of many altars in my life-not for a lack of particular faith or will, but more so the inexorable and unstoppable universal force of change.

I've even had faith in change.

Therein lay the paradox. If you put yourself at the foot of change, and give your true faith to it, you will never be able to stop it. Change rules you, and you're left helpless by the wayside. You cannot bring it about yourself, oh no-it breaks the bonds of the agreement. I've been there so long that I find myself unable to break this bond.

So tedium becomes the norm. Subject to change, and never Lord to it.

Reunion.

Unfortunately, the night brings me awake. Adjustments are made to bring operations up to full capacity. And I think.

That's where the trouble starts. A torrent of thoughts breaks through, problems requiring solving. Solutions requiring analysis. Analyses requiring theories. All of this broken by the fact that I cannot find the answers. I'm forced to throw my mind into more engaging tasks. I can hear the pleas for tedium crowding my skull. So I drown them.

Until finally...

Hopefully...

Sleep.

At last, sleep.

Sleep.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. beep. beep. beep. Snooze button. Repeat is required.
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Saturday, January 22, 2011

Intermittent Paranoid

There is another, longer post in the works. Funny enough, I'm actually working on one instead of sitting down and hammering out whatever bug has lodged itself in my skull.
But this post on the other hand, is most definitely that.

Line break (sic)

Scrutiny. It can seem like a religion, at times. I feel it all too often, I feel it from those I care about, I feel it most of all from myself.

Scrutiny. It becomes a mantra. I'm so bogged down with thinking what the right and wrong are, that inaction becomes the flavor of the week.

I'm afraid, all the time. My most paralyzing fear is missed opportunity, and it is a self fulfilling prophecy.

Scrutiny. I see what you did there. Please just don't look.
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Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Honesty, honestly.

Those who take the time to read this blog may have noticed that I've become more active as of late-this is not a coincidence. While I tend to be a fairly private person, and often keep my thoughts and feelings to myself, I've come to realize this is not a healthy lifestyle. This place is a place for me, have no doubts about that. This is where I can write, clear my head, and get my mind working on ideas and solving problems, but it is also a place where anyone who cares to can get some insight into my thoughts. On the other hand, the public nature of this requires me, for the most part, to be a little vague.

Now, dont get me wrong, I don't mind vague-in fact, vague I do very well, but at some point I began losing honesty in my writing. This place, here, is not the only place that I write. I keep many little notebooks and journals placed around for whenever the itch hits me. Even in those, though, I've always been overly verbose and speak in nearly incoherent metaphor. So I've embarked on a new writing venture, a daily one, in which I write down, short and sweet, the events of my day. Mundane or exciting, they all go in there. I use real names, places, and what I really feel about things, without grandiose run-arounds and hidden messages.

This is already scaring the shit out of me.

I have this inherent fear, and I always have, of people finding the wrong piece of paper, the wrong scrawl, and learning something I never should have committed to paper. This is a way of making me face my fear.

These notes will be published, online, but not here. I will most definitely put them somewhere where my identity will be a little more difficult to ascertain. I'm already falling behind on this, but I plan to get caught up today, and stay that way. Already I'm fretting where I've put these down for fear of their discovery, and the content thus far has been mostly benign.

My end-run here, is to hopefully, by being a bit more thorough in my communication to myself, I can be a bit more open with those I need to be-to speak things more plainly when I'm afraid to say them out loud.

Heaven help me.
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Saturday, January 1, 2011

Impasse

Picture:
There is a door. There is someone on either side, but we can only see one side, because the door is shut. The person we see is banging on the door, begging the other to come out. Beckoning, then begging. Then finally they are bargaining, but from the other side of the door, nothing emerges, not even a sound. The desperation is not at all feigned, nor is it all-encompassing.
This door, you see, is not Their Door. The only thing holding it shut is a rule, not a lock or latch. Not even a rule, per se, as opening it would have no real repercussions. So in a way it is a game, albeit one they both take seriously.
But it is not Their Door, it is not in Their Place, and neither of them will come out as the victor. There's always somebody a step ahead.
The moral of the story?
I'm not out of the woods quite yet.

Listen:
There are a few things I want to say, to ask. I'm getting there. I've written in the past, though not here, that I feel scrutinized, overly, by some unseen force. I've since come to learn that that scrutiny comes from the other side of the door. I've also learned who is there: Nobody.
Nobody, as in Nobody. Only an irrational concept on a plane of rational things.
When one tends to deconstruct the world around them so that it fits into definable categories that can be restructured and re-purposed to fit into respective molds of understanding, the things that don't fit, that don't make sense, get put on the other side of that door. That's where Nobody is, and nobody, save Nobody, goes in there.

They say:
Nobody never feels fear, Nobody goes through life without doubt. Nobody doesn't cry.
That's impossible, Nobody could do that.
Nobody is in control. Nobody can tell you what to do. Nobody rules your life.
Nobody is watching.
Nobody.

Listen, again:
I've been, for most of my life, confident of myself. At some point in this last year, I lost that confidence. I lost respect for myself. I lost bits and pieces of the person I am, so slowly, so gradually, that when the bottom fell out, I hadn't even known there was a problem.
It is, however, getting better. Normalcy is being restored. Which has led me to new realizations-rather, discoveries of problems that have existed for a long time which I either didn't know about or long ago chose to ignore.

My confidence has never extended beyond myself. I have this deep seated need to ask for permission, for fear of offending or overstepping my bounds. For all my talk, this makes me a much less spontaneous person, averse to taking any risks that are not almost completely sure bets.
It's an affliction, and it nearly kills any ideals of romantic behavior.

I remember, my first ever girlfriend, Becky from Scipio. I remember sitting next to her, nearly touching her. I remember trying to get the nerve, for almost half an hour, to hold her hand. I remember my heart literally skipping a beat when I finally tried. I remember the nonchalance of her aquiescence, as if it was not at all an unexpected or unwelcome thing to do.
Of course, for most people, it wasn't.

Believe me when I say, for the most part, I got better at this sort of thing over time.

But:
Again I find myself at this level of confidence: wanting to boldly move forward, to take action. And it's nearly impossible. Again I feel the paralysis of that 11 year old boy, staring at Becky from Scipio's hand and imagining the softness of it, and imagining that just the action of reaching out and grasping will either evoke rage or passion from her.
So now, 15 years later, bruised and broken from things that have happened in between, my brain urges me to err on the side of caution, while my heart screams and rages to take chances. Diametrically opposed voices that both have very solid reasoning, but as a creature of logic I can't help but listen to my brain.
My brain looks to my heart, and tells it gently, "We've gone down these roads before, friend, and look where it's taken us."
Heart looks up at my brain, with a mixture of pity and shame on his face. "If you never take the chance to go somewhere unknown, you'll spend your whole life standing still, and nothing will ever change. 'I don't intend to tiptoe through life, only to arrive safely at my death.' Beauty is only found through adversity. Try it. Just one more time."

I just hope I'm not running out of opportunities.
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