I'm having one of those days where I just want to hide away in my tiny room, read and listen to the music I want to hear. Some days, those are all I want and all I need. I've had several friends text and call today, asking me to come out to events going on in the city tonight, but I talked my way out of each one. How nice to have a choice! I remember the days when I was just a fresh face in Seattle. The loneliest days of my life; surrounded by people, yet a stranger in everyone's midst. Although honestly, I don't think too much has changed. I'm still alone a lot, but I do have a small handful of good people that I've met who keep me entertained and I think I have gotten used to being in this place.
Finally.
Rather than feeling like I've been thrown into a pot of boiling water and expected to learn how to swim and survive there, the water has cooled to a mostly-pleasant lukewarm. Culture-shock has mellowed into cultural-tolerance. I've disappeared into the background by learning how to be, or at least appear superficially like everyone else. A tepid world is so passionless and blasé, but somehow insulated from the intensity of life.
The extremes, whether they be dullness or madness, are successful in preventing too much feeling. So, for the moment, I am this new person. For the moment, I catch my breath and keep learning to master swimming in this watery madness.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Thoughts
What’s harder than starting? Probably finishing, but nothing is harder than being stuck in the middle. What is there to say? What do you want to know? Do you want to know about my family? I have 8 siblings. I get depressed thinking about how fucked up we all are, at least from my perspective. Was it our upbringing? Was it the divorce? Or is life just like that? Does it fuck you up whether or not your parents loved you to death? We feel angry and think they should have done it differently. Maybe if we hadn’t moved around so much, maybe if our dad hadn't left us, maybe if we hadn't left him. The maybes and the never knowings. Perhaps if I just throw all the maybes and what-ifs into a huge pile, something beautiful will grow out of the unsightly heap. Ugh... this story has been told countless times, we're not special. Yet, for us it's as though this is the first time ever written.
Where do I begin? Literally, where do I ... the Self of me ... begin? I just want to write and write, hoping that something will form from the madness of words on a screen. Like magic. As if a stream of consciousness can create a masterpiece of it’s own accord. If I don’t let my brain take over and edit, maybe I will arrive at order from disorder. Where does the uncontrollable begin and the controllable end? I want to feel something that can be transformed into language, like a secret code. I want to write and wring my own heart and soul. Not to feel sorry for me and not to make the world seem depressing and cold, but what if that's just what it is? Happiness is a myth that we chase. The heavy weight on your chest is the human being in a natural state. Whatever we feel must go deeper in order for it to be meaningful and the deeper we go, the farther we get from the light. Does it scare you? It doesn't scare me, because it just is what it is. It just is.
Where do I begin? Literally, where do I ... the Self of me ... begin? I just want to write and write, hoping that something will form from the madness of words on a screen. Like magic. As if a stream of consciousness can create a masterpiece of it’s own accord. If I don’t let my brain take over and edit, maybe I will arrive at order from disorder. Where does the uncontrollable begin and the controllable end? I want to feel something that can be transformed into language, like a secret code. I want to write and wring my own heart and soul. Not to feel sorry for me and not to make the world seem depressing and cold, but what if that's just what it is? Happiness is a myth that we chase. The heavy weight on your chest is the human being in a natural state. Whatever we feel must go deeper in order for it to be meaningful and the deeper we go, the farther we get from the light. Does it scare you? It doesn't scare me, because it just is what it is. It just is.
Thursday, September 06, 2012
2 months?
Time flies, while it slowly creeps along. I've been gone what feels like so long now, I barely know where home is anymore. Not like anywhere felt like homehome before -- not really, not anymore, but I feel less connected to any place in particular than I've ever felt before. Feelings mixed with excitement for the freedom this gives me and then sadness of how alone I have become. Although, this is what I asked for and this is what I needed, so I am really not complaining. There is a definitive feeling of change inside me, at least change from how I felt about and saw life a year ago. I just hope this is what wisemen might call maturing and not just cynicism.
Realizing all that I don't want in life, while lightening up in areas I might have felt needlessly strong about and mildly self-indignant about has been most relieving. Allowing myself to want what I want and not carrying so much guilt and the expectations of others has been another remarkable weight I'm happy to let go of. Progress? I hope.
Or perhaps I am suffering from regular case of losing the ability to give enough of a fuck about most things. Well, I give a little bit of a fuck. Enough to worry from time to time about how serious a problem not giving a fuck might present itself some day, yet not enough to actually give too much of a fuck about this either.
The tweaking and examination of the moral compass is a bit of a scary endeavour, for me, but I am not exactly in charge of the intrinsic drive to want to examine every single jottle and tit of every single thing I have ever been told or learned. Perhaps I am, except I am certain that knowing why I know what I know is more important than just knowing things. At least having confidence that I thought something through from beginning to end and arrived at the most plausible conclusion... or none at all, but at least I earn some confidence one way or the other. At least I can confidently state that I don't know anything about anything, instead of halfheartedly thinking I know so much. Does that make sense?
I can say one thing: I am excited about the possibility of having a place to call home one day even if, with my current prospects, this seems highly unlikely.
Realizing all that I don't want in life, while lightening up in areas I might have felt needlessly strong about and mildly self-indignant about has been most relieving. Allowing myself to want what I want and not carrying so much guilt and the expectations of others has been another remarkable weight I'm happy to let go of. Progress? I hope.
Or perhaps I am suffering from regular case of losing the ability to give enough of a fuck about most things. Well, I give a little bit of a fuck. Enough to worry from time to time about how serious a problem not giving a fuck might present itself some day, yet not enough to actually give too much of a fuck about this either.
The tweaking and examination of the moral compass is a bit of a scary endeavour, for me, but I am not exactly in charge of the intrinsic drive to want to examine every single jottle and tit of every single thing I have ever been told or learned. Perhaps I am, except I am certain that knowing why I know what I know is more important than just knowing things. At least having confidence that I thought something through from beginning to end and arrived at the most plausible conclusion... or none at all, but at least I earn some confidence one way or the other. At least I can confidently state that I don't know anything about anything, instead of halfheartedly thinking I know so much. Does that make sense?
I can say one thing: I am excited about the possibility of having a place to call home one day even if, with my current prospects, this seems highly unlikely.
Monday, September 03, 2012
An Experiment of Description
Opening the front door, a gust of chilly wind bursts through the entryway. Winter in July? Only in Seattle, I think to myself, almost chuckling at the absurdity. My hands dig deeper into my pockets, as if the deeper they went, the more chance they might have of finding a old pair of gloves. In the spirit of summer solstice, I decided to pack up my heavy winter clothes and accessories, hoping the act would somehow coax the mercury to make its way up the thermometer. Unfortunately, all it did was to leave me with my collection of too-thin sweaters. I’m not sure whose idea those were and what good they are even for. There are few things I dislike more than feeling cold and If it weren’t for the noise and chaos of visiting relatives in the house, I would much sooner cozy up on the couch with a hot cup of tea. But I must venture forth, or else risk finding myself giving pony rides to my 2 small nieces for the better part of the afternoon.
A light drizzle has now started and for a moment, I hesitate standing unmoving in the doorway, doubting the assertion I made to leave moments ago. The rain falls like a fine miserable mist. A drizzling, half-hearted rain shower; the kind that appears so innocuous and innocent, but I know this rain well. I know that my too-thin hoodie doesn’t stand a chance against this deceptive deluge. It is such a soaking, intrusive and impertinent kind of rain. Nature possesses a misleading kind of beauty, one that is unfazed and indifferent to the vulnerability we humans experience when at its mercy. Suddenly, a loud noise startles me from my doorway daydreams and reality, in the form of beach ball, hits me in the face, followed by half a dozen more bouncing down the stairs towards me, while a pair of laughing, rambunctious children bound down along with them. Indecision is trounced by my instinct to run before I am trapped and quickly I pull the hood of my sweater over my head, scurrying out the door. My escape is not quick enough and behind me a chorus of high-pitched beggings and pleadings for me to come play, rings in the distance. I cup my ears and give a puzzled look, faking that I can’t hear them, as I break into a half skip, half jog in an effort to discourage them from following me.
At last. Peace and quiet... but oh this dreadful rain! I pull my hood down lower, but the rain has conspired with the wind and together they surreptitiously encroach under and around the feeble shelter covering my face. The rain collects in the crevices of my hoodie and just above my ears forming pools, and then streams which trickle down into my eyes. Rivers of rain meandering through my eyelashes, transforming the ordinary world into blurring kaleidoscope perspectives. My sleeves are soaked, but reflexively I wipe the rain-tears away and clear my vision just in time to realize I have carelessly stepped into a dirty puddle on the sidewalk. My foot impacts and then immerses into the cold water before I am able to stop myself from stepping onto the camouflaged wet mine. Dirty water sprays upwards to my face, in a spectacular fountain burst and simultaneously permeates the canvas of my tennis shoes. Quickly, I pull my foot back, but the damage has been done. My shoe is sopping wet and I mutter a variety of profanities under my breath. The rest of the walk to my car must now be accompanied by the squishing sounds of soggy-foot-in-wet-shoe. With each step I feel slurps and hear squelches as the water sucks through the spaces between my toes.
The chilling wind, once again in cahoots with the rain, threatens to freeze my toes. As the wind speed picks up, I inturn pick up my own pace, hoping to outrun this mocking duo who seem hell bent on thwarting my mission. Like a war hero returning from a long battle, the sight of my car looming closer and closer with each step kindles a feeling of victory and triumph as a surge of energy enables me to sprint the last few yards to safety. Once inside, I kick off my soggy shoe and blast the heater, resting my foot on the dashboard to defrost my frozen toes.
Mission, to the car, accomplished!
A light drizzle has now started and for a moment, I hesitate standing unmoving in the doorway, doubting the assertion I made to leave moments ago. The rain falls like a fine miserable mist. A drizzling, half-hearted rain shower; the kind that appears so innocuous and innocent, but I know this rain well. I know that my too-thin hoodie doesn’t stand a chance against this deceptive deluge. It is such a soaking, intrusive and impertinent kind of rain. Nature possesses a misleading kind of beauty, one that is unfazed and indifferent to the vulnerability we humans experience when at its mercy. Suddenly, a loud noise startles me from my doorway daydreams and reality, in the form of beach ball, hits me in the face, followed by half a dozen more bouncing down the stairs towards me, while a pair of laughing, rambunctious children bound down along with them. Indecision is trounced by my instinct to run before I am trapped and quickly I pull the hood of my sweater over my head, scurrying out the door. My escape is not quick enough and behind me a chorus of high-pitched beggings and pleadings for me to come play, rings in the distance. I cup my ears and give a puzzled look, faking that I can’t hear them, as I break into a half skip, half jog in an effort to discourage them from following me.
At last. Peace and quiet... but oh this dreadful rain! I pull my hood down lower, but the rain has conspired with the wind and together they surreptitiously encroach under and around the feeble shelter covering my face. The rain collects in the crevices of my hoodie and just above my ears forming pools, and then streams which trickle down into my eyes. Rivers of rain meandering through my eyelashes, transforming the ordinary world into blurring kaleidoscope perspectives. My sleeves are soaked, but reflexively I wipe the rain-tears away and clear my vision just in time to realize I have carelessly stepped into a dirty puddle on the sidewalk. My foot impacts and then immerses into the cold water before I am able to stop myself from stepping onto the camouflaged wet mine. Dirty water sprays upwards to my face, in a spectacular fountain burst and simultaneously permeates the canvas of my tennis shoes. Quickly, I pull my foot back, but the damage has been done. My shoe is sopping wet and I mutter a variety of profanities under my breath. The rest of the walk to my car must now be accompanied by the squishing sounds of soggy-foot-in-wet-shoe. With each step I feel slurps and hear squelches as the water sucks through the spaces between my toes.
The chilling wind, once again in cahoots with the rain, threatens to freeze my toes. As the wind speed picks up, I inturn pick up my own pace, hoping to outrun this mocking duo who seem hell bent on thwarting my mission. Like a war hero returning from a long battle, the sight of my car looming closer and closer with each step kindles a feeling of victory and triumph as a surge of energy enables me to sprint the last few yards to safety. Once inside, I kick off my soggy shoe and blast the heater, resting my foot on the dashboard to defrost my frozen toes.
Mission, to the car, accomplished!
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