The Duty of an Island

I am a liar.

A broken, afraid, and scared liar.

I lie to friends and family, even people I don't know, and for what?

Distance.

I build walls and burn bridges. Each lie strikes like a match to incinerate the wick of connection to others. I don't think I like being close to people, because I never have been before. From an early age I was conditioned, by no fault of family, to be alone; to be by myself and alone in my thoughts. I can't even fathom a connection where you share everything. Though I had a sibling, there was an age gap and I didn't even have that connection there.

Yet at a very young age, I'm remembering as far back as three and four years old, I understood emotions and tension. I don't think that is a "special" skill by any means, I think children are more in tune with these things than adults. But I learned as a child how to "read a room" and defuse a situation.

From then on, I've given every ounce of energy to attempting to murder sadness and unhappiness in the people around me. So much so, that I don't even remember what its like to make a decision for something that I want.

The closest I get is when someone becomes so much of an emotional effort, or I realise I can't help them, I cut and run...and I feel like an asshole for years after...

There are tools one develops to avoid connection. Sense of humour is the most versatile. The trick to being unnoticeably disconnected is to be funny. Laughter misdirects. Lies are another good device found in the toolbox of the broken.

I remember speaking to my paternal grandmother about my paternal grandfather.

"I never knew adults could lie, it was a surprise."

That shocked me. All the fears one has of being the things you hate about your preceding direct generations all up in your thought bubble shining light on the worst parts of yourself.

The truth is I'm almost thirty years old, and I'm still that three year old boy.

I feel more around me than I do within myself. I have a pattern of being whatever someone else needs me to be. Lying to hide myself so that I can be what it is they need. Because in my arrogance, I believe I'm stronger than a normal person and can handle it. After repeated offences, and some growing into it, its true.

I can handle it.

I don't feel or have my own emotions, just the idea and knowledge of what emotion I should have. I can't turn it off, I lie to myself and others to pretend I do have said emotion.

I thought I had feelings and emotions, but manipulating circumstances for attention is not the same, and I'm quite disgusted with myself on those attempts. Another grand hand me down in the long genetic trail of tragic preceding generations.

I think I'm a shell now.

I require the drama or else I don't have any connection to feelings.
So why concerned with connection to feelings and not another person?

I wish I could answer that.
Probably because its the closest I can get.

I feel defeated. Existence has won.

But the worst part is I have to stay around until the end for various reasons. I can't undo the happiness I've done for a select few (most would never notice the absence). Not to mention the scientific and/or spiritual, which ever you subscribe to, obligation of continuing the generational trail so future generations can have a chance of fixing a lineage of comedic tragedy.

An idiot left serving the penance of life.

Sometimes lies are transparent to those you tell them too.

They are smart enough to see through them, and patronize you with subtle mockings, though their intelligence in this regard is one of the reasons you liked them in the first place.

It's too late at that point.

You've said the exact opposite of what you've wanted to say too many times. Cowardice and anger are all that you've got left cause if you didn't lie, they'd know the truth of what you wanted. And they've got their own stuff to deal with, they are just passing by.

The walls are still up and the smouldering of what used to resemble bridges fill the horizon. Or better..

I think some men are islands. Stationary beings for the lost and needing to wash up on shore until the island's resources have nourished and sent the lost or needing soul back on its way.

I remember at school (a private Christian school mind you) being "taught" about how we all made up the body of Christ. I made a joke about how if that were true, than someone had to be the butthole.

This was not well received by my teacher, but I still believe each human has their part they play. Not everyone gets the life they want and to believe so is foolishness.

Weither humanity is evolving or we are the body of Christ doesn't matter, there is always the need for the islands and buttholes.

They have their purpose and functions.

I suppose if I have to lie to do my doodie, than so be it.

A Blast from the Past

Well, it's very interesting reading some of my old writings from a really old blog.

Some, I find interesting enough to share, some I've realised I cut up and used as lyrics for songs, and others...well you don't get to read those.

First up, a poem that I find interesting. I remember writing this about a newly found enjoyment of alcohol. Although this poem is about drinking and not a girl, lines from this were used in a song about a girl who made me drink. Go figure.
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31 July, 2005

"The Lady Fate and Her Unfortunate Ability to be Late, on Time, and Wrong at the Correct Moment"

oh savory songs of blissful air,
how you'll rain over her hair
gently now it will whisp in the wind
and hold my eyes till the breeze will end

her voice was heard all to well in the depths of my mind
as it shot each memory down like lightning leaving the sky
the cloud split as each syllable departed hastily
from those deceitful venomous lips

light will trickle down her silloutte
all the forms of pain disintegrate in the sunset
this lady of fate elludes me once again
as i drop to my knees, lowering my chin

are you whimsical like the flashing autumn leaves?
i'll take three drinks to say you are
the fourth to wake up tomorrow unsure what day it is
all i really want now is to wake up and feel accomplished staring at empty bottles...

tomorrow should be better, always remember tomorrow
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This next one is eerie. It seems I really was in a dark pessimistically cynical state (I suppose I never really left). Somehow, comparing dreams to earthquakes, and always annoyingly quick to point out I had a broken heart, was meant to be a catalyst for the reader to follow their dreams? I certainly had a twisted way of being positive almost a decade ago...I mean really...what was/is wrong with me? ...and geez, alliteration must have been a newly found device. ...
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7 April, 2006

         Dreams are essentially earth shattering, world destroying travesties; seemingly sudden and deadly as an earthquake. A dream emerges collapsing every fundamental building of thought constructed in your mind. Then, much like a female's way with a male, the dream completes it's damage, fizzles away without trace, and leaves you with little to no record. Granted, the destruction is it's own seperate history of the earthquake's existence; your dream seemed to be an entire lifetime, utterly suprising it's victim when they find it has been nothing more than a meger split second.

         Such a short interruption of thought, should go unnoticed, yet you and I both know that is never the case. The rest of your conscious mind sticks on the dream like the media reporting on the city attacked by nature's rumblings. Exaggerating the death toll, eyewitness accounts, and exacerbated scenarios plaguing every channel of your thought telling you what to think about the dream.When in actuality, what you really honestly and truthfully think IS the dream.

         The ash snows down as, one by one, each fire is put out in the aftermath of your thought. Each scourching scenario sails smoothly into smothering, as the "big red reality truck" makes it's rounds and the logic police control the crowd. 

"It was just a dream." 

         Tell that to the family of eight who now has five. If the dream doesn't exist, than why is there aftermath? I propose to you, let fate enthral you. The dream is in every bit of grasp, reach out and grab on.
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Lastly, another random rant. This one I actually like a lot. So much so, I'm jealous of my younger self. There is a confidence in this writing that I lost at some point, maybe I'll get back there again one day.
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22 January, 2006

Here we are, left undoubtedly in such a disheartening thought that, no, not even the slightest hint of an exacerbated explanation is found. Do we continue onward in the blissfully ignorant acceptance of the parallel between reality and thought?

I propose that we not take a look at the simple complexity of thought, yet that which does the thinking. 

One reads these words and tries to not have their eyes wander; however, soon the thought of tonights dinner, tomorrows plans, and relived yesterdays creep in. 

What is this item of greatness that we use for everything, yet we are seemingly powerless of control over? 

It is not for a loss that we receive education, distinguishing letters, numbers, pictures and words; but we tragically plummet once this is surpassed, allowing anyone or anything to do this thinking for us.

Would our thinking be different if we understood just what it was we were using to think?
Coincidentally, how does one generalize thought for all people? 

Perhaps the difference between a genius and one who is the opposite of a genius is simply that one grasps the concept and is aware that thought is everything. Where as the "other" loosely connects mental excitement to being alive. 

There must be some point for every person when they are confronted by thought and give in to unlocking the greatest currency of all. 

You see, money, cars, houses, items, and stature in no way, shape, or form characterize you; thought is all thats left. 

Your thoughts you leave behind, and the thoughts about you when you're gone.
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#brainspew

My oh, oh my.

I thought being busier would help.
So busy. Busy.

I'm not at the top of my game as I once was, but then again, this is a transition from the "doing" to the "telling to do."

Yeah, going as expected.

I see more and more of my father in myself as each day goes by.
Mixed feelings there.

I suppose homesickness is a real thing. Bring on Thanksgiving.
A homecooked meal is probably all my grumpy crotchety-ness filled stomach needs to satisfy it's hangriness.

I think I've finally come to terms with my laptop being stolen before I could transfer all of my writing that I did in the last year or so. It kinda feels like, the last year was such a year of growth, it doesn't deserve to have its history and art it caused erased. But then, that also makes sense.

Knowing that gap is there in the chapters of my writing, eats at me. I suppose it's not that bad, its more like every time I have to rewrite my novel from the beginning (...the third time in a decade its been lost; and yes, back up lessons learned, but sometimes Murphy's law has nothing on Whitworth's law...), the novel seems to get refined and a smidgen better.

I've become a lot more dedicated to the cause as well, probably to the dismay of societal obligations, but I've grown tired of the masks and characters I must portray in order to appear "interested" or "engaged." The truth is, I like being alone, and I don't like being around people. Not all the time.
And that's weird to me, cause that will never work in a relationship.

I see more and more of my father in myself as each day goes by.
Terrified feelings there.

And so the dedication to writing and creating again. It's easier now that it's not a vehicle to a living and more a need to explain.
It's swell.

Sometimes I worry myself, but the island just has to much yet to be tamed to be shared. Sorry.

I have a plan, it's going to be difficult and depend on a lot of "maybes," but it just might work. And should it work, I'll be making a return to a land of opportunity by this time next year (...Whitworth's law dictates at least half of the "maybes" being hard "no's..."). But hey, that's life. Deal with it.

Cracker Crumbs

I don't know where I am or what I feel.

Here I am at 29.
Age is a number, or so we're all told.

I got a birthday card from my mother in the mail today.
One of the things she signed in the card was "Party like you'll never get old. You won't: you were born an old soul."

I love that.

Yet here I am, an old soul.

I've always felt older than my age and mostly told I act older than my age.
I get stuck trying to act my age, and do quite well sometimes. Even making up for past ages I may have skipped in my maturity stages.

I seem to be continually attempting, pitifully I might add, to make the mistakes I know I should make at my age. Thats what we're supposed to do. You know, at this age or that age. I don't understand why, and though I know better, I attempt acting on the knowledge that this is what I'm supposed to do, rather simply accept that I'm ok not doing those things and just be me, regardless of age.

We all know that doesn't happen. The unequivocal desire for all of us to fit in and be "normal" drives the "actions" of our own age.

Each time we find ourselves we must realize we were lost in the first place, and every lost thing that is found is always in the last place you left it.

It's interesting, the trail of crumbs one might leave themselves, knowing full well your intentions of acting your age. Your old soul crumbles the crackers of circumspection and leaves them for your younger self to follow back to where you've "lost yourself."

Hindsight is 20/20 indeed, yet whats the scenario when you know better, yet do it anyway?
Oh, right.

Stupidity.
Oh to be young and stupid.

Simpler times.
Lego creations, cartoons, clothes that don't match, careless enjoyment of the world around you.
Much simpler, being a child.

Oh, the atrocities of growing older, you saucy minx. The conundrum found in the desire of reliving one's past with the knowledge that one contained now could be easily solved if one would pause and look for the trail of cracker crumbs.

And so the circle of life continues, another year gained, another self found, and another childish dream put to rest.

I need some bigger crackers.

The Spark

Sometimes I get stuck.

Which leads to a ridiculous antic to get me unstuck.

I don't understand why I chose the catalysts I do, but they always seem to work. They're strange tasks or challenges that I put on myself, yet some how my whole paradigm can shift. I suppose thats just growing up. It's a "trying to read a newspaper through a keyhole" type of thing, one letter at a time but sometimes you get lucky and make out a whole word.

A spark.

When I have one of those moments where I make out a whole word, so to speak, it ignites something in me, most likely my OCD, but something that drives me to push my limits. When you're pushed passed your limits, your perspective changes. You're viewing everything you knew from a new angle. Examining every new detail. As if you were a pretentious indie movie director who has rich parents, but couldn't create if he farted magic, so his attention to detail is all he has. It gets tiresome, and I think I'm discovering its not healthy to be that analytical. It's a lot of time spent thinking about the past and, though not regretting, but thinking about what to do differently in the future. No wonder I barely have time for the present.

Sure learn from the past, and at least have some plan for the future, but I need to spend a little more time in the present. I suppose I'm sick of viewing life, or reading about it, or looking at pictures of it, or liking pictures of others living their lives, and the food they eat, for some reason. It's ok to just be. You don't always have to be happy, or be sad, or anything. You can simply be. Contentfuly existing.

My empathy A.D.D. makes it hard enough to live in the moment, let alone the constant day dreaming, it's relaxing to just get in there and live for myself a little bit. It seems so many choices are made pretending I'm the old man on the other side of the door holding the newspaper, rather than the boy peering through the keyhole. The boy can't grow up to be the old man reading the paper if he doesn't go outside and experience things.

Practice.

 I'm trying to do better staying in the moment, and it's the biggest challenge I've ever attempted. But it's truly showing a lot of what you could miss if you were only in your head.

Reflection.

Well, that was a whiney and bitchy previous post, eh, what can you do, the joys of alcohol induced self-loathing mixed with the severe lack of ability to express emotions I suppose.


Moving on.


It's been a long time since a new album has hit me right at the correct moment.

I hesitated upon the downloading of Arcade Fire's "Reflektor," but eventually succumbed to the curiosity of if they've created something I'd like as much as their first album "Funeral."


Upon first listen, I'm not disappointed. It does seem to be a mish-mosh of all the bands you're supposed to like and credit with your musical foundations. And it does make me reflect. Oh the reflection.


I struggle quite often with how weird I am. It's always a surprise to me when someone finds something new about me that isn't "normal." It happens often enough that I'm not even able to pass this off as a "we're all weird in our own way" situation and accept the fact, that though there is a percentage of people similar, I am a little weird.


Not too long ago I had a conversation via email with a psychiatrist about a personality disorder I found to explain a lot of who I was and why I was weird, this disorder is known as "Schizoid Personalty Disorder."Now, yes, there is such a thing as being a hypochondriac, but this stems a bit different than a simple dismissal of "you're thinking about this too much." But I digress, in this email conversation, I laid out a few of my symptoms and how they matched up with signs of having this disorder. The psychiatrist was very helpful, and though she obviously could not diagnose me over email, she agreed that I would seem to have found an answer to my wacky weird brain.


The brief definition of this disorder is a personality disorder characterized by a lack of interest in social relationships, a tendency towards a solitary lifestyle, secretiveness, emotional coldness, and apathy. Affected individuals may simultaneously demonstrate a rich, elaborate and exclusively internal fantasy world. (from wikipedia, yes, I know...wikipedia...)




I often am not driven to meet new people or have social relationships. I adore a solitary lifestyle and secretiveness. Apathy, I have apathy in spades. Emotional coldness is tricky. The circumstances of my childhood and upbringing have shaped me into, for lack of a better word, an empath, yet obviously I'm not a superhero or mutant in this respect. From an early age, I learned that if I could figure out the feelings of a person, I could better understand their actions. Once I could explain their actions by knowing their feelings, I knew how to diffuse a "situation" that was getting out of control. I didn't actually care too much, I just know that I could find peace and solace if there was no "situation" at all.

I'm a good listener and able to spew semi-wise sounding phrases that may or may not fit the speakers venting, yet most times it's pretty applicable, but thats just from observing life more than partaking. In scary situations I seem to remain calm and emotionally cold. Emotions fester, of course, but people typically react quickly to an emotion rather than stop and take into account why the emotion is felt. I do this by replaying everything I can remember in every conversation I have. I analyze everything, to what everyone was feeling when they said what they said, facial expressions, what I said, what I think my facial expressions were, what I could have said differently, etc. That's weird. But it's my fantasy world.

I get trapped in my fantasy world quite often. Sometimes in the middle of a sentence someone is speaking to me. I can't help it. I'm safer in my head, and realize how aloof I appear sometimes, yet I think I've come a long way in wearing a mask to portray being in the moment.

I've found that in the last decade, my closest friends are those that don't require a lot of emotional closeness. Whether I seek this out intentionally or subconsciously, it happens. I've definitely missed a great deal of opportunities with relationships due to this. Some really great girls have come into my life, yet my incapacity to muster the desire to want emotional closeness weighs heavy. It takes awhile to come across someone that I potentially think I could finally break through with, yet every time without fail (ironically failing is the one thing I'm sure to achieve), I seem to get stuck in a pattern. I enjoy the friendship of these relationships, yet am ok with there being no emotional or physical intimacy.

It's a frustrating contradiction to have emotions and feelings of being lonely, yet the ease and option of simply going out and meeting someone becomes intangible due to the sheer lack of ability to tolerate someone else's emotions and allowing them into my personal bubble. Infuriating.

There is a list of nine criteria for Schizoid Personality Disorder. One must show four of the nine to be considered to have SPD. I have eight and a half. The other one and a half contain the capacity for argument in favour of me exemplifying the traits.

All of this brings me back to reflection. For us humans struggling through this life together, part of growing up is reflecting on ourselves, the actions we've taken, words we've said, experiences we've shared and looking for those patterns that emerge. The little clues unlocking explanation into why we acted a certain way, what emotion we had when we acted, why that emotion was felt, how the result occurred and the emotion of said result...

I think knowing I am a strong candidate for Schizoid Personality Disorder helps me wear a mask a little better out in the real world, however, maybe its time to take off the mask. I am a weird person, and I like the things that I like. I enjoy being alone. It's just annoying that I feel I want to be alone with someone else too.

We must know ourselves before we can fully know others, definitely not a new concept; however, a lack of prevalence in this highly technological age. Be honest and truthful with yourself and honesty and trust is something you'll be able to see in other people. When you find that honesty and trust, be their friend. You'll never know where it will lead, and most times not where you thought or wanted, but honesty and trust is something you should always find in your friends. Even if they sometimes are in your own internal fantasy world.

Anger.

Right, so, bear in mind that I'm a highly introverted and ugly man, but what started as the standard testosterone fueled annoyance with the "dumb yet super attractive" guy, ended in quite a not foreseen conclusion.

Now, to get to the conclusion I eventually arrived at, I'm going to have to walk you through my train of thought in watered down detail. This is extremely terrifying for me, as my train of thought is the most embarrassing thing I can think to share, hence I'm still watering it down. It's utterly ridiculous and silly. And what's really fucked up about it, is if you for even the slightest of split seconds find that one of these connections make sense to you, well, you may be as weird as I am.

What began as a classic troupe of human existence quickly turned into an existential nightmare. Masculinity was challenged, and weariness gave way to deep intrusions into, not so much the thoughts themselves, just the reasons behind the thoughts.

Enters another male to the group. Said male is considered "attractive." Then a feeling of being threatened takes hold, and anger courses its way through every part of your being. At this point, a breath is taken, because it's very hard to arise anger for such a ridiculous reason, let alone the entirety of my being, and then the existential nightmare begins.

Was I jealous? Was I angry because I was jealous I wasn't a pretty boy? Was I angry because I'll never know what its like to have a female look at me and think, "I want that"? These were thoughts that were floating in my mind, but, no, thats not why I was angry.

Why was I angry? Was it because of some other circumstances? Plausible. Yet upon further investigation, no. Other circumstances had no play in the matter.

Was it a simple natural selection instance? Was I angry because I felt threatened?
No. Still no.

Was it because I'm constantly told to be more confident cause females like confidence? Yes.

I'm angry because confidence is tricky.
You can't just will self-confidence into being. It has to be bestowed onto you as a gift. It's not an easy gift to be given to quiet people who keep to themselves. It's much easier to give to the people who are outspoken and don't seem shaken by meeting new people and are aesthetically pleasing.

I'm angry at myself.

It had nothing to do with any of the above mentioned cases for anger. And even thought I thought I knew what it was, I was wrong. I don't like being wrong, but no one is ever "always right." I was angry at myself.

No, I don't have confidence in my looks, and for good reason! I believe the term is a "face made for radio," but thats even a stretch because I severely lack a sexy voice as well. But I am confident. I'm confident in other ways.

And this is where things get a bit existential, but I'm angry because I'm confident in my strengths. But my strengths are not things females are drawn to these days, or at least at this age it seems. Well, you know, I'm really not trying to generalize here, because thats my point I suppose.

Am I confident in my appearance and my physical attraction to females? No.
I accept that, because sometimes, I am right.

I'm confident in my ability to know when someone is not happy. I'm confident in my ability to make that person laugh, or feel better for even the smallest second. I'm confident that I can make almost anyone feel safe and comfortable around me. I'm confident that I'm intelligent and innovative. I'm confident that I'm a dork and cheesy. I'm confident that I'm not very good at a lot of things, but one of the only things I know I'll be good at, is being a father.

And there it is. Anger.

When coming from a long line of family that has a history of being married and having kids by the age of 23, a 28 year old male can start to feel a little worried about his reasons for failure. Now, everyone is different. It's utterly ridiculous for me to assume that I am the only male who thinks this way, and again its pretentious for me to assume that all males think this way. The point is I can't speak for males. I can speak for me. And I feel worried.

I don't like worry.

I get angry when people I care about are not happy. I'm confident in my ability to make people I don't know that well feel safe and comfortable, so people I care about I especially want to assist. If there is nothing I can do. I get angry. I can't sort marital problems. I can't sort relationship problems. I can't fix financial hardships. I can't raise people from the dead. I can listen and I can comfort.

I'm a dad.

I'm angry, because I feel like I'm terrible at a lot of things. Because I have failed so many times in my life. Because I've made so many mistakes. I'm angry because the one thing I know I can succeed at, is a ridiculous thing for someone in my current state of life to think about. I have no doubt that if I'm ever so blessed with the opportunity, I'm going to be a good father. And I'm angry, because of the pressure I feel to make it happen. I'm angry at the self-criticisms I place on myself. I'm furious at my lack of self-confidence in my physical appearance. I'm livid that I make myself feel bad for knowing I'll be a great father, but am worried about being attractive. Now don't get me wrong, I certainly need to attract a female for the father thing to happen, but I want a good mother too.

I'm angry because I've been lied to. I was told that life was a certain way. I was told you go to school, and graduate college, and get married, and start a family. That's not life.

I'm angry because I feel ashamed to want to be a father.
I feel embarrassed to think thoughts of wanting to be a father.

And there, an existential nightmare, spins and twirls in my brain.
I hate when I get trapped in my own head sometimes. I think about things too much, too deep. Growing up takes time; we don't get to choose the speed.

I'm angry because sometimes the acceptance of reality means sacrificing the one thing you know you'd be good at.

Sometimes reality is accepting your destiny. If such a thing as destiny exists, it is a cruelty for one to know their destiny at a young age. Cruel indeed. Angry words.