No time to write today, unfortunately, so enjoy this wisdom from Zen Pencils, instead.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Monday, July 30, 2012
Curiosity...
In just a hair under a week, humanity will have landed a third mobile robot on another planet.
On Monday, August 6th, at around 1:30a EST, the "mobile science lab" rover named Curiosity will land in Gale Crater, on Mars. Mars has very little atmosphere with which to slow down a robot the size of an SUV as it plummets to the surface from outer space, and so landing the rover has become a famously complicated endeavor dubbed, "The Seven Minutes of Terror." It is one of the single most complicated operations ever undertaken by Mankind, and it's an all-or-nothing deal; if any one thing goes wrong at any point, then the whole process will fail, and the rover will slam into Mars at several thousand mph, creating a new surface feature, Curiosity Crater. (Take five minutes and watch NASA's Jet Propulsion Laboratory's video explanation of the Seven Minutes of Terror here. You'll be glad you did.)
If it lands safely (and it is far from guaranteed to do so - no one's ever done it before, and it is impossible to create on Earth the conditions necessary to accurately test it), then it will spend the next several years (dare I say, decades?) roaming about the planet Mars, searching for evidence that life has ever existed on the red planet.
I'm having a hard time trying to figure out how exactly to explain why this fascinates me so much. I think for starters, it is simply an amazing thing, when you stop and think about it. Purely amazing. We are controlling robots on Mars. How fucking unbelievable is that?! Robots on Mars. It sounds like a science-fiction story. And it is! Except, it's not fiction. It's fantasy, brought to life.
And I think it also has something to do with something I touched on yesterday. It is a "living" example of the incredible, awe-inspiring things that human-beings can accomplish. How can it be that a bunch of balding monkeys could so quickly push themselves to the point that we're firing off robots to explore other planets? It boggles the mind!
What a piece of work is Man! Look what we can do! So what if no one has ever done it before. That's precisely why it must be done! From the moment the first of us picked up a rock and used it to smash open a nut (or a skull), our single purpose has been to learn, to discover, and to do the things that have not yet been done. Every single one of us for the last 200,000 years has done our part to push forward that line of what-is-possible, even just a little bit, in our own way. It is what we do. It is all we do.
And, in just a hair under a week, we're going to do it again, in a big, big way. And I will no doubt find myself once again struck dumb with awe at the notion of all that we are capable of achieving. We are, each and every one of us, absolutely, fucking, amazing.
Just look what we can do.
On Monday, August 6th, at around 1:30a EST, the "mobile science lab" rover named Curiosity will land in Gale Crater, on Mars. Mars has very little atmosphere with which to slow down a robot the size of an SUV as it plummets to the surface from outer space, and so landing the rover has become a famously complicated endeavor dubbed, "The Seven Minutes of Terror." It is one of the single most complicated operations ever undertaken by Mankind, and it's an all-or-nothing deal; if any one thing goes wrong at any point, then the whole process will fail, and the rover will slam into Mars at several thousand mph, creating a new surface feature, Curiosity Crater. (Take five minutes and watch NASA's Jet Propulsion Laboratory's video explanation of the Seven Minutes of Terror here. You'll be glad you did.)
If it lands safely (and it is far from guaranteed to do so - no one's ever done it before, and it is impossible to create on Earth the conditions necessary to accurately test it), then it will spend the next several years (dare I say, decades?) roaming about the planet Mars, searching for evidence that life has ever existed on the red planet.
I'm having a hard time trying to figure out how exactly to explain why this fascinates me so much. I think for starters, it is simply an amazing thing, when you stop and think about it. Purely amazing. We are controlling robots on Mars. How fucking unbelievable is that?! Robots on Mars. It sounds like a science-fiction story. And it is! Except, it's not fiction. It's fantasy, brought to life.
And I think it also has something to do with something I touched on yesterday. It is a "living" example of the incredible, awe-inspiring things that human-beings can accomplish. How can it be that a bunch of balding monkeys could so quickly push themselves to the point that we're firing off robots to explore other planets? It boggles the mind!
What a piece of work is Man! Look what we can do! So what if no one has ever done it before. That's precisely why it must be done! From the moment the first of us picked up a rock and used it to smash open a nut (or a skull), our single purpose has been to learn, to discover, and to do the things that have not yet been done. Every single one of us for the last 200,000 years has done our part to push forward that line of what-is-possible, even just a little bit, in our own way. It is what we do. It is all we do.
And, in just a hair under a week, we're going to do it again, in a big, big way. And I will no doubt find myself once again struck dumb with awe at the notion of all that we are capable of achieving. We are, each and every one of us, absolutely, fucking, amazing.
Just look what we can do.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
The Thirtieth Olympiad Of The Modern Era...
I know the Olympics are cheesy. I know this. But I can't help it. I love them.
I love everything about them. The spectacle, the melodrama, the simple poetry of humans from all over the world gathering together for the sole purpose of doing amazing things. I spend every fourth year looking forward to them. And when they finally start, it's like two weeks of Christmas in July.
It started when I was a kid. The '92 Summer Olympics in Barcelona. The summer in between my sophomore and junior years of high school. The two weeks of our vacation at the beach happened to coincide that year with the two weeks of the Olympics. As a teenager, I was living a nocturnal existence; staying up all night doing nothing, and then sleeping all day in order to rest up for another night of doing nothing the next evening. There's nothing to do in the middle of the night in the small beach town where we stayed, and the TV in the cottage we were living in only got about six channels. And, of course, the only thing on was the Olympics. They played Olympic coverage almost all night. (And all day, but who was awake to see that??) I literally had nothing better to do, and a night full of hours to kill, so I started watching.
Late-night coverage of the Olympic Games at the time tended to favor the less-popular sports, giving recaps of the events of the day that hadn't made it into the daytime and primetime broadcasts. Handball. Water Polo. Badminton. Archery. Women's Volleyball. Sports that you'd never see on television back then. And I found myself, quite despite my desire to be an apathetic misanthrope, getting really, really into it. I fell in love with the stories of the athletes, and I cheered their amazing accomplishments. And I felt a sense of pride in my country (a completely foreign and somewhat nauseating experience for me at the time, I assure you) whenever Team USA triumphed. It didn't matter if it was a sport that I would never have cared about in a million years if I'd had anything better to do. It was about being fortunate enough to witness humanity's best, doing their best - pushing themselves as hard as they could, striving to be the very best in the whole world - and having the results of all their efforts and hard work displayed on the single greatest stage we have ever constructed, for all the world to see, whether they fell short, or were victorious. I was hooked from that moment on.
I've always been a drama-queen, and never more so than when I was a teenager. And, as cheesy as it was, and is, it was also, undeniably, the greatest drama I had ever seen. Have ever seen. And that is in no small part due to the fact that it is not a story, crafted artfully from a fertile imagination. Better than that, this drama is real.
Men and women from all over the world pushing themselves as hard as they can every single day for four years with the single-minded purpose of being the very best in the entire world at what they do. And every four years the entire world gathers to watch these people, the best in the world, compete and crown their champions. The best in the world. None faster. None stronger. No one.
What a great fucking story!
And that amazing story is made up of countless other single, just-as-amazing individual stories. Kerri Strug sticking her landing on a sprained ankle to win gold at the '96 Atlanta games. The '04 games returning to Athens. Michael Phelps at the '08 Beijing games winning eight gold medals, more than any other person has ever done before or since, and breaking his own World Record by more than two seconds! (He set new World Records in six out of the eight events he swam in!) And Usain Bolt in the same games, setting new World Records in both the 100m and 200m. (Whenever I remember that, I can't help but think of one of my favorite scenes from the pilot episode of Sports Night. As a runner half-a-world away is setting a new world record, Casey McCall, an anchor for a late-night Sportscenter-like TV show, calls his young son, waking him up in the middle of the night, and instructs him to hurry up and turn on Daddy's channel. Then he says, "I'll call you tomorrow and tell you all about it. But for now, you just watch him run. He's not doing much. He's just running faster than any man's ever run before.")
And those are my absolute favorite Olympics moments - when I see that "WR" flash up on an athlete's results, and I realize that I've just seen a human being expand the boundaries of what is possible, and push themselves to do something that no other human being has ever been able to do before. It is literally awe-inspiring, and I absolutely love it.
And I don't care if that makes me a cheeseball.
I love everything about them. The spectacle, the melodrama, the simple poetry of humans from all over the world gathering together for the sole purpose of doing amazing things. I spend every fourth year looking forward to them. And when they finally start, it's like two weeks of Christmas in July.
It started when I was a kid. The '92 Summer Olympics in Barcelona. The summer in between my sophomore and junior years of high school. The two weeks of our vacation at the beach happened to coincide that year with the two weeks of the Olympics. As a teenager, I was living a nocturnal existence; staying up all night doing nothing, and then sleeping all day in order to rest up for another night of doing nothing the next evening. There's nothing to do in the middle of the night in the small beach town where we stayed, and the TV in the cottage we were living in only got about six channels. And, of course, the only thing on was the Olympics. They played Olympic coverage almost all night. (And all day, but who was awake to see that??) I literally had nothing better to do, and a night full of hours to kill, so I started watching.
Late-night coverage of the Olympic Games at the time tended to favor the less-popular sports, giving recaps of the events of the day that hadn't made it into the daytime and primetime broadcasts. Handball. Water Polo. Badminton. Archery. Women's Volleyball. Sports that you'd never see on television back then. And I found myself, quite despite my desire to be an apathetic misanthrope, getting really, really into it. I fell in love with the stories of the athletes, and I cheered their amazing accomplishments. And I felt a sense of pride in my country (a completely foreign and somewhat nauseating experience for me at the time, I assure you) whenever Team USA triumphed. It didn't matter if it was a sport that I would never have cared about in a million years if I'd had anything better to do. It was about being fortunate enough to witness humanity's best, doing their best - pushing themselves as hard as they could, striving to be the very best in the whole world - and having the results of all their efforts and hard work displayed on the single greatest stage we have ever constructed, for all the world to see, whether they fell short, or were victorious. I was hooked from that moment on.
I've always been a drama-queen, and never more so than when I was a teenager. And, as cheesy as it was, and is, it was also, undeniably, the greatest drama I had ever seen. Have ever seen. And that is in no small part due to the fact that it is not a story, crafted artfully from a fertile imagination. Better than that, this drama is real.
Men and women from all over the world pushing themselves as hard as they can every single day for four years with the single-minded purpose of being the very best in the entire world at what they do. And every four years the entire world gathers to watch these people, the best in the world, compete and crown their champions. The best in the world. None faster. None stronger. No one.
What a great fucking story!
And that amazing story is made up of countless other single, just-as-amazing individual stories. Kerri Strug sticking her landing on a sprained ankle to win gold at the '96 Atlanta games. The '04 games returning to Athens. Michael Phelps at the '08 Beijing games winning eight gold medals, more than any other person has ever done before or since, and breaking his own World Record by more than two seconds! (He set new World Records in six out of the eight events he swam in!) And Usain Bolt in the same games, setting new World Records in both the 100m and 200m. (Whenever I remember that, I can't help but think of one of my favorite scenes from the pilot episode of Sports Night. As a runner half-a-world away is setting a new world record, Casey McCall, an anchor for a late-night Sportscenter-like TV show, calls his young son, waking him up in the middle of the night, and instructs him to hurry up and turn on Daddy's channel. Then he says, "I'll call you tomorrow and tell you all about it. But for now, you just watch him run. He's not doing much. He's just running faster than any man's ever run before.")
And those are my absolute favorite Olympics moments - when I see that "WR" flash up on an athlete's results, and I realize that I've just seen a human being expand the boundaries of what is possible, and push themselves to do something that no other human being has ever been able to do before. It is literally awe-inspiring, and I absolutely love it.
And I don't care if that makes me a cheeseball.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
London 2012...
So, the opening ceremony last night was certainly very, um... British.
I mean, it was all right, I guess. Honestly, I probably would've enjoyed it a lot more if it hadn't had the bad fortune to follow Beijing. It feels like it'll be a century before anyone rivals that ceremony for beauty, grace, or artfulness; not to mention the sheer terrifying propaganda factor.
In comparison, last night seemed, well, cute. And quaint. And so very, very British. I mean, for fuck's sake, they had a thirty-foot tall Voldemort being vanquished by an army of Mary Poppinses. Seriously. And all anyone in the media has talked about since last night is the spectacle of James Bond escorting the Queen (or, at least, her stunt double) into the stadium by way of a leap from a flying helicopter. And yet, it still couldn't even begin to match even just the opening drummers from Beijing. (All I could think when I saw that four years ago was, "I, for one, welcome our new Chinese overlords." Which, I imagine, was the point.) And, to his credit, apparently Danny Boyle knew he had no chance of rivaling Beijing in any way, which is what lead him to make a lot of the more "playful" directorial decisions he did; basically, he figured that if he couldn't beat them, then he might as well just have fun with it.
There were some highlights that I enjoyed, too. I was really tickled that he chose to open and close the ceremony with the opening and closing tracks from Pink Floyd's Dark Side Of The Moon. I don't understand the decision at all, but I enjoyed it, simply because I never in a million years would have ever guessed that I would've heard Dark Side Of The Moon being played during the opening ceremony of an Olympiad. I mean, wtf? Really?? Wow. Ok, work it then, you mad motherfucker, you. And I was also pleased to see the cameo by Rowan Atkinson. A British national treasure, and always hilarious. And, again, just never, ever thought I'd see that.
Ok, enough writing about the Olympics. Time to get back to watching them. Which is how I hope to spend the better part of the next couple of weeks. Hopefully, I'll find the time soon to post some of my thoughts about why I've come to love the Olympics so much.
I mean, it was all right, I guess. Honestly, I probably would've enjoyed it a lot more if it hadn't had the bad fortune to follow Beijing. It feels like it'll be a century before anyone rivals that ceremony for beauty, grace, or artfulness; not to mention the sheer terrifying propaganda factor.
In comparison, last night seemed, well, cute. And quaint. And so very, very British. I mean, for fuck's sake, they had a thirty-foot tall Voldemort being vanquished by an army of Mary Poppinses. Seriously. And all anyone in the media has talked about since last night is the spectacle of James Bond escorting the Queen (or, at least, her stunt double) into the stadium by way of a leap from a flying helicopter. And yet, it still couldn't even begin to match even just the opening drummers from Beijing. (All I could think when I saw that four years ago was, "I, for one, welcome our new Chinese overlords." Which, I imagine, was the point.) And, to his credit, apparently Danny Boyle knew he had no chance of rivaling Beijing in any way, which is what lead him to make a lot of the more "playful" directorial decisions he did; basically, he figured that if he couldn't beat them, then he might as well just have fun with it.
There were some highlights that I enjoyed, too. I was really tickled that he chose to open and close the ceremony with the opening and closing tracks from Pink Floyd's Dark Side Of The Moon. I don't understand the decision at all, but I enjoyed it, simply because I never in a million years would have ever guessed that I would've heard Dark Side Of The Moon being played during the opening ceremony of an Olympiad. I mean, wtf? Really?? Wow. Ok, work it then, you mad motherfucker, you. And I was also pleased to see the cameo by Rowan Atkinson. A British national treasure, and always hilarious. And, again, just never, ever thought I'd see that.
Ok, enough writing about the Olympics. Time to get back to watching them. Which is how I hope to spend the better part of the next couple of weeks. Hopefully, I'll find the time soon to post some of my thoughts about why I've come to love the Olympics so much.
Friday, July 27, 2012
Three Diamonds...
: i have realized something
: i have realized the distilled essence of all of my desires
: is simply to be able to Love you
: or, more honestly, that you would be able to let me Love you
: and i have realized something else
: i have realized that this desire of mine
: to be free to Love you completely
: with neither regret nor remorse
: will never be fulfilled
: and so now i have a choice
: i can let go of this desire
: to save myself
: from constant rejection and disappointment
: i can accept that you will never let me Love you
: the way that i want to
: the way that i try to
: i can let go of this desire
: accept my fate
: and simply stop trying
: or
: i can take it
: i can endure
: and keep Loving you
: knowing full-well that Loving you means
: an oft-broken heart
: and i have realized one more thing
: one final thing
: that for a life spent Loving you
: You
: for that I can be
: for that I will be
: for that, I am
: Strong
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Time To Bring The Fire Down...
One desire
Run
Sexual being
Run him like a blade
To and through the heart
No conscience
One Motive
Cater to the hollow
Screaming feed me here
Fill me up again
Temporarily pacify this hungering
So grow
Libido
Throw
Dominoes of indiscretions down
Falling all around
In cycles
In circles
Constantly consuming
Conquer and devour
Cause it's time to bring the fire down
Bridle all this indiscretion
Long enough to edify
And permanently fill this hollow
Screaming feed me here
Fill me up again
Temporarily pacifying
Feed me here
Fill me up again
Temporarily pacifying
-"The Hollow"
A Perfect Circle, Mer de Noms
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Blurble'd...
I really want to write something interesting and creative today, but I am literally yawning from boredom right now, and that seems to have completely sapped my energy and creativity for the time being.
I really wanted to spend a good chunk of today writing a story, but I couldn't come up with any good ideas. I realize now that I have a problem with that. If I have an idea, I can write the hell out of it, but if I don't have an idea, then I'm just shit out of luck. Every once in a while, an idea will come to me, and then I can write about it. But I can't seem to manufacture that process, or make it happen, during times like now, where I have both the time and the desire to write a story. I just can't seem to make myself come up with ideas at will.
Any suggestions?
(Not for story ideas. For ways to come up with story ideas. Just to be clear.)
On the more boring end of things, I could post about my meeting last night, but I really don't feel like it. It went well, I guess. It's hard to judge these things. What criteria do you use? Obviously, if you're feeling down and it makes you feel better or not; or if you feel like you need help, and then afterwards you feel like you got that help or not. But most of the time you're not going for those reasons. Most of the time you're just going to do your weekly check-in, and keep the momentum going. I didn't feel any better afterwards last night, because I didn't feel bad going in, in the first place. I made everyone laugh a lot during my share, and that always feels good, but that seems like a really ridiculous criteria to use to determine whether a meeting was good or not.
So, I don't know. I enjoyed myself, which is something, but I'm not sure how much, if any, it actually helped.
And now I'm literally dozing off at my keyboard. So, I guess that's my sign that it's time to go.
Wow, this sure was a super spectacular post.
I really wanted to spend a good chunk of today writing a story, but I couldn't come up with any good ideas. I realize now that I have a problem with that. If I have an idea, I can write the hell out of it, but if I don't have an idea, then I'm just shit out of luck. Every once in a while, an idea will come to me, and then I can write about it. But I can't seem to manufacture that process, or make it happen, during times like now, where I have both the time and the desire to write a story. I just can't seem to make myself come up with ideas at will.
Any suggestions?
(Not for story ideas. For ways to come up with story ideas. Just to be clear.)
On the more boring end of things, I could post about my meeting last night, but I really don't feel like it. It went well, I guess. It's hard to judge these things. What criteria do you use? Obviously, if you're feeling down and it makes you feel better or not; or if you feel like you need help, and then afterwards you feel like you got that help or not. But most of the time you're not going for those reasons. Most of the time you're just going to do your weekly check-in, and keep the momentum going. I didn't feel any better afterwards last night, because I didn't feel bad going in, in the first place. I made everyone laugh a lot during my share, and that always feels good, but that seems like a really ridiculous criteria to use to determine whether a meeting was good or not.
So, I don't know. I enjoyed myself, which is something, but I'm not sure how much, if any, it actually helped.
And now I'm literally dozing off at my keyboard. So, I guess that's my sign that it's time to go.
Wow, this sure was a super spectacular post.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Stroke Of Insight...
As an addendum to yesterday's post, please take a few minutes out of your day and watch this video presentation on the neuro-biochemical experience of "I am you."
Monday, July 23, 2012
Fifteen Minutes...
Another last minute post.
Fifteen minutes before I have to start getting ready to leave. Fifteen minutes to write, edit, revise, and post. Can I do it? And what will the pressure inspire me to spit out this time?
Clock's ticking, boy-o. Better come up with something quick.
Oh, great, I'm talking to myself. Again. A sign of mental illness. And, worse, unoriginal.
Blah, blah, blahbitty-blah. This is how I cure my writer's block. I just type out whatever comes into my head, as unfiltered as possible, until I start to feel the creative energy flowing. Then I tap that vein, and run with it.
My concern is that this time, the energy will start to flow right about the time I run out of time to do anything with it.
But, if so, then oh, well. At least I did the exercise, and posted something for the day that wasn't just "did X recently; doing Y tomorrow," or, "oh, woe iz me, for I am ze alcoholiqué."
Five minutes. You're running out of time.
But that's all time ever does, isn't it? Run out? That is Time's purpose. To run away, until it's all gone, and everything is nothing. Until every thing is no-thing.
Four minutes. Is that all you got, kid?
That was an existential query on the end of all things! What else is there? (And why do you always talk to me like a noir detective? Does my alter ego think he's in a Raymond Chandler novel or something?)
Three minutes. "It's a Raymond Chandler evening / At the end of someone's day / And I'm standing in my pocket / And I'm slowly turning grey..."
Oh, fucking great. You're quoting Robyn Hitchcock lyrics from "The Crow" at me? Who's the hack now?
Two minutes. And the answer would be you, since that is who I am.
Which reminds me of something I'd forgotten. I think one of the most powerful phrases in all of humanity is, "I am you." It cuts through the facade of our separate realities and points directly to the essential truth that we are all interconnected, and ultimately, all one organism, one tribe, one species, made of the same stuff, sharing the same planet, the same history, the same fate. We are not individuals, we only perceive ourselves as individuals because of the biological accident of our evolution. In fact, we are all one; undifferentiated, undivided, inseparable.
One minute left, hot shot. That what you're going to end with?
No. I'm going to end with this: if you're reading this, then please, do me this favor. For the rest of the day, for every person you see, try to remember to think to yourself, "I am you." Your child. "I am you." Your lover/spouse. "I am you." The barista at the coffeehouse. The guy who flicked you off in traffic. Your boss. "I am you, and I am you, and I am you, as well." Note how this affects you.
Report.
Well, no time to edit, so I guess this'll have to do.
Good luck, kid.
Fifteen minutes before I have to start getting ready to leave. Fifteen minutes to write, edit, revise, and post. Can I do it? And what will the pressure inspire me to spit out this time?
Clock's ticking, boy-o. Better come up with something quick.
Oh, great, I'm talking to myself. Again. A sign of mental illness. And, worse, unoriginal.
Blah, blah, blahbitty-blah. This is how I cure my writer's block. I just type out whatever comes into my head, as unfiltered as possible, until I start to feel the creative energy flowing. Then I tap that vein, and run with it.
My concern is that this time, the energy will start to flow right about the time I run out of time to do anything with it.
But, if so, then oh, well. At least I did the exercise, and posted something for the day that wasn't just "did X recently; doing Y tomorrow," or, "oh, woe iz me, for I am ze alcoholiqué."
Five minutes. You're running out of time.
But that's all time ever does, isn't it? Run out? That is Time's purpose. To run away, until it's all gone, and everything is nothing. Until every thing is no-thing.
Four minutes. Is that all you got, kid?
That was an existential query on the end of all things! What else is there? (And why do you always talk to me like a noir detective? Does my alter ego think he's in a Raymond Chandler novel or something?)
Three minutes. "It's a Raymond Chandler evening / At the end of someone's day / And I'm standing in my pocket / And I'm slowly turning grey..."
Oh, fucking great. You're quoting Robyn Hitchcock lyrics from "The Crow" at me? Who's the hack now?
Two minutes. And the answer would be you, since that is who I am.
Which reminds me of something I'd forgotten. I think one of the most powerful phrases in all of humanity is, "I am you." It cuts through the facade of our separate realities and points directly to the essential truth that we are all interconnected, and ultimately, all one organism, one tribe, one species, made of the same stuff, sharing the same planet, the same history, the same fate. We are not individuals, we only perceive ourselves as individuals because of the biological accident of our evolution. In fact, we are all one; undifferentiated, undivided, inseparable.
One minute left, hot shot. That what you're going to end with?
No. I'm going to end with this: if you're reading this, then please, do me this favor. For the rest of the day, for every person you see, try to remember to think to yourself, "I am you." Your child. "I am you." Your lover/spouse. "I am you." The barista at the coffeehouse. The guy who flicked you off in traffic. Your boss. "I am you, and I am you, and I am you, as well." Note how this affects you.
Report.
Well, no time to edit, so I guess this'll have to do.
Good luck, kid.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
One Of My Holy Places...
Well they crowned me with thorns
On the day I was born
By the light of a cold
Television
And I remember the bars
On his uniform
As he marched from the field
Of my vision
When he didn't come home
It was just us alone
The brat and the widowed
Civilian
And then one April night
After Ma took her life
I fell down the street
To oblivion
And I took what the dumpsters
Were giving
And I did my best
To survive
'Cause I figured that life's
For the living
While you're alive
So bring out the gin
And the small violin
I'm a raging success
As a failure
And it's colder than hell
In this cardboard hotel
Which I share with a chronic
Embezzler
So I beat my retreat
Down Collister street
To one of my holy places
And they tangled my wings
With wire and strings
And I'm spinning in a
Whirlpool of faces
And I'll take what the dumpsters
Are giving
And I'll do my best
To survive
'Cause I still think that life's
For the living
Yes I still think that life's
For the living
And I'll take what the dumpsters
Are giving
And I'll pray every night
To St. Giles
But I still think that life's
For the living
At least for a while
-"7th Avenue Static"
Firewater, Psychopharmacology
Saturday, July 21, 2012
What Are You Doing, Dave?...
Just a quick post to say that I'm taking my computer offline, again, but hopefully for the last time.
This should be the final nail in the coffin of all the ridiculous issues I've been dealing with lately. But it's going to take me all weekend to backup (yes, I'm going to try and backup again - it's a long story), install the new operating system (finally upgrading to Windows 7, yay), and then restore my backup files and reinstall all of my programs.
So, wish me luck!
Back on Monday.
This should be the final nail in the coffin of all the ridiculous issues I've been dealing with lately. But it's going to take me all weekend to backup (yes, I'm going to try and backup again - it's a long story), install the new operating system (finally upgrading to Windows 7, yay), and then restore my backup files and reinstall all of my programs.
So, wish me luck!
Back on Monday.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Kickball - Week 12...
I've never been happier to lose something.
Last night was the opening round of our kickball "championships." (In quotes because every team in the league is entered, regardless of their win-loss record.) We lost again, of course, and that means our season is over. So, I don't have to play kickball anymore! I get my Thursday nights back!
And I don't have to write about kickball anymore here, either!
Still, there's one thing that I definitely got out of the experience. Driving home last night, I realized that I had a sense of pride, accomplishment, and satisfaction. Yeah, our team sucked real, real bad. And yeah, it was a painful and deeply humiliating experience every week. And yeah, I hated it more than root canals.
But I did it.
I could've walked away at any time. But I didn't. I came back every week, and I played as hard as I could, in every single game, for the entire season. I never gave up, and I never quit. No matter how much I wanted to.
And that's something.
Last night was the opening round of our kickball "championships." (In quotes because every team in the league is entered, regardless of their win-loss record.) We lost again, of course, and that means our season is over. So, I don't have to play kickball anymore! I get my Thursday nights back!
And I don't have to write about kickball anymore here, either!
Still, there's one thing that I definitely got out of the experience. Driving home last night, I realized that I had a sense of pride, accomplishment, and satisfaction. Yeah, our team sucked real, real bad. And yeah, it was a painful and deeply humiliating experience every week. And yeah, I hated it more than root canals.
But I did it.
I could've walked away at any time. But I didn't. I came back every week, and I played as hard as I could, in every single game, for the entire season. I never gave up, and I never quit. No matter how much I wanted to.
And that's something.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
The Moment of "We, Together"...
I dreamt last night of a lost civilization, on a dying world.
An immense vista of impossible sandstone spires, surrounded by a glittering, crystal sea. Wind, and the grate of sand sliding over sand, the only remaining sounds. An empty world, like a giant child's forgotten sandcastle, left on the shore to be washed away.
I dreamt last night of the last of its people, an ancient King and Queen, left alone in their crumbling tower, to await the inevitable end of their once proud land.
He, in robes of purple trimmed with gold, wearing a crown of shells. She, in robes of white trimmed with silver; on her head a diadem, the oil-slick colors of abalone shell. Their subjects now all fled or perished, the King and Queen sat alone on driftwood thrones, bent and weary with the weight of their years, their faces lined and cracked and sagging; they could've just as well had cobwebs for eyes.
In the orange-gold-lavender glow of twilight, as the old sun began to set behind the sparkling sea, they rose together, and crossed their hall to the open arches at the far end, overlooking their empty kingdom of impossible towers. They watched as the sun set, and below them, the first of their towers began to crumble and fall. And then another. And then another.
The sense of loss and regret and longing and sorrow and even fear that they felt at this sight was overwhelming, and the Queen, overcome, reached out and took the King's hand.
The King was startled by this sudden event.
He couldn't remember the last time they had touched one another in affection. It felt like eons ago.
All at once, the King began to stand up straighter, taller. He felt stronger. He felt bigger. He felt more alive. He turned to his Queen, and saw that she was standing straighter, as well. Her hair shifting before his eyes from the wispy straggles of grey straw that they had been, to the long, golden flax of her youth. The lines in her face began to fade and smooth, and her eyes absolutely lit up and began to shine bright and blue the way they once had long ago. Oh, those eyes! How he had once lost himself in those eyes!
But, wait. What is this? What is happening? The King was suddenly afraid. He let go of his Queen's hand, and stepped away, fearful of the strangeness of the event. And when he let go, he felt the life and strength drain from him. He felt his back twist and bend under his weight again. And he watched as his beautiful Queen withered and wilted back into the crone she had been moments before.
The Queen looked at her King, lost, and confused; afraid and alone. Please, her look said to him. Please don't leave me. Not now.
Not ever.
The King couldn't bear that look. Their world was lost and forgotten, crumbling around them under a dying sun; this he could endure. But that sight of pain and fear on his Queen's once-beautiful face, the plea in her eyes, he just couldn't abide. Whatever else was happening, he was The King, and she was his Queen, and they would stand through this together.
He reached out, and again took her hand.
And again the sense of strength and life returned to him. And again he watched as his lovely Queen aged backwards towards her strong middle-life. And she, too, watched as her King became again the powerful and handsome man she had loved so fiercely. His hair the silken auburn she had loved to run her fingers through. His chest and his arms and his hands - oh, his hands! - as big and strong as she remembered him to be so many years ago, as if he could pick her up in one arm and cradle her like a child. She remembered the years it must've been that she spent with those strong arms wrapped around her, feeling as if all was right in their world, and that their happiness could never possibly end.
With their renewed sense of strength, they turned together again toward their view of the city below them, spread out to the sea. And they saw that the towers had stopped crumbling. And upon closer inspection, that not merely had the tide of destruction ceased, but that it had stilled in mid-act. Clouds of sand hung frozen in the air beside minarets in mid-fall. Massive blocks of sandstone wall the size of boulders appeared to float in place, as if held by some unseen hand.
Confused, but encouraged, by this wondrous sight, the King reached out and wrapped his strong arms around the Queen, holding her close to him. Oh, stars and oceans! How could he have ever forgotten the feeling of holding her this way? How could he have lost the memory of this sensation, their bodies pressed together, the feeling of her warm breath on his chest, the scent of her hair? And if he could forget this, then what else had he forgotten as the centuries had swept past?
And in amazement, they watched, as the towers began to rise again.
Dervishes of sand spiraled high into the air and worked themselves into stone and wall and spire, pointing up, up, up into the wisps of clouds streaking across the bruise-palette sky. One-by-one they rose again, crumbling backwards up from the ground to become again the glorious and majestic kingdom-on-the-sea they had loved for so long. Over the raspy sounds of wind and sand, in the far, far distance, they heard the cry of a gull; a sound so long lost that their ears had grown unaccustomed to the hearing of it.
The King ran his powerful hand over his Queen's head, through her hair, and cupped her delicately behind the ear, cradling her head in his soft grip. The Queen looked up at him, this beautiful, powerful man that she had given her life to so long ago. And the King lost himself in her eyes again, remembering that this was all he had ever really wanted all along.
And as he kissed her, and she kissed him, and the wave of life and love and memory washed over and through them, the roaring sound of the crowd in the castle square below rose up to ring in their ears forever.
An immense vista of impossible sandstone spires, surrounded by a glittering, crystal sea. Wind, and the grate of sand sliding over sand, the only remaining sounds. An empty world, like a giant child's forgotten sandcastle, left on the shore to be washed away.
I dreamt last night of the last of its people, an ancient King and Queen, left alone in their crumbling tower, to await the inevitable end of their once proud land.
He, in robes of purple trimmed with gold, wearing a crown of shells. She, in robes of white trimmed with silver; on her head a diadem, the oil-slick colors of abalone shell. Their subjects now all fled or perished, the King and Queen sat alone on driftwood thrones, bent and weary with the weight of their years, their faces lined and cracked and sagging; they could've just as well had cobwebs for eyes.
In the orange-gold-lavender glow of twilight, as the old sun began to set behind the sparkling sea, they rose together, and crossed their hall to the open arches at the far end, overlooking their empty kingdom of impossible towers. They watched as the sun set, and below them, the first of their towers began to crumble and fall. And then another. And then another.
The sense of loss and regret and longing and sorrow and even fear that they felt at this sight was overwhelming, and the Queen, overcome, reached out and took the King's hand.
The King was startled by this sudden event.
He couldn't remember the last time they had touched one another in affection. It felt like eons ago.
All at once, the King began to stand up straighter, taller. He felt stronger. He felt bigger. He felt more alive. He turned to his Queen, and saw that she was standing straighter, as well. Her hair shifting before his eyes from the wispy straggles of grey straw that they had been, to the long, golden flax of her youth. The lines in her face began to fade and smooth, and her eyes absolutely lit up and began to shine bright and blue the way they once had long ago. Oh, those eyes! How he had once lost himself in those eyes!
But, wait. What is this? What is happening? The King was suddenly afraid. He let go of his Queen's hand, and stepped away, fearful of the strangeness of the event. And when he let go, he felt the life and strength drain from him. He felt his back twist and bend under his weight again. And he watched as his beautiful Queen withered and wilted back into the crone she had been moments before.
The Queen looked at her King, lost, and confused; afraid and alone. Please, her look said to him. Please don't leave me. Not now.
Not ever.
The King couldn't bear that look. Their world was lost and forgotten, crumbling around them under a dying sun; this he could endure. But that sight of pain and fear on his Queen's once-beautiful face, the plea in her eyes, he just couldn't abide. Whatever else was happening, he was The King, and she was his Queen, and they would stand through this together.
He reached out, and again took her hand.
And again the sense of strength and life returned to him. And again he watched as his lovely Queen aged backwards towards her strong middle-life. And she, too, watched as her King became again the powerful and handsome man she had loved so fiercely. His hair the silken auburn she had loved to run her fingers through. His chest and his arms and his hands - oh, his hands! - as big and strong as she remembered him to be so many years ago, as if he could pick her up in one arm and cradle her like a child. She remembered the years it must've been that she spent with those strong arms wrapped around her, feeling as if all was right in their world, and that their happiness could never possibly end.
With their renewed sense of strength, they turned together again toward their view of the city below them, spread out to the sea. And they saw that the towers had stopped crumbling. And upon closer inspection, that not merely had the tide of destruction ceased, but that it had stilled in mid-act. Clouds of sand hung frozen in the air beside minarets in mid-fall. Massive blocks of sandstone wall the size of boulders appeared to float in place, as if held by some unseen hand.
Confused, but encouraged, by this wondrous sight, the King reached out and wrapped his strong arms around the Queen, holding her close to him. Oh, stars and oceans! How could he have ever forgotten the feeling of holding her this way? How could he have lost the memory of this sensation, their bodies pressed together, the feeling of her warm breath on his chest, the scent of her hair? And if he could forget this, then what else had he forgotten as the centuries had swept past?
And in amazement, they watched, as the towers began to rise again.
Dervishes of sand spiraled high into the air and worked themselves into stone and wall and spire, pointing up, up, up into the wisps of clouds streaking across the bruise-palette sky. One-by-one they rose again, crumbling backwards up from the ground to become again the glorious and majestic kingdom-on-the-sea they had loved for so long. Over the raspy sounds of wind and sand, in the far, far distance, they heard the cry of a gull; a sound so long lost that their ears had grown unaccustomed to the hearing of it.
The King ran his powerful hand over his Queen's head, through her hair, and cupped her delicately behind the ear, cradling her head in his soft grip. The Queen looked up at him, this beautiful, powerful man that she had given her life to so long ago. And the King lost himself in her eyes again, remembering that this was all he had ever really wanted all along.
And as he kissed her, and she kissed him, and the wave of life and love and memory washed over and through them, the roaring sound of the crowd in the castle square below rose up to ring in their ears forever.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Don't Let 'Em Choose...
Don't let 'em tell you what you think is cool
Don't let 'em tell you what you think is right
Don't let 'em tell you what you think you should do
Do you recognize when the world won't stop for you?
Or when your days don't care what you got to do?
Or when your weight's too tough to lift up?
What do you do?
They don't choose for you.
Don't let 'em choose.
Do you recognize when the world won't stop for you?
Or when your days don't care what you got to do?
Or when your weight's too tough to lift up?
What do you do?
Don't let 'em choose for you.
That's on you.
Another day another dime
another state another mind
48 moves to choose
But no matter the coast
we all toast
the same PBR
So much settling for ours
There's so many lives
in so many lines waitin'
There's only so much time
so many die patient
So many skate
only where the ice is thin
We too nice
to not dive in right after them
We too right
to not sway a little
Wiggle from the path
Middle up
foot upon the gas
like the past
is the rear view
Last laugh
lands on the man
with the plan
to do
all that he can to do
all that he can
And we all save face in the face of our friends
And we all bend backwards to make amends
And we all take chances that change us
Civil with the self-hate just won't do
Do you recognize when the world won't stop for you?
Or when your days don't care what you got to do?
Or when your weight's too tough to lift up?
What do you do?
They don't choose for you.
Don't let 'em choose.
Do you recognize when the world won't stop for you?
Or when your days don't care what you got to do?
Or when your weight's too tough to lift up?
What do you do?
Don't let 'em choose for you.
That's on you.
A lot of my friends shake when they don't drink
All my friends wheeze in their sleep
All my friends think green
but can't afford to live it
Can't ignore the cynics
Can't explore the gimmicks
Can't report the dividends
Limited
only by the need to stay fed
And giving up is like Latin
it's dead
It don't happen
Don't even cross their head
Lost in our own web
But it's our bed
Sleep sucks
Or at least until I try
but at least until I'm right
but at least until I'm fly
let me get it on tight
But at least until it's mine
but at least until it's time
Let me set 'em up
AND knock 'em down
come on
But at least until I'm fine
but at least until I'm wrong
But at least until I got a piece to call my own
But at least until I'm grown
but at least until I'm gone
Say it
Goodbye.
Goodbye!
-"Goodbye"
P.O.S., Never Better
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Candles...
This has been a pretty hard year for you, I know.
And I know I haven't made it any easier.
I don't know if I'm your rock anymore, or if you're mine. But I know that somehow, we're holding each other up. Hanging in there, together. For one more year.
One more year. And it wasn't all bad. Not at all. In the end, when you think about it, in most ways things are actually better for you now than a year ago. And I think you deserve to enjoy that; to feel proud of what you've accomplished this year.
I wish I had more to give you. A better way to say, "I'm proud of you."
"I'm inspired by your strength."
"I love you."
I'd fulfill your heart's every secret desire, today and every day, if I had one wish. But wishes are fairytales, for princesses locked in lost towers. And I'm no Prince Charming.
But I am your White Knight.
And I always will be.
I can't do it for you; I can't give you everything you deserve. But I'll keep you safe, and warm, and comfortable, and take care of the things you need, to give you a life as free of fetters as I can make it; to give you the room you need to make that life for yourself.
And I can give you today.
You so deserve it.
It's your day.
Take it.
Run with it.
What do you want to do?
And I know I haven't made it any easier.
I don't know if I'm your rock anymore, or if you're mine. But I know that somehow, we're holding each other up. Hanging in there, together. For one more year.
One more year. And it wasn't all bad. Not at all. In the end, when you think about it, in most ways things are actually better for you now than a year ago. And I think you deserve to enjoy that; to feel proud of what you've accomplished this year.
I wish I had more to give you. A better way to say, "I'm proud of you."
"I'm inspired by your strength."
"I love you."
I'd fulfill your heart's every secret desire, today and every day, if I had one wish. But wishes are fairytales, for princesses locked in lost towers. And I'm no Prince Charming.
But I am your White Knight.
And I always will be.
I can't do it for you; I can't give you everything you deserve. But I'll keep you safe, and warm, and comfortable, and take care of the things you need, to give you a life as free of fetters as I can make it; to give you the room you need to make that life for yourself.
And I can give you today.
You so deserve it.
It's your day.
Take it.
Run with it.
What do you want to do?
Monday, July 16, 2012
Plusses and Minuses...
I'm making a conscious effort to be more expressive here, and treat it more like an opportunity to be creative every day, rather than just a daily online journal.
I write shitty poetry because I need to express something, but I don't have the time to write the stories that I really want.
I need to note here, briefly, how difficult this is for me to do. I really do hate just about everything I've ever written, in any format, and it shames me terribly to be putting it out here for the whole world to see. But at the same time, I feel that if I kept it to myself, I'd just never even bother with it in the first place. (Because then, who would know but me, right? Light is the best disinfectant...) So, as humiliating as it is sometimes, it's also the very thing that helps to motivate me.
Like I said to myself last week: It's not about Good or Bad. It's about doing it. Period.
I'm trying to keep that in mind, every time I cringe at posting another piece of worthless, self-indulgent, self-absorbed drivel.
Solve Your Equation
Simplify Your Expression
Do The Fucking Math
Mathematics makes
My mind reel in ecstasy
God's breath in my ear
The Story of X
Affects me as if it were
The Story of O
I write shitty poetry because I need to express something, but I don't have the time to write the stories that I really want.
I need to note here, briefly, how difficult this is for me to do. I really do hate just about everything I've ever written, in any format, and it shames me terribly to be putting it out here for the whole world to see. But at the same time, I feel that if I kept it to myself, I'd just never even bother with it in the first place. (Because then, who would know but me, right? Light is the best disinfectant...) So, as humiliating as it is sometimes, it's also the very thing that helps to motivate me.
Like I said to myself last week: It's not about Good or Bad. It's about doing it. Period.
I'm trying to keep that in mind, every time I cringe at posting another piece of worthless, self-indulgent, self-absorbed drivel.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Before She Wakes...
It's quiet in here right now. Early-Sunday-morning quiet.
When I'm lucky, I get two of these a week. These all-too-brief respites of quiescence. I've come to understand how much I look forward to them, without even knowing it; how much I need them. To recover, to rejuvenate, to reflect. To define myself. To remind myself of who I think I am. Who I want to believe I am. To try and become the man I want to be. The essence of Me-time.
As with most things, I feel I squander it too often. Washing myself down the drain. It isn't enough to simply relax, though that is definitely part of it; resting in preparation for the week ahead. Once more unto the breach..., etc. But Quiet and Alone come too rarely to be wasted on mere relaxation. They are worth so much more than that.
Who are you, when you're by yourself?
When all you have to do, is be, what will you do?
It's time for my time.
And I know what to do with it.
When I'm lucky, I get two of these a week. These all-too-brief respites of quiescence. I've come to understand how much I look forward to them, without even knowing it; how much I need them. To recover, to rejuvenate, to reflect. To define myself. To remind myself of who I think I am. Who I want to believe I am. To try and become the man I want to be. The essence of Me-time.
As with most things, I feel I squander it too often. Washing myself down the drain. It isn't enough to simply relax, though that is definitely part of it; resting in preparation for the week ahead. Once more unto the breach..., etc. But Quiet and Alone come too rarely to be wasted on mere relaxation. They are worth so much more than that.
Who are you, when you're by yourself?
When all you have to do, is be, what will you do?
Character, is who you are, in the dark.
It's time for my time.
And I know what to do with it.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
The Junkie And The Monk...
This is one of my absolute favorite Moth stories ever, and I'm so glad they finally posted it to their YouTube channel.
The Junkie And The Monk by Mike DeStefano
The Junkie And The Monk by Mike DeStefano
Friday, July 13, 2012
Kickball - Week 11...
We lost.
Both games.
By a lot.
And I'm sorry, folks, but I just don't have the will to go into my usual level of excruciating detail about the experience this time. I've just got much better things to do with my life than record every particle of my humiliation here.
It stopped being funny awhile ago.
Next week is the Quarterfinals (don't take the fact that we're in the Quarterfinals as a sign of our skill at all; every team is in the Quarterfinals), and if we lose our game (which is a safe bet, to say the least), then that will be my blessedly-last game.
I whole-heartedly look forward to the sense of accomplishment I will feel at that point, as my only reward for these weeks and months of embarrassment and sacrifice. Hell, I may even join everyone else at the League Happy Hour afterwards, for once.
Both games.
By a lot.
And I'm sorry, folks, but I just don't have the will to go into my usual level of excruciating detail about the experience this time. I've just got much better things to do with my life than record every particle of my humiliation here.
It stopped being funny awhile ago.
Next week is the Quarterfinals (don't take the fact that we're in the Quarterfinals as a sign of our skill at all; every team is in the Quarterfinals), and if we lose our game (which is a safe bet, to say the least), then that will be my blessedly-last game.
I whole-heartedly look forward to the sense of accomplishment I will feel at that point, as my only reward for these weeks and months of embarrassment and sacrifice. Hell, I may even join everyone else at the League Happy Hour afterwards, for once.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Kicking Against The Muse...
Blah blah blah... what to write, what to write?
Kickball double-header in the July heat coming up in about an hour. Not really looking forward to it much.
Still haven't gotten my computer(s) back. Still no idea when I will.
Really looking forward to getting back into Mass Effect this weekend.
...
This isn't really writing. There's nothing creative or interesting or worthwhile about simply cataloging the most boring minutiae of your daily life.
But I'm stuck in the office, bored-to-death by a mile-high stack of pointless busy-work that I've been groaning through for almost two weeks now, and I've got about twenty minutes to post something before I have to get ready to go to a company fucking kickball game, of all fucking things. What am I supposed to do? Make art?
...
...
...
Yes.
Yes, that's exactly what you should fucking do. Make some fucking art.
If it isn't worth doing, then don't fucking bother. You're just wasting time.
But I'm not an artist. I'm just an approaching-middle-age-teenager; a pseudo-hipster dipshit. A corporate wage-slave. And a wannabe addict/mystic.
Everyone's an artist. Most people just don't bother, is all. All you have to do is make the effort. It will touch someone, somewhere, in some way.
Express, motherfucker!
Um, ok, uh, here goes:
There, that wasn't so hard now, was it?
No, I guess not. It wasn't any good, either.
You're still missing the point. It's not about "Good" or "Bad." "Bad" is inevitable, and "Good" is something that will come with time, or it won't, and there's very little you can do about that, so there's no point in worrying about it.
The point, is to do it.
That's all.
Kickball double-header in the July heat coming up in about an hour. Not really looking forward to it much.
Still haven't gotten my computer(s) back. Still no idea when I will.
Really looking forward to getting back into Mass Effect this weekend.
...
This isn't really writing. There's nothing creative or interesting or worthwhile about simply cataloging the most boring minutiae of your daily life.
But I'm stuck in the office, bored-to-death by a mile-high stack of pointless busy-work that I've been groaning through for almost two weeks now, and I've got about twenty minutes to post something before I have to get ready to go to a company fucking kickball game, of all fucking things. What am I supposed to do? Make art?
...
...
...
Yes.
Yes, that's exactly what you should fucking do. Make some fucking art.
If it isn't worth doing, then don't fucking bother. You're just wasting time.
But I'm not an artist. I'm just an approaching-middle-age-teenager; a pseudo-hipster dipshit. A corporate wage-slave. And a wannabe addict/mystic.
Everyone's an artist. Most people just don't bother, is all. All you have to do is make the effort. It will touch someone, somewhere, in some way.
Express, motherfucker!
Um, ok, uh, here goes:
*cough*
I don't know which upsets me more
That I am saddened by my Self
And my life
Or the Guilt
Stemming from the Knowledge
That I have no Right
Nor Reason
To feel this way at all
I'm a King
dressed as a Beggar
Who will give me Alms?
There, that wasn't so hard now, was it?
No, I guess not. It wasn't any good, either.
You're still missing the point. It's not about "Good" or "Bad." "Bad" is inevitable, and "Good" is something that will come with time, or it won't, and there's very little you can do about that, so there's no point in worrying about it.
The point, is to do it.
That's all.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Good SMART...
Another part of getting back into my routine, was getting back to a SMART meeting last night, after missing the previous two weeks. Rather surprisingly, this one actually made me feel a little better.
Talked about my recent relapse and depression, and my struggle to learn endurance, and to allow myself to simply accept unhappiness in those situations where I can't find any relief, rather than falling back into the habit of using drugs to create a synthetic happiness to relieve those feelings. (I feel like I've made progress, because drugs used to be my first response to those feelings, and now they are only a last-resort when all else has failed. But, still, it's unhealthy, and more to the point, it doesn't work - it doesn't actually relieve the feeling or make me feel better - and I'm tired of it, and I want to break this habit and learn to accept pain and unhappiness when I have to.) I tried to keep it brief, because one of the last times I talked, the Facilitator actually cut me off after fifteen minutes for taking up too much time. But despite my efforts, my check-in seemed to spark a rather intense and lengthy discussion that involved almost the entire group, and ended up lasting for a full half-hour.
And in that thirty minutes, I actually got some good advice. For instance, not to even bother to give people a reason that I'm not drinking, etc. And if they press me for a reason, to just say that I don't feel like it right now. There's no need to say any more than that; and, in fact, often times giving people a reason will only invite them to debate said reason in an effort to try to convince you to join them. So, don't give them a chance.
Someone described my condition as a "relief-seeking missile," which I thought was rather amusing.
Also, someone suggested that these past two weeks of depression are actually an example of the endurance I'm struggling to learn. I hadn't thought of it that way. In thinking about it, it occurred to me that I'd been able to endure these past two weeks because I felt like I had no other choice. I wanted it to end, and the only way to do that was to let it run its course, and then jump up at the very first sign of emotional elevation. And at the cabin, I hadn't been able to endure, and (probably not coincidentally) I believed then that I did have a choice; that I could choose to get high and that would make me feel better. And, of course, that's not really true. It made me feel a little better, sort of, for a very short time, and then made me feel much, much worse for a good, long while after that. So, I think part of the key to getting through those triggering situations like the cabin, is to tell myself that I don't really have a choice. I want to be happy and healthy right now, and the only way to do that is to endure those periods of suffering when they arise. Just like I did for the past two weeks.
I was also reminded of the simple truth that the good times only exist because of the bad times; they only exist in relation to one another, so one can't exist without the other. And therefore, the bad times only serve to make the good times that much better. And that if I ever want to be happy, I have to allow myself to be unhappy once in a while, too.
And there was also a lot of general encouragement and congratulations and I'm-proud-of-you's just for being honest and telling my story. (I guess this is difficult for a lot of people? Because everyone seemed to be particularly amazed by it and proud of me for doing it. But it's just really easy to be honest when you're shameless and generally don't care what people think of you. Besides, if I'm not honest during these check-ins, then I'm just shooting myself in the foot and wasting my time, so what's the point of even being there? If I'm not going to be honest, then I've got much better things that I could be doing with my Tuesday nights.)
After it was all over, I found that I felt a lot better about the past few weeks, and a lot better about myself. Enough that I was actually surprised by the feeling. I realized I'd actually made some progress with this experience, and that it wasn't just a setback. And I felt a lot better about this process going forward. I realized I was more hopeful about my chances of success now.
And all that made me realize that, for once, I was actually glad to be there.
Talked about my recent relapse and depression, and my struggle to learn endurance, and to allow myself to simply accept unhappiness in those situations where I can't find any relief, rather than falling back into the habit of using drugs to create a synthetic happiness to relieve those feelings. (I feel like I've made progress, because drugs used to be my first response to those feelings, and now they are only a last-resort when all else has failed. But, still, it's unhealthy, and more to the point, it doesn't work - it doesn't actually relieve the feeling or make me feel better - and I'm tired of it, and I want to break this habit and learn to accept pain and unhappiness when I have to.) I tried to keep it brief, because one of the last times I talked, the Facilitator actually cut me off after fifteen minutes for taking up too much time. But despite my efforts, my check-in seemed to spark a rather intense and lengthy discussion that involved almost the entire group, and ended up lasting for a full half-hour.
And in that thirty minutes, I actually got some good advice. For instance, not to even bother to give people a reason that I'm not drinking, etc. And if they press me for a reason, to just say that I don't feel like it right now. There's no need to say any more than that; and, in fact, often times giving people a reason will only invite them to debate said reason in an effort to try to convince you to join them. So, don't give them a chance.
Someone described my condition as a "relief-seeking missile," which I thought was rather amusing.
Also, someone suggested that these past two weeks of depression are actually an example of the endurance I'm struggling to learn. I hadn't thought of it that way. In thinking about it, it occurred to me that I'd been able to endure these past two weeks because I felt like I had no other choice. I wanted it to end, and the only way to do that was to let it run its course, and then jump up at the very first sign of emotional elevation. And at the cabin, I hadn't been able to endure, and (probably not coincidentally) I believed then that I did have a choice; that I could choose to get high and that would make me feel better. And, of course, that's not really true. It made me feel a little better, sort of, for a very short time, and then made me feel much, much worse for a good, long while after that. So, I think part of the key to getting through those triggering situations like the cabin, is to tell myself that I don't really have a choice. I want to be happy and healthy right now, and the only way to do that is to endure those periods of suffering when they arise. Just like I did for the past two weeks.
I was also reminded of the simple truth that the good times only exist because of the bad times; they only exist in relation to one another, so one can't exist without the other. And therefore, the bad times only serve to make the good times that much better. And that if I ever want to be happy, I have to allow myself to be unhappy once in a while, too.
And there was also a lot of general encouragement and congratulations and I'm-proud-of-you's just for being honest and telling my story. (I guess this is difficult for a lot of people? Because everyone seemed to be particularly amazed by it and proud of me for doing it. But it's just really easy to be honest when you're shameless and generally don't care what people think of you. Besides, if I'm not honest during these check-ins, then I'm just shooting myself in the foot and wasting my time, so what's the point of even being there? If I'm not going to be honest, then I've got much better things that I could be doing with my Tuesday nights.)
After it was all over, I found that I felt a lot better about the past few weeks, and a lot better about myself. Enough that I was actually surprised by the feeling. I realized I'd actually made some progress with this experience, and that it wasn't just a setback. And I felt a lot better about this process going forward. I realized I was more hopeful about my chances of success now.
And all that made me realize that, for once, I was actually glad to be there.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Things I Never Thought I'd Hear Myself Say...
Finally got back to the gym this morning. I was so excited and so happy to finally be working out again! It's been over two weeks since my last workout, and I've been feeling like a giant, fat, useless slug of a human being the whole time. I'm really, really happy to finally be back in my routine.
I'm tired of getting high, quite honestly. I'm really fucking tired of this cycle, and I want out. I get clean for a few months, and then I use again. Ultimately, this is what I would like - to be able to use on occasion. But years of chronic abuse have made that impossible for the time being, because right now, whenever I use at all, even a little bit, even after several months clean, I'm immediately plunged into a multi-week depression. Part of it is simply chemical - the drugs have caused my brain to stop producing the chemicals that would make me happy. But part of it is also situational. I enjoy my routine. I like getting up early, I like working out, I like getting home and to bed at reasonable times, I like writing here and meditating and all the rest of it. When I'm doing these things, I'm happy, I'm strong, I sleep well, I have energy to spare, and, most importanly, I feel good about myself. But when I'm depressed, and have no focus, and no energy, and no creativity, I can't do any of those things, and then that depresses me even more. And then I eat, because it seems like the only enjoyable thing in my life that I can still control, but even that ends up depressing me more, because I swear I can actually feel myself getting fat.
My only saving grace so far has been that I hate that feeling of depression so much, that the second it begins to wane at all, I immediately start clawing my way out of that hole like my life depended on it. Which, I guess it kind of does, without being too dramatic about it. Maybe not my actual living, but certainly the quality of my life.
Oh, well. I'm re-hashing old material at this point. Learning the exact same lessons over and over again. Maybe this time it'll stick.
In the meantime, I'm just glad to finally be climbing out of the hole of the last two weeks. Glad to be back in my routine, and glad to finally be doing something other than sleeping, eating, or playing video games. (Have to say, though, God of War 3 and Bioshock were pretty fucking fun.)
It's only a first step, and one I've taken more times than I'd like to admit, but still, it feels good. And here's hoping it's the beginning of a trend; a sign of what's to come.
I'm tired of getting high, quite honestly. I'm really fucking tired of this cycle, and I want out. I get clean for a few months, and then I use again. Ultimately, this is what I would like - to be able to use on occasion. But years of chronic abuse have made that impossible for the time being, because right now, whenever I use at all, even a little bit, even after several months clean, I'm immediately plunged into a multi-week depression. Part of it is simply chemical - the drugs have caused my brain to stop producing the chemicals that would make me happy. But part of it is also situational. I enjoy my routine. I like getting up early, I like working out, I like getting home and to bed at reasonable times, I like writing here and meditating and all the rest of it. When I'm doing these things, I'm happy, I'm strong, I sleep well, I have energy to spare, and, most importanly, I feel good about myself. But when I'm depressed, and have no focus, and no energy, and no creativity, I can't do any of those things, and then that depresses me even more. And then I eat, because it seems like the only enjoyable thing in my life that I can still control, but even that ends up depressing me more, because I swear I can actually feel myself getting fat.
My only saving grace so far has been that I hate that feeling of depression so much, that the second it begins to wane at all, I immediately start clawing my way out of that hole like my life depended on it. Which, I guess it kind of does, without being too dramatic about it. Maybe not my actual living, but certainly the quality of my life.
Oh, well. I'm re-hashing old material at this point. Learning the exact same lessons over and over again. Maybe this time it'll stick.
In the meantime, I'm just glad to finally be climbing out of the hole of the last two weeks. Glad to be back in my routine, and glad to finally be doing something other than sleeping, eating, or playing video games. (Have to say, though, God of War 3 and Bioshock were pretty fucking fun.)
It's only a first step, and one I've taken more times than I'd like to admit, but still, it feels good. And here's hoping it's the beginning of a trend; a sign of what's to come.
Monday, July 9, 2012
All Tech Must Die Update...
So, the one working computer I have at home right now is unbearably slow, and crashes about every half-an-hour or so. Whenever we try to use it to do anything (and there are certain things we simply cannot do at all) we end up spending 10x as long just trying to get the damn thing to work than we would've spent doing the thing we were trying to do in the first place. It's unbelievably frustrating, but for right now, it's all we have, so we're making do. But it's hard to say whether this is actually an improvement over not having any computer at all.
After a week in the shop, they determined that the problem with my other, newer computer is that when I brought it in to be repaired the first time, they mistakenly installed a Wireless card that only works with Windows 7, in a machine that is running Windows XP. So, they had to send it back to the parts-shop to get a new, correct Wireless card installed. Still waiting for that to come back. All told, they will have had my computer for approximately six weeks. Which, as far as I'm concerned, is five weeks longer than this should have taken to resolve.
In the midst of all of this, Her mother gave Her some money for Her birthday, to be spent toward the purchase of a new computer. Trying to be thrifty, since we're a one-income household at the moment, we shopped around for about a week on eBay, trying to find the best computer we could get for the best price. Finally found one we both liked, and for the right price, and we won the auction! (It's the same model as my computer that's in the shop, but newer, and nicer, and running Windows 7. And for about one-quarter what I paid for mine.) And it arrived this weekend, about a week earlier than we anticipated. We were really excited.
But then when I started to set it up, I started noticing that certain keys wouldn't work. I never took a full survey, but after I determined that the "X," "C," "V," and "ENTER" keys didn't work, I knew it wasn't something we'd be able to live with. I spent Saturday downloading and installing every driver and OS update I could find, in the hopes that it was just a software glitch, but nothing helped. Today we shipped it back to the seller to have him fix it (at least he's reimbursing us the shipping costs), though based on past experience, I'm not exactly confident in his abilities.
Oh, and my DVR has started overheating at random intervals, as well.
I swear, if my PS3 breaks, I'm moving to a cabin in the woods.
After a week in the shop, they determined that the problem with my other, newer computer is that when I brought it in to be repaired the first time, they mistakenly installed a Wireless card that only works with Windows 7, in a machine that is running Windows XP. So, they had to send it back to the parts-shop to get a new, correct Wireless card installed. Still waiting for that to come back. All told, they will have had my computer for approximately six weeks. Which, as far as I'm concerned, is five weeks longer than this should have taken to resolve.
In the midst of all of this, Her mother gave Her some money for Her birthday, to be spent toward the purchase of a new computer. Trying to be thrifty, since we're a one-income household at the moment, we shopped around for about a week on eBay, trying to find the best computer we could get for the best price. Finally found one we both liked, and for the right price, and we won the auction! (It's the same model as my computer that's in the shop, but newer, and nicer, and running Windows 7. And for about one-quarter what I paid for mine.) And it arrived this weekend, about a week earlier than we anticipated. We were really excited.
But then when I started to set it up, I started noticing that certain keys wouldn't work. I never took a full survey, but after I determined that the "X," "C," "V," and "ENTER" keys didn't work, I knew it wasn't something we'd be able to live with. I spent Saturday downloading and installing every driver and OS update I could find, in the hopes that it was just a software glitch, but nothing helped. Today we shipped it back to the seller to have him fix it (at least he's reimbursing us the shipping costs), though based on past experience, I'm not exactly confident in his abilities.
Oh, and my DVR has started overheating at random intervals, as well.
I swear, if my PS3 breaks, I'm moving to a cabin in the woods.
Friday, July 6, 2012
Viral...
Humans
are Drugs
who live
to get high
on each other
so
they can feel
as if
they are Living
There
is
no
Perfect
Drug
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Zen and the Art of Biology...
Is there any better feeling
anything more freeing
than standing naked
in a Summer rain?
It is a sensual kiss
from the Mother that bore you
and the Monster
that will devour you.
The air that caresses you
is the motion of the Earth
vibrating on your skin
the transfer of momentum
from the spinning ball of Blue
to the gaseous sphere encasing it
to your body
to You.
You're dancing on the roof
as we fly through the galaxy.
The water that now licks
your entire body
was once part
of a vast sea
wherein the first chemicals
melted together
locked into each other
and twitched
and copulated
and convulsed
and conspired
to move
and to Live.
The molecules that once held
the first Life
All Life
surrounding you
touching you everywhere
setting your skin on Fire.
It is your planet
Making Love to you.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Heat...
For want of Union
What won't we do?
For mate
To conquer Flesh
To possess a Heart
What won't we do?
To climb that Tower
And leap to our Little Deaths
To Hunt
And Pray
And find Shelter in salt
What won't we do?
And Who
are We
to Ask?
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Monday, July 2, 2012
The Tao Of Cliché...
Welcome to Bad Poetry Week! Along with the one story, I also wrote a few shitty poems at the cabin in the woods last weekend, and now I feel the need to share them with both of you. As the saying goes, "Misery loves company."
It's hot
and it's humid.
But it's the perfect temperature,
and the best climate.
The bugs are all over me,
a distraction.
A thousand tender caresses
from The Mother.
I am wearing too much clothing.
But I am completely naked,
open,
and exposed
to the air
and the light.
On opposite ends of the wood,
I am too close to you.
But I want so badly
to be inside of you.
There is no sound here.
And it is defeaning.
I am completely sober.
And out of my fucking skull.
I feel like shit,
and have never felt better.
Here,
with you,
I am all alone.
My books
all define the Infinite,
while void
of any meaning.
I Want so fiercely,
like a sucking hole in my chest.
And I am content.
I miss you all,
now that you are here with me.
The wind swirls around us,
and nothing moves.
My belly,
my heart,
and my head
are all empty,
so I nourish the insects
with my skin,
and my sweat,
and my breath.
And when the storm
finally breaks,
and the rain
finally comes,
I will
finally
be dry.
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