Screen Door Summer...

first days of Summer
early childhood
first, second, third year of school
when Summers first started to mean something

Free.

I am Free.

i remember
i remember those days
i remember that feeling
only remember
i remember one morning
early
seven or eight
both of us
myself and the day
just starting to heat up

i remember finding our front door open
wide open
propped open
because we'd just bought a new screen door
our first
to let the Summer in
i can still remember the sweet smell
of the soft blond wood frame of our new door
blending with the scent of suburban Summer wafting through
cut grass and pool water
dandelion and hot asphalt

i remember the sparkles of dust twinkling
through the enormous beam of radiant Sun
pouring through our open front door
flooding through our new screen door
pooling in two golden domino blocks
on the orange shag carpet

i remember lying down then
right there on the carpet
right there at our open front door
in my pj's
in that bath of light
and doing nothing else
doing nothing at all

i remember it was so warm
so comfortable
so wonderful
so perfect
i didn't want to leave
i didn't have to leave
i could lay there as long as i wanted
i had nothing else to do
all i had to do was whatever i wanted
and what i wanted was to lay right there
and let the blissful Summer Sun caress me all over
until there was nothing else

i remember i felt free then
absolutely felt it
for the first time
a sort-of tingle in the belly
like falling
or flying
the exhilaration of that new-found freedom
knowing i was free
knowing this was only the beginning
knowing there were months more of this left
months more to look forward to
the upwelling joy that knowledge brings
the surge of happiness at having nothing better to do
than drown in a pool of starlight

i remember recognizing
even then
that there was something special happening there
i didn't know what it was
not then
but i knew there wouldn't be many days like that
and there haven't been
this is the only one i can remember
anymore

but i'm glad i remember
it feels good to remember
it dulls the ache
left from wondering
if i'll ever get to feel that way again

In Our Rags Of Light...

If it be your will
That I speak no more
And my voice be still
As it was before
I will speak no more
I shall abide until
I am spoken for
If it be your will

If it be your will
That a voice be true
From this broken hill
I will sing to you
From this broken hill
All your praises they shall ring
If it be your will
To let me sing
From this broken hill
All your praises they shall ring
If it be your will
To let me sing

If it be your will
If there is a choice
Let the rivers fill
Let the hills rejoice
Let your mercy spill
On all these burning hearts in hell
If it be your will
To make us well

And draw us near
And bind us tight
All your children here
In their rags of light
In our rags of light
All dressed to kill
And end this night
If it be your will

If it be your will.

        -"If It Be Your Will"
         Leonard Cohen, Various Positions
 

It Turns Reason Into Ashes...

They sent me out from Santa Fe
    to try and find his trail
They think that I'm the only one
    who can bring him back to jail
This star says I'm a lawman
    this gun has seen me through
And though my heart is heavy
    I've got a job to do

You see he's such a proud man
    who never learned to crawl
But a good man turned gunslinger
    is the meanest man of all
He killed a US Marshall
    and for that he's gonna pay
And I'm the lonely lawman
    who's on his trail today

There was a time he fought for truth
    and on the side of right
Until the only girl he loved
    was killed one fateful night
I know his heart was shattered
    as he turned the barren sod
And laid away her body
    commending it to God

Then he vowed a vengeance
    to those who took her life
And every notch upon his gun
    a tear shed for his wife
But vengeance is like wildfire
    sweepin' through the wood
It turns reason into ashes
    and burns out all the good

Now I can't help but remember
    as I trail this lonesome man
I don't believe while we were boys
    I won any race we ran
For you see his face resembles mine
    we talk somewhat the same
And though we walk in different worlds
    we both bear our daddy's name...
  
              -"The Lawman"
               Billy Walker
               listen on YouTube
    

Trying To Hold On To What He Needs...

When a man loves a woman,
    he can't keep his mind on nothing else
He'll trade the world
    for the good thing he's found
If she is bad, he can't see it,
    she can do no wrong
Turn his back on his best friend
    if he put her down

When a man loves a woman,
    he'll spend his very last dime
Tryin' to hold on
    to what he needs
He'd give up all his comforts,
    sleep out in the rain
If she said that's the way
    it ought to be

Well, this man loves a woman
I gave you everything I had
Tryin' to hold on to your high class love
Baby, please don't treat me bad

When a man loves a woman,
    down deep in his soul
She can bring him
    such misery
If she plays him for a fool,
    he's the last one to know
Lovin' eyes
    can't ever see

When a man loves a woman,
    he can do her no wrong
He can never own
    some other girl
Yes, when a man loves a woman
    I know exactly how he feels
'Cause baby, baby, baby,
    you're my world

When a man loves a woman
    I know exactly how he feels
Baby, baby, baby,
    you're my world
  
    -"When A Man Loves A Woman"
     Percy Sledge

We Become Merlin, Lord Of The Geeks...

the Man is no longer a Man
in this day and age
he is a strange Middle-Aged Boy
an Aging Adolescent
hair going grey
with the hours whittled away
on Xbox video games

the Man that is a Man
is of a bygone age
The Real Man in the films of old
Age-ed Anachronism
strong and proud and brave
standing tall to face the day
and keep the wolves at bay

that I am a Man-who-is-not-a-Man
a product of this modern age
has vexed my Heart and Soul
my Arrested Ascension
how can I always play
when a Real Man works all day
but really who's to say?

the Boy is also a Man
in our culture at this stage
in truth both young and old
Advancing Adolescence
we get to play our lives away
yet still have bills to pay
the balance of the middle way

I am a Boy and I am a Man
by internal and external age
work only to play is my road
an Admirable Aspiration
that I get to live My Way
a little boyhood every day
is the great gift of this age

Fuck it
I'll be okay

What Am I When I Am Not Me...

they're not nightmares
anymore
and i should think that would make a difference
but it doesn't
my dreams are a plague
infecting every part of me
every vessel, every organ
every nerve and every cell
every night

a Wonka riverboat ride down the rabbit hole into Madness
and mixed metaphors
a kaleidoscopic psychic calliope

of psychedelic psychosis

i remember when dreams used to comfort
bring relief and restitution
or delightful reminiscence
or strange beauty
but my dreams are now a plague
they exhaust me
all vivid surreal visions
          of mundane interactions

with a world I do not recognize
that feels uncomfortably
intimately
Familiar

waking in those peaceful hours of pre- and post-dawn
that peace is lost on me
lying there, almost paralyzed
i do not remember my dreams
so much as i
Recover from them

Soured...

I killed a man in my sleep last night.

strange albino maskface
cueball head coated in alabaster
greasepaint of a clown
skin white as the sharpened teeth
tearing through a bloodred slit of mouth
that wound the only color in his face

he was keeping me there
in the darkred room with no windows
holding me there in fear
terrorizing me
torturing me
delighting in it
consuming my fear like a drug
lusting after my pain
pleasuring himself with it

It had been a very bad day for me.

but then he brought Her in
so She could see what he had done
witness the mess he was making of me
brought Her in so I could see
the pain and the fear twisting Her beauty

but then he lost himself
in his lust and hunger for our degradation
he leaned down
face to "face"
pressed his sickening skin to mine
to whisper in my ear
all the things he was about to do to Her

He shouldn't have.

my hands were on his head
fists closed around ears
and pulled
thumbs went into eyes
and sank
and his bloodred mouth opened in glorious tortured screaming
my teeth clamped down
tearing into his bottom lip
with everything i had
i pushed and pulled and tore and ruined
eyeballs popped wet and cold like rotten grapes
ears gave in came off ripping strips of cheek revealing bone
lip tore down down down over chin and neck and red flowed free
free as i felt
free as i now was
as we now were


and i looked to Her
worried for us both
for so many things
and I saw Her
standing shocked
and there was no more fear in Her eyes
and there was no more love in Her smile
there was only the dumbfounded awe
of the newly awakened

all i felt
was justified

Goodbye, Mork...

I had to add just this one more, for posterity.  It's just too perfect.

Carpe Diem, My Captain...

I really don't understand why the death of Robin Williams is hitting me so hard.  As shocked as I was to hear of his death, I was (and still remain) almost as shocked by the depth of my reaction to it.  I mean, sure I've felt saddened by the death of other celebrities before.  I remember being particularly saddened by the death of Heath Ledger, and more recently, Philip Seymour Hoffman.  But I've never been moved to tears like this before.  Celebrities are, by nature, almost fictional characters to us themselves; always removed from our actual lives by cameras and screens.  (I think that might have something to do with why it feels so strange whenever you see one in person - it's almost like TV or a movie coming to life!)  And since we don't really know them personally, there's only so much their death can move us.

Or so I thought.

I don't know why this one hurts so much.  Maybe it's because I grew up with him?  Because I've enjoyed him so much for my entire life?  I remember the rainbow Mork suspenders I had when I was five years old.  (My first cosplay, I guess?)  I remember seeing Popeye in the theaters with my parents just a few years later, and loving it completely.  I have the same memories of Good Morning, Vietnam.  And Hook.  (Oh, Peter Pan!  Why did you have to grow up?!)  I watched Mrs. Doubtfire and Jumanji over and over, just because of the way it delighted both the boy and the man in me at the same time.

And I've seen Dead Poets Society so many times I can practically quote the whole movie.  I don't know when I'll be able to watch that one again now.  At the very least, I know I'll never be able to see it the same way again.

Maybe it's because it was apparently a suicide?  It's possible.  Might be the connection to my own mother's death.  But I haven't reacted this way to other suicides or overdoses, so why this one?  Maybe it's just the fact that suicide adds that final crack of heartbreak to the story.  We didn't just lose one of the greats forever; we lost him to himself, to his own demons, to his own sickness.  It feels like there must've been something that could've saved him.  It feels like it didn't have to end this way.  And it touches us all because, let's face it, haven't each and every one of us been there, or somewhere close to it, at least once in our lives?  But if we could survive it, then why couldn't he?

I think it's true that there are few things more sad in this life, than a funny man, with a broken heart.  His mentor, Jonathan Winters, knew that only too well.  But he survived it anyways.  It's too bad he couldn't be there to help his friend, who clearly needed him more than anyone knew.

Like so, so many of us today, I feel the need to pour my heart out to the memory of this funny man, who's been there my whole life, in some vain and desperate attempt to figure out just what in the fuck it means to live without him now.

Below, I've collected some of my favorites that other people have been sharing today.  Some are funny, some are poignant, some are heart-breaking.  But they all made me feel something.  And that's helped, at least a little.

Here's hoping it can do the same for any of you.

Every time I hear a siren I still say "that's my ride." Thank you Robin Williams. I wish your ride had not arrived.
— John Hodgman (@hodgman) August 11, 2014

Spontaneous tribute appearing at the bench in Boston, made famous from the scene in Good Will Hunting.

We mourn the loss of our friend Robin Williams, who always made us laugh and smile. pic.twitter.com/UOY8LTjVRA
— Sesame Street (@sesamestreet) August 11, 2014

"Robin Williams is not dead, he is just waiting in the jungle until somebody rolls a 5 or 8." -testingonetwothreetesting, via imgur



"One of the funniest people alive died from sadness." - chili1179, via imgur

Nanu nanu.
— SarcasticRover (@SarcasticRover) August 11, 2014

Come on in Rob. I got you.
— Jesus Christ (@jesus) August 11, 2014

The first comment on this image, from NancyNevada, I think says it all:  "When Peter Pan dies, don't tell us to grow up."

Goodbye pal.  Thanks for everything.
— Louis C.K. (@louisck) August 12, 2014

This was reportedly posted to Disney's FB page this morning.  Heart-wrenching.

"But doctor, I AM Pagliacci." That's the only way this makes sense. Can't stand thinking of him being that sad. #RIPRobinWilliams
— Patton Oswalt (@pattonoswalt) August 11, 2014

And finally, this is how I always want to remember him:



Your barbaric YAWP! was heard around the world, sir, and inspired MILLIONS.

And you will always be my captain.

Centurion...

try hard as we might
there was no
ignoring
the scratching
coming from the walls
and there was no
reckoning
to be had
with the things
crawling on our skin
but we laid there
together
all we had
each other
and my arm was around you
and your head was on my chest
as you softly slept
and in your dreams
the storm must've turned
the scratching of the things
finding its way through
the tempest inside
and i heard you
start to mewl
and whine
and cry out
from the dark place
down where your dreaming
had taken you
and so i raised my hand
from its home on your hip
and softly
smoothed your hair
away from your troubled
beautiful face
so near to mine
and i cupped your head gently
and i loved you
and you were quiet again and

everything

was

perfect

Gone, Gone Beyond...

today
was the day
i turned it all off
all the noise
all the chatter
all the distractions
all the fear and fervent mysticism
all the pain and errant prophecy
all the useless superstitions
and endless contradictions
because i realized
i didn't need it
i didn't even want it
so that's when
i decided
i reached over
and out
and deliberately
pressed

OFF



and then there was Sky
and Sun
and the Grass-scented Wind
flowing all over my skin
sensuous as a silk gown
and it was then
i felt the Lift
i've been waiting so long
i'd forgotten it
what it was like
that merciful
glorious
gods-send

Lift

like in an elevator
that falls too fast
and stops short
in that half-second
when you taste your heartsblood in your mouth
and your mind floats weightless in your skull
and you know the Secret of All Things
in the Lift

as i was then
as i was flying
doing a hundred-and-one through the soft-blue sky
the midsummer wind pulling the tears from my eyes
as i remembered Her face
all over again
for the ten-thousandth time

I Have Sowed Need, And What Then I Reaped...

i was so afraid
so afraid of
not needing you
so unaware
that i was
loving from fear
so confused
thinking love
demanded need
too oblivious
to see
my desire
pulling you under

as soon as i
gave up
gave in
let go
stopped
needing you
i was suddenly

Free

finally free to
see you
hear you
know you
your real you
because you
were finally free
of my weight
of my need

what i needed
what i really needed
after all and everything
is over and done
was to get out of the fucking way
and just be me
and let you be you
so we could meet each other
again
and fall
for the first time

My Love Is Stronger Than My Fear Of Death...

Out in the West Texas
    town of El Paso
I fell in love
    with a Mexican girl.
Night-time would find me
    in Rosa's cantina;
Music would play
    and Felina would whirl.

Blacker than night
    were the eyes of Felina,
Wicked and evil
    while casting a spell.
My love was deep
    for this Mexican maiden;
I was in love
    but in vain, I could tell.

One night a wild young cowboy came in,
Wild as the West Texas wind.
Dashing and daring,
A drink he was sharing
With wicked Felina,
The girl that I loved.

So in anger I
Challenged his right
    for the love of this maiden.
Down went his hand
    for the gun that he wore.
My challenge was answered
    in less than a heart-beat;
The handsome young stranger
    lay dead on the floor.

Just for a moment
    I stood there in silence,
Shocked by the foul evil
    deed I had done.
Many thoughts raced
    through my mind as I stood there;
I had but one chance
    and that was to run.

Out through the back door of Rosa's I ran,
Out where the horses were tied.
I caught a good one.
It looked like it could run.
Up on its back
And away I did ride,

Just as fast as I
Could from the West Texas
    town of El Paso
Out to the bad-lands
    of New Mexico.

Back in El Paso
    my life would be worthless.
Everything's gone in life;
    nothing is left.
It's been so long
    since I've seen the young maiden
My love is stronger
    than my fear of death.

I saddled up and away I did go,
Riding alone in the dark.
Maybe tomorrow
A bullet may find me.
Tonight nothing's worse than this
Pain in my heart.

And at last here I
Am on the hill
    overlooking El Paso;
I can see Rosa's
    cantina below.
My love is strong
    and it pushes me onward.
Down off the hill
    to Felina I go.

Off to my right
    I see five mounted cowboys;
Off to my left
    ride a dozen or more.
Shouting and shooting
    I can't let them catch me.
I have to make it
    to Rosa's back door.

Something is dreadfully wrong for I feel
A deep burning pain in my side.
Though I am trying
To stay in the saddle,
I'm getting weary,
Unable to ride.

But my love for
Felina is strong
    and I rise where I've fallen,
Though I am weary
    I can't stop to rest.
I see the white puff
    of smoke from the rifle.
I feel the bullet
    go deep in my chest.

From out of nowhere
    Felina has found me,
Kissing my cheek
    as she kneels by my side.
Cradled by two loving
    arms that I'll die for,
One little kiss
    and Felina,
  
    Good-bye.

          -"El Paso"
            Marty Robbins, Gunfighter Ballads & Trail Songs

Initiation...

As we ate the poison, we looked up into the night sky, to see the bright pointed horn of the May crescent moon break from behind the dragon smoke wisp of cloud. Jupiter stood out bright as a laser directly above. And all of these celestials nestled perfectly between the Great Twins of Gemini.

The door opened.

Though A Youth Of Twenty-Four...

To the town of Agua Fria
    rode a stranger one fine day
Hardly spoke to folks around him,
    didn't have too much to say
No one dared to ask his business, no one dared to make a slip
For the stranger there among them
    had a big iron on his hip
Big iron on his hip

It was early in the morning
    when he rode into the town
He came ridin' from the south side
    slowly lookin' all around
"He's an outlaw loose and runnin'" came the whisper from each lip
"And he's here to do some business with
    the big iron on his hip"
Big iron on his hip

In this town there lived an outlaw by
    the name of Texas Red
Many men had tried to take him and
    that many men were dead
He was vicious and a killer, though a youth of twenty-four
And the notches on his pistol
    numbered one and nineteen more
One and nineteen more

Now the stranger started talkin'
    made it plain to folks around
Was an Arizona Ranger
    wouldn't be too long in town
He came here to take an outlaw back, alive or maybe dead
And he said it didn't matter,
    he was after Texas Red
After Texas Red

Wasn't long before the story was
    relayed to Texas Red
But the outlaw didn't worry
    men that tried before were dead
Twenty men had tried to take him, twenty men had made a slip
Twenty-one would be the Ranger with
    the big iron on his hip
Big iron on his hip

The morning passed so quickly,
    it was time for them to meet
It was twenty past eleven
    when they walked out in the street
Folks were watching from the windows, everybody held their breath
They knew this handsome Ranger was
    about to meet his death
About to meet his death

There was forty feet between them
    when they stopped to make their play
And the swiftness of the Ranger
    is still talked about today
Texas Red had not cleared leather 'fore a bullet fairly ripped
And the Ranger's aim was deadly with
    the big iron on his hip
Big iron on his hip

It was over in a moment and
    the folks had gathered 'round
There before them lay the body of
    the outlaw on the ground
Oh, he might have went on livin', but he made one fatal slip
When he tried to match the Ranger with
    the big iron on his hip
Big iron on his hip

Big Iron!
Big Iron!
When he tried to match the Ranger with
    the big iron on his hip
Big iron on his hip

          -"Big Iron"
            Marty Robbins, Gunfighter Ballads & Trail Songs

Men And Their Fathers...

all sons
at some point
inevitably
face the same
dilemma:

either
figure out a way
to be
more successful
than your father
or
figure out a way
to deal
with the inescapable feeling
of having
failed
at being a man

But You Can Never Leave...

Seven years ago, today.

Spiral...

a Little
is Alright

but Too Much
is Perfect

and More?

More is
Never Enough

Only Grey...

i know you're depressed
know you just don't want to deal
with me
with anyone
don't feel like you can
don't feel like you can take anymore
don't feel like you can handle it all
it's just too much
all these people who Love you
who mean so well
who want to be the one to save you
to play the hero
be the one to make you smile again
they have no idea
can't feel what it's like
they don't understand that
for all their good intentions
their affections are just another burden
their attempts at Love and comfort just a
complicated social dance
they're forcing on you

i know you want to feel better
know you would if you could
but all their attempts to help you
just make you feel like a burden
to the people you Love
the ones you least want to burden
and why can't they see that only makes it worse
to have to choose between
disappointing them
when their attempts at cheeriness inevitably fail
or lying to them
and pretending to feel better
when you don't
not really
just to spare their feelings
can't they see that you don't have the energy
to even be responsible for your own feelings right now
much less anyone else's
why can't they just leave you alone

alone

isolated

simplified

reduced

quiet

numb

trying to let the pain fade
disappear into nothing at all
so in the blessed silence left behind
the spark may return
just maybe
to fan the flames again
to build the heat
and warm you back to life
but only if you can first get away
away from all of us
and all our Love and affections
and our mountains of best intentions
only if you can reduce all the noise
and complications
and lay still in your shallow depression

i know you're depressed
i know how you feel
i know i can't help
i know i'd only weigh you down further
and make it harder for you to get up again

but i also know
that I Love you

and that you are not alone

Gaze Deep Into My Navel And Despair...

How am I supposed to grow up?

I want to grow up.  I really do.  No, more than that, I need to.  I need to grow the fuck up.  I'm almost forty years old, but I still see myself as if I were twenty-five.  That might sound appealing on some level, at first; "young at heart" and all that.  And maybe it would be, if that's what I wanted for myself.  But it isn't.  I want to grow up.  I need to grow up, because I can't keep living like I'm twenty-five.  I'm not twenty-five anymore.  I can't eat like a twenty-five year-old anymore.  I can't move like a twenty-five year-old anymore.  I can't party like a twenty-five year-old anymore.  Fuck, I can't even sleep like a twenty-five year-old anymore.  It all hurts me now in a way that it never did, and I can feel myself breaking down at an astonishing rate, as if the force of Entropy inside me were being fed by some radioaction of chemical combustion.  Accelerated Decrepitude.  But on the other hand, trying to live within my almost-forty means, while still feeling like a twenty-five year-old inside, is so monumentally depressing that I can't even fucking bother; I always just end up feeling like I already have one foot in the grave.

A twenty-five year-old trapped in a forty year-old body.  How incredibly pathetic.  How incredibly modern.  How incredibly privileged.

But how am I supposed to grow up?  I don't know.  My observations tell me that for most people, this happens as a natural side-effect of breeding.  That creating a child shifts all perspectives, and forces the new parent into a maturity that cannot be achieved through any other means.  That makes sense to me.  I can understand that.

But I'm never going to have any children.  So what am I supposed to do?  How am I supposed to force myself to achieve a state that, for most people, requires quite possibly the single most life-altering event they will ever experience in order to achieve?

Sometimes I think, maybe I don't actually need to grow up?  If I don't have any children, then what do I need to grow up for?  Why do I feel this need anyways?  I can only assume it is because I reflexively compare my life to the model my parents set for me.  When I look at myself, and try to judge whether I'm doing well or not, I compare it to the life they lived.  And I always feel myself coming up short.

They went to college.  They got degrees.  They worked hard.  (My father still works harder than almost anyone else I know, and while my mother never worked as hard as he did, she still inarguably worked harder than I do now.)  They bore and raised children.  They owned houses, with yards and multiple floors and everything.

But I dropped out of college.  I have no degrees, and probably never will.  Yeah, I have a career that doesn't leave me wanting to kill myself, but I still hate it, just because it's work, and I hate work of any kind; I hate being forced to sell myself every day in order to sustain myself.  I don't own a house.  I own an absurdly tiny condo that I hate and will never be able to sell for as much as I paid for it.  I am almost certain I will end up having to live in that tiny little box for the rest of my life, watching it deteriorate around me, with me - and that thought terrifies me on a regular basis.

And even these modest achievements - a well-paying job that I can sort of do well and tolerate, and a tiny little condo I'm trapped in like a prison cell - even these barely note-worthy accomplishments I never actually earned; I didn't work hard to achieve these things.  I got this job because some well-meaning middle-aged women that I worked with took pity on me, and talked to their bosses, and told them they knew this kid they thought would do well as a programmer.  And they were right - I am a good programmer.  At least, I'm alright.  But again, not because I try to be, or because I studied or worked hard or went to school or anything else.  I just have a natural talent for logic and pattern recognition and symbology, and so I am a naturally decent programmer.  I could be a great programmer if I wanted to be; if I tried to be and put forth the effort.  But I don't.  Because I don't care.  I only want to put forth the minimum amount of effort to get by, and save the rest for indulging in my life's pleasures.

And it's a similar story with my "home."  I didn't work hard and save money every day so that I could eventually put a down payment on my dream home.  My grandfather died, and since my mother (his daughter) was already dead herself, the portion of his life's wealth that should have been hers (and he had worked hard all his life to achieve that wealth) came to me instead.  And I used all of that money to buy the apartment I had been living in for almost a decade at that point.  The biggest, most "adult" accomplishment of my life - becoming a home-owner - and it only happened because I was in a position to profit off of the deaths of two of my close family members.  And so it has never felt like an accomplishment to me.  It feels like blood money.

(It's true that I performed magick to get the job and the money and the apartment, but even taking the assumption that my magick worked doesn't help the situation any.  Magick is a short-cut.  It's easy compared to actually working hard to learn or to save money.  And it's fun to do, and for that reason alone I wanted to do it, whether it worked or not.  So even assuming that I came by these things through sorcery, it still doesn't feel like an accomplishment to me.  It still doesn't feel like I really earned them.  It feels like I cheated.)

And I will almost certainly never see that much money again in my lifetime.  I can barely maintain a savings of more than a couple of thousand dollars at a time.  I live paycheck-to-paycheck, even with my fairly significant salary.  I've always been that way.  If I have money, I want to spend it on making myself feel good right now, and I can't seem to deny myself comfort or happiness in the present, in order to save it for some undefined future.  As I've written here before, I feel like the Grasshopper, fiddling away as the first snow begins to fall.

But why do I determine the value of my life by comparing it to my parents'?  They were completely different people, living in a completely different time.  And who wanted completely different things from their life than I want from mine.  And I know this.  But I still can't shake this feeling that I am somehow failing at life, because I seem to remember my parents being so much better off in their twenties than I am in my thirties; or will be in my forties.  I just want to be happy, like anyone else.  But I constantly and consistently feel that the things that make me happy aren't good for me.  That they are self-indulgent, or immature, or masturbatory.  That I am a bad person for living my life the way that I do.  But trying to live my life any other way always leaves me just as miserable, if only in a different way.

I just want to spend my life relaxing in the bathhouse, playing games, reading, writing, watching TV and movies, sleeping, eating, drinking and getting high, and punctuating the whole thing with the occasional orgasm.  That is really all I want from life.

And I feel like a worthless waste of a human being for feeling that way.  I hate myself for feeling that way.  But even so, I have no idea how to change it; I have no idea how to want anything else.

Okay, sure, I want other things.  Bigger things.  I want to have a big house with a yard and a basement and an attic.  I want to be able to support myself through writing, or some other form of creative expression.  (If only I could make a living playing games!)  I want a sense of accomplishment.  I want to feel like my life mattered, in any way.  I want to feel a sense of confidence that when I'm gone, I will have made some mark on the world that is all my own; that I will leave behind something more than a pile of carbon dust.  I do want all of these things.  But when I think about them, and I envision the monumental amount of work it would take to even try to achieve any of them - with no guarantee of success! - I lose any hope I may have had about ever actually achieving them.

Because I know that I will never do that work.  I just don't have it in me.  Achieving anything of any real significance requires a single-minded devotion that I just don't have.  Have never had.

Because deep-down, I don't want to be great.  All I really want is to be comfortable.  And I guess I am.  So I should be happy, then, right?  Then why do I feel this way?  I just wish I could learn to be happy with what I have, instead of hating myself for not being able to be great.

I guess what it all really comes down to is this:  I feel lazy, and I hate myself for being lazy, but I don't know how to make myself be anything else.  And I hate myself for that, too.

+          +          +

Or maybe I'm just depressed because winter is coming, and I'm all out of drugs, and I can feel both of these things gnawing at my bones.