NOSTALGIA IS A WEAPON

The writing is coming back, bit by bit. I still don’t have anything whole to share yet, but there are dozens of fragments floating around, and new ones arriving with a greater frequency than before. As an experiment, I thought I’d open up the folder where all these pieces sit (separate documents for each attempt) and see if anything therein would spark inspiration, or perhaps give me a jumping-off point to continue an unfinished thought. Well. I hadn’t realized the sheer enormity of the aborted efforts. I provide a screenshot of what happens when all text files are opened at once, within the viewpoint of the “all windows” function of Mac OSX’s Exposé:

Um. Yeah. I have some work to do.

As with any neglected skill, my complete lack of writing these past few months has left me rusty and incapable of spitting out anything lucid, it seems. I was never very good at it anyway, but this is just frustrating.

This is just a post to say that I’m at least trying to update again, and to apologize for once again being a bad blogger. Not that I suspect anyone checks here regularly anymore; this place lacks only boarded-up windows and a “for rent” sign on the front porch. I’m still here, despite appearances otherwise. Hopefully I’ll actually have something to share soon.

And thanks to all for the hugs and well-wishes on the last post. I didn’t mean to leave you unacknowledged. You words and thoughts help more than I can tell you.

Wondering if there’s anyone still out there to give me a hug and tell me everything is gonna be okay. There’s certainly not anyone here.

I’ve got so much in my head right now, so much pressure, and I think all I’d need to release some of that is for someone to hold me and let me cry, just let it pour out of me through the flood of tears.

I wish I could cry on my own. But I can’t. So I guess it’s up to me to try and keep a hold on that growing mass in my head, to keep it from spilling over in destructive ways. Wish me luck.

Been thinking a lot lately about something syndromes said once long ago:

“Maybe it takes more than one person’s puzzle pieces to make it all fit together.”

Sometimes I’m fine with being single, self-sufficient, strong for nobody but myself. But these days my life is punctuated by periods that make less sense, and I’m confused and frustrated often. Above all I’m just so goddamn lonely.

Sigh.

I don’t know if I’ve ever been as horrified or disgusted at myself as I am right now. I’m going to go find a deep, dark hole to crawl into. If you don’t hear from me for a bit…. take care, folks.

seeing myself this way
I am a monster I believe
and seeing is believing
……..
I sicken myself so much

-Toad the Wet Sprocket

-The world is a bit of a haze now, seen through the eyes of several beers, a mildly drunken filter placed in front of the world.

I stand in front of the mirror, shirtless. My eyes, pupils shrunken against the light. I see that I have form but not build. There is very little substance to me. My pants, size 28 waist, hang loosely just below my hips. Even the smallest waist-size pants fit me improperly. I am not frail, whispers of muscle definition, borne only by my exertion at work, peering around the edges of my frame. Yet it would take only a strong wind to sweep me away.

And there is a revelation: my mental self dwelling parallel to my physical body. Here is this structure which moves about and speaks, and yet exists as very little other than such. My true self, my personality, only visible at the corners, hides in the shadows. Incomplete perhaps, as the muscles are. In need of discipline, exercise, practical use in order to build into something tangible. -

Nothing but stream-of-consciousness ramblings written minutes ago, long after I should be asleep. God knows why I’m posting this, but who cares, really?

Good god, the passing of time is astounding these days. Already it’s been nearly a month since Enji’s visit. Where has that time gone? What have I done since then?

Time spent with E was wonderful, of course. There’s one picture up on flickr from our gay bar karaoke night (sadly, none of the show pics came out well, or I’d have more to share). Video footage of our duet to Natalie Imbruglia’s “Torn”, sans- interpretive dance (I totally chickened out) does in fact exist, but for the sake of humanity I’ll spare you my atonal vocal stylings. Enji totally rocked out Christina Aguilera’s “Ain’t No Other Man”, though. As if you didn’t know, girl can sing. I’ve said it already, but thanks again for coming, E. Miss ya already. There’s always a bed and a hot mug of tea here for ya.

Since then a dozen more partial entries have been composed, but I’ve still nothing solid to put here yet. I should make finishing something a priority, if for no other reason than proving to myself I can still write a damn coherent essay. But that won’t be happening tonight, I’m afraid. Life is still interesting. Maybe one day I can tell ya’ll about it.

To those that still happen upon this page, or who haven’t given up hope that I’ll ever post again: I hope life is treating you well.

Um, wow. ‘Course, this was inevitable at some point, but seriously: ouch.

That’s a very nonchalant way of describing what is possibly going to become a roiling mess of pain in my stomach, but I guess we’ll just wait and see how I feel in the light of tomorrow.

G’night, all (or few).

It’s weird how quickly time gets away from me. It’s been another month-plus since the last time I posted, and now there’s so much to say that I have no idea where to begin.

I’ve tried writing a lot lately, which has resulted in a new folder on my desktop that contains more than a dozen partially-composed entries. I’ve begun to think of these attempts as mid-term miscarriages. I start out with something promising, begin to develop something on the page, and then suddenly and without warning it aborts itself, unwilling to progress any further or develop into something whole. It’s endlessly frustrating.

Life is interesting these days. I’m going through cycles of highs and lows like I haven’t experienced in years. Yet it’s not the dangerous, uncontrollable kind; this is a result of experiencing, feeling. I’m realizing what it’s like to be alive again. I’d forgotten how much being alive could fucking hurt. But boy, those moments when you’ve bared your soul in the depth of conversation and had it accepted with a smile and a hug… those moments make all the suffering worthwhile. It’s what Enji said once when she was my age: “Everything is part of the journey. Frustration, peace, depression, ecstasy, loneliness, everything. Note that true happiness is impossible without suffering — there is no light without dark. Contrast, my dear, contrast.” This time tomorrow I might be singing a different tune. But I’ll take any moment of enlightenment, no matter how small or brief.

Sorry for the absence. I’ll try and return soon, hopefully with something a little more substantial and expository.

To my right, sitting on the bed with me, a rotating cast of items: Czerny and Chopin music folios, Chris Adrian’s book The Children’s Hospital, a burned mix cd. Among these are the usual suspects, the ever-present: my external hard drive, headphones, and laptop. These things are only displaced from their home every other week to change the sheets, and on the rare occasion when I have guests.  I get strange looks when people hear that I sleep with all this stuff on my bed. “But they take up so much room!” No, not really. I don’t need that much space, and I’ve got more than half my bed all to myself. “It’s convenient,” I tell them, “to be able to reach over and check my email or jot down a note when I first wake up, or to listen to music when I can’t sleep.” This is true, but I suspect it’s not the whole truth. It seems like it’s easier to feel lonely when you’ve got a big bed to yourself. Lying there in the dark, you extend your arm under the sheets and find only cold, empty space along your entire reach. The feeling of isolation that comes along with that is not generally conducive to helping me fall asleep with a clear mind.

These objects are a poor substitute for a warm body to snuggle up to. But for now they are a collective placeholder for what I’ve not yet found. So it goes.

Besides, the hug pillow just creeps me out for some reason.