Archive for March, 2012

Blathering on and suchlike, also: mope mope mope

It seems my desire to write has fizzled. It was to be expected. I may have at one point considered myself a writer, a poet, an artist (the production of anything a compulsion I couldn’t ignore), but as I’ve gotten older apathy has smothered many of my desires leaving me appallingly unproductive. Even now it threatens to capsize even this paltry attempt. The specter of “why bother” rattles my thoughts and my fingers are tempted to falter.

Guh.

I have what used to be called a “depressed personality”. I am easily discouraged, pessimistic, and anxious. I’m low-energy, unmotivated, and often blue. At one point I was medicated, but that was many years ago. It is quite possible a combination of medication and therapy would help me now, but these things are rather hard to acquire when you don’t have insurance. Don’t you love it when medical care is a luxury? Yay, America.

And so, my productivity level is low and my general satisfaction with life is low as well. For years I have seen life as a burden of sorts- something to get through to please those around me, something to get through so I can enjoy the occasional pleasant experience.

I think the struggle to find enjoyment in life is one of the defining factors of my person. It isn’t so much a search for meaning (as I believe in the essential meaninglessness of existence) as it is a search for satisfaction. In a world where nothing truly means anything everything is possible. That is the beauty of nihilism, I suppose- a release from the arbitrary constructions of society. However, I consistently find nihilism unsatisfactory. I may not crave meaning, but I require some sort of purpose. I require some sort of goal to attain, if only to keep my mind occupied.

Life, to me, is full of pointless drudgery. I find it boring, sad, and terribly scary. This is a character flaw, I know. It is not something one should readily admit. Yet I do. I am aware this is a defect. A self-defeating defect if there ever was one. The combination of a lack of motivation and excessive boredom is a recipe for disaster. I do what I can to keep myself entertained and distracted in a healthy way, to get my heart-rate up and the chemicals flowing. But, in a way I am almost an adrenaline junkie, as the only way I truly feel alive is when I am attempting something new (or daydreaming about something titillating.) Maybe even my anxiety isn’t so much a symptom of my mood disorder as an underhanded attempt by my psyche to introduce some excitement into my days. . .

At any rate, with what little energy I have I use in an attempt to keep myself invested and interested. If people only knew how hard it is for me to sustain my social interactions, and how grateful I am that they are willing to put up with my idiosyncrasies when they encounter them. . . Honestly, I don’t think most people even realize that I have any problems functioning. All told, I really am highly functional. I may not ever do much to improve my situation, but I am financially independent and reasonably responsible; I just take no pleasure from such things. Yet, I am fully capable of putting up a front of cheerfulness for a limited amount of time, and so I do. When I find myself too exhausted or discouraged to pretend anymore I retreat to my apartment, bed, and books. Only those very close to me or those persistent enough are allowed in my presence when I am in a foul mood. Even then, while I may be grateful for the distraction, I am often testy and uncommunicative and the experience isn’t fruitful for either of us. So, for the most part, my friends and acquaintances only see me when I am making an attempt to be positive.

I’ll admit that when I am actually in a good mood I am pretty fun to be around. I’m compassionate, reasonably patient, kind, intelligent despite my lack of education, respectful, and I’ve a broad sense of humor. Despite my blues, I really don’t take anything seriously, least of all myself. I may be judgmental, but it is an empathetic judgment- I may find I don’t like someone, but I don’t hold it against them. Drama, while I am occasionally the cause, I tend to avoid. I don’t pick fights, spread the nastier bits of gossip, or talk shit unless I know the other person is game for a little ribbing. With a bit of persistence I can be talked into just about any silly thing if it promises even a modicum of entertainment. Also, there is very little off the table as far as conversation goes with me, if you can get me talking. Essentially, what I’m trying to say is that while I may not be the most demonstrative or energetic individual in any group, I will be one of the most chill and accepting. I also give great hugs and look good in a dress.

In conclusion, there really is no conclusion. I’m really not sure what I’m trying to say, or what the point of this was supposed to be other than a desperate attempt at catharsis. It’s just a rambling monologue about how I am disappointed in myself because I am continually so dissatisfied. About how it is incredibly frustrating to see the box you put yourself in while being unable to extricate yourself.

It saddens me greatly that my depression makes me so shallow, that the best I can do with it is produce a mopey entry that will bum people out.

Eh, too late now.

Merry Christmas!

I don’t even know man.

It’s an experiment, eating clear capsules with friends in the attic.

Spangled eyesight, with dilated pupils blurred unclear yet no tears.

Stomach curled, heartbeat racing, sweating cold and busy spacing.

Textured world, the air thick, couches rough on rug-burned skin.

Bright lights, music seeping, I’m not aware but I’m not sleeping.

The world is ending, but it’s ok, a voice is speaking and it’s day, night, day.

Water walking in my mind, we have all lost track of time.

Making sense of nonsense, I forget exactly who I’m with.

Speaking aloud mumbling, the people in my head are chuckling.

In the morning upon waking,

I’m befuddled, bemused, with a head shaking.

 

I’ll never make any sense of this.

When inside jokes get dirty

I made a comment about contemplating writing a dirty story for funsies.

Quoting a friend:

“Just, you know, think of fat, unattractive men as you write. They’ll be sitting there reading, wearing those sweatpants they haven’t bothered to wash for several weeks. They might spill a bit of nacho cheese on them when they get excited by your story, and they won’t even bother to clean it off. Yeah… focus on that visualization.”

Ok!

My query for two sexy lady’s names came up *drumrolls* Gertrude and Bertha.

Ok!

May my father forgive me.

_____________________________________

Bertha and Gertrude have been friends since high school. They lost some time together when Bertha went off to college and Gertrude was struggling with her failing marriage. Now though, they spend all of their time with one another, living in the same small house. People think they are lesbians, Bertha and Gertrude. They go walking hand in hand down the street, Bertha hobbling a little from the car accident that sent her to the infirmary instead of to her commencement. She still receives a stipend due to her injury from the insurance company. Sometimes she complains to Gertrude that she was really going somewhere, she could have been someone. Gertrude will pat her hand and nod. Weren’t they all at some point?

The neighborhood people don’t mind that Bertha and Gertrude are lesbians, or so they believe. The two women are just so handsome walking together, or sitting knee to knee on the porch sipping coffee and chatting. They like to imagine the two women together, who, while certainly no longer young, are still reasonably attractive. Bertha is the larger of the two, her injury making it difficult for her to exercise. So these neighbors, they like to imagine her on the bottom, her bum leg up on a pillow while Gertrude busies herself between Bertha’s thighs. Gertrude is tall and on the gaunt side, like some women will get when they get older, with high pointed breasts. The neighbors like to titter about how poor Bertha probably complains when they poke her during sex.

George is the only neighbor who doesn’t join in on the gossip. He doesn’t join in because he knows that they aren’t lesbians, that and he doesn’t go out much these days. He knows they aren’t lesbians because through the privet he can see into their home, into their bedrooms. They never sleep in the same bed, they never kiss or exchange more than a sisterly hug. No, they are spinsters through and through. He doesn’t mind this though. He likes to know they like men, that he could possess them if he really wanted. When they undress at night he sits by the window in the darkness and pulls his soiled sweatpants away from his considerable stomach and touches himself. He imagines doing the things to them that he reads about in the dirty books he orders. He loves those books all full of sucking, licking, spanking, fucking, all the best verbs. He likes to imagine the writers, one in particular a Lydia something-rather, imagining him rubbing himself off in the darkness, all folds of flesh and nacho cheese stains. He thinks about the women across the hedge, the writers behind the screen, his own grotesque body. . .

and he comes.

The taste of disappointment is bitter, but bearable

Quietly reeling, you clung like a barnacle to the lips of a new lover. They grasped you in firm and fervent hands, often losing you in their hair, the smell of their skin. You both breathed out great sighs, bellows expelling burnt ashes and a thick subterranean heat. Blood ran so hot. Sweat dripped salty and words slipped saccharine. Nights turned into days, and those days into nights while conversations evolved and revolved. Such a great hunger you shared.  It was immolation almost, in desire. Of course it would fade too soon. The fuel was being piled under that bed at an alarming rate. How could it not grow cold? Sense came, chasing away the pleasant poignancy, leaving only a bitterness and careful care. My fingers across a jawline, I soon was only tracing a memory despite the physicality of the motion. Words were left unsaid as flesh lied fallow, yet friendship had flowered in that garden. So, a few tears were shed with uncomfortable conversation, but your stability had returned despite your disappointed hearts. Kind and honest, with no tempest, no hurricane, the end was simply a puff of air on a candle, the smoke fading quickly.

Comforting lies

I need a comforting lie to believe in.

I honestly wish I could believe that everything will be all right, that reality is just, that I am safe and no harm will befall me or mine. . .

I have heard the quote “Your childhood is over the day you realize you are going to die”. It is simple and easy, but it does not fit for me. I’ve never had a fear of death, of suffering yes, but not of dying. Rather, I think my quote references not a personal death- the death of being, but that of an idea.

When you were a child you lived in a world of your parent’s devising. A safe world, a loving world it was. In that reality the worst that could happen was a scraped knee, the pain of which was banished by a kiss. The boundaries of that world were clear, numbered by blocks, streets signs and daylight left. You rested peaceful and unconcerned with nothing but the most persistent and vague fears of things hiding in darkness.

What then do you do when you first realize the world is far more vast than those close borders? How do you handle the realization that “fair” is simply a construct? What do you do with the knowledge that there are things stalking this earth far more terrible than the most frightening monster you could imagine?

You begin to grow up.

It is the end of childhood- the death of your first comforting lie.

Some people find it again in religion or science. Others regain it in altruistic endeavors, or the giving of themselves to another. Some simply invest in distraction, or lose themselves in forgetting. Goodness knows I’ve attempted them all at one time or another.

Every day I can clearly remember I’ve struggled to fit myself into this reality, to accept the generally accepted truths, to make peace with it. Those days I’ve found I could try no longer, that my energy had run out and I’d lost heart, I have slept. I slept and woke to make another attempt.

But I grow weary and wearier still. My last comforting lie is becoming tattered and less believable. I become cynical, fearful, apathetic, and bored.  Still I try, though not so much for me these days, although that is my hope, my lie: that one day I’ll take a genuine and lasting pleasure from life, and stop living for other people.

Maybe one day.

Sure would be nice.

I need a nap

Fuzzy-headed and clouded with oversleeping, my thoughts are vague but my desires are clear. Comfort is first on my mind. Soothing sensations: warmth, cloth, skin; they caress my addled psyche. I cannot help but daydream about these things.  I can’t help but wonder. What is wrong with a little idle fantasy? It’s like the nip of coffee or the bite of nicotine in the way it lights up synapses. It rouses and placates even if it doesn’t satiate. If I want to spend my moments imagining the soft scrape of sheets against flesh, or my face pressed into a pillow, surely that is my prerogative. If I wish to picture myself stretching, my back arched and toes pointed, my body pressing against blankets, who is to question? If I breathe out a sigh as I consider how cozy I’d like to be, curled up like a kitten so soft and sweet, who is to blame me? Better for them to imagine the same. Snuggled close with feet intertwined and soft breath from soft lips tickling the neck, sleep could come for us both.

This is what happens when I listen to cheesy dance music all day at work:

It’s another attempt at a song! Woooooo.

 

Coming through the speakers

It floods my synapses,
a substitute for substances.
Busy traveling, traveling.
My blues unraveling, unraveling
A stimulant, the strings and beat.
And I can feel it.
I can feel it
Pumping those chemicals, chemicals
Pumping those chemicals through.

One by one you pluck those strings
It’s a salve for boredom, for pains.
Vibrations, my heart-beat fickle
Oh my legs, how they tremble, they tremble

And I can feel it
I can feel it
Pumping those chemicals, chemicals
Pumping those chemicals through.
Involuntarily tapping toes, shoulders sway,
leading hips to do what they may

Man-made, fully organic, fully orgasmic
Secreted into spaces
adding blushes to faces.
Bleeding into vessels, absorbing into cells.
It’s the feeling in your gut as the music swells.
It’s a drug, the strings and beat,
Complementary, adding to the heat.
And I feel it.
I can feel it
Pumping those chemicals, chemicals
Pumping those chemicals, chemicals
Pumping those chemicals, chemicals
Pumping those chemicals through.