Happy Turkey Day

"Traditions are the guideposts driven deep in our subconscious minds. The most powerful ones are those we can't even describe and aren't even aware of." ~ Ellen Goodman

   When in doubt, tradition is the superego's compass, that divines the safest path. As we leave childhood behind, and become adults, we may not realize it - may even rebel against it - but there is in invisible print a guidebook for life, written by our mothers, fathers, grandparents, neighbors, teachers, and ancestors. It is known by the title of tradition, and whether you realize it or not, you've been reading it your entire life.
   It is a breezy day in October, and Jacob Kelly is climbing up a precariously shaky ladder, to reach the summit of his gabled roof. His wife steps into the front yard, and looks up to see him reaching awkwardly up to carefully place a weather-beaten scarecrow decoration on the apex of the A-frame house, and shouts to him. "What are you doing?" she asks.
   "Putting up the scarecrow," Jacob calls down. As the wind blows, the ladder sways dangerously.
   "All the way up there?" his wife asks, amazed by her husband's inexplicable daring.
   "Well yeah," he answers. As he begins to descend, his wife takes hold of the foot of the ladder and steadies it for him.
   "Why?" she asks at length, looking up at the treacherous ladder and the dizzyingly high scarecrow.
   "I dunno," he replies, "I guess because that's what my dad always did. We put him up there every year."
   Jacob's story is a familiar one. As old as the scarecrow itself, and older. Every year he, like many people, does things he doesn't understand, or even agree with, because they are 'what is done.' I think this is related to the imprinting instinct of 'lesser' animals, such as birds. We are naturally programmed to follow the lead our parents take, and because we love them and wish to preserve our memories of them, we imitate them in more ways than we are aware.
   Perhaps your mother loved to make lollipops with various bits of candy in them every Halloween, or your father built a fire in an otherwise unused fireplace every Christmas morning. Perhaps your family invariably threw a dinner party at the ancestral home every Thanksgiving. And you continue to do these things, for the sake of keeping alive the virtue of traditions - constance. Traditions have a way of embalming memories. If we do just one thing the same every month, or every year, or every holiday, that's one thing in this chaotic, kaleidoscopic path of life that will not change. One thing that may be relied upon - leaned upon. Somewhere to find comfort.
   This Thanksgiving I join a new family for a home-cooked meal, prepared with love and enjoyed in the comfort of a shared home. This is invaluably meaningful to me, because my entire life I have known such gatherings, and reveled in the familiarity they preserve.  Even away from my homeland I may be, this year I will be blessed with a much-missed reincarnation of that same tradition. How do you celebrate happy occasions? What traditions do you follow? What traditions do you remember even if you have not kept them alive? Ponder if you will the impact that traditions have had on your life this holiday season, readers, and be merry.

Love is All You Need

"What do I do when my love is away?

Does it worry you to be alone?

How do I feel at the end of the day?

Are you sad because you're on your own?

No! I get by with a little help from my friends."

~The Beatles

   Close your eyes. Visualize a summary image of your life, as a whole. Now, imagine how it might look if you had never had any friends. How would you have grown without becoming close to other people? You wouldn't have. You would learn the basic information - language, mathematics, natural law - things that a solitary person naturally learns over time just living in this world. But you would not have learned how people work. You wouldn't know what love was. Or hate. You wouldn't know how to communicate with media other than words. A race of autocentric souls, roaming the world with emotional blinders on. Maybe you'd know people. But you wouldn't really know anyone.
   What if you had never loved, trusted, or esteemed anyone? What would your view of other people be? They would all just be in the way. They would be competition for food, money, and advantage. You'd be just as happy without them around as you would be amongst a throng of them. If anything, you'd desire them to all disappear, as there would then be more of everything for you.
   If love and friendship never existed, the world would be an emotionally empty realm. Men would be as beasts in the wilderness. Instinct and want would drive us - not duty, or favor, or service, or fielty. And this would all be well enough (having no attachments means no entanglements or painful separations), but does that outweigh the loss of the very most important element of human relations? I don't think so.
   Think of your friends. Think of your best friend. Think of your lover. Your family. If it meant never having to share or sacrifice, would you live without emotional attachment to them? Would you cash in the interpersonal value of your relatrionships for total freedom and self-reliance? I could not, and I believe there are very few who could. For we as humans (most of us, anyway), would rather go without, rather take second priority, rather make sacrifices for those we esteem than to be friendless and alone.
   Who is your best friend? Who is your love? And who is your family? I cannot choose a best friend, but I can narrow it down to two people. Without them I would have no one my own age to relate to. No one to share stories from the good old days with. No one to keep me grounded. I have no love of my own, so I must settle for admiring the beloved of my friends, and valuing them as important parts of my friends' lives. And my family is a small group of constant, unwavering supporters that I can and do lean on when the load is heavy. I would be helpless without these people.
   Right after you read this, remind your friends, lovers, and family members that they are vital to your life and health, and wish them comfort and joy in the holiday season. Pay the love forward, and watch it come back to you with a profit.

"Oh, and A Grain of Salt, Please."

New Format - Like it?

“Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt”

William Shakespeare

   Doubt is an unusually subtle sort of fear. It may exist quietly, working its magic over long periods of time but choosing not to show itself in broad daylight for very long indeed. As half of a relationship, it's easy for a person to fall victim to the melodramatic shrill that is doubt, and we may find ourselves looking over our shoulder at the person right in front of us.

   Wrestling against doubt is trust, and with trust lies the strength of humanity. For trust, the antithesis and mortal foe of doubt, is what binds man to man, and has allowed civilization to occur. If you cannot trust your neighbor, then you are doomed to miss out on the chance to know his quality. You'll spend all your time doubting his character, and with your closed-door policy you will securely prevent yourself from making a friend.

   Sometimes we are made a promise, and it rests upon us to decide whether or not the maker of said promise may be trusted. We prognosticate the outcome of the situation, and are inclined to see it either one way or the other. If our best instincts tell us that Joanne will not bring our lawnmower back tomorrow, we will not trust her. We will doubt, and in doubting remain safe. For here lies the virtue of doubt - immunity. If one doubts everything, one can never be misled - or disillusioned. All or nothing - trust or doubt?

   Ethics, however, and philosophical convention teach us to be fair, in deed and in manner, so to be just to ourselves we have to be open to the uncertain as a third option. We can be cautiously daring. It is not impossible to trust safely. If we count on someone, knowing that they may fail us, then we roll the dice, and take what we get. If we cannot be sure how someone feels about us, but we hope they mean everything they say, then we may continue to live alongside them, open to a change of interpersonal climate. What am I saying? Let your feet be planted firm and level upon doubt, and reach for trust as far as you can from where you stand.

It's Not a Blog, So Much As an Interlude

    Sorry, readers. All nine of you (I wish that was a joke). I'm having a rough time, and I can't think of anything to write about other than just ... bad things. But I I don't want to keep blogging about being sad, or being angry, or hating anyone, or being in pain. It was an outlet for some of that and it did help me vent off some of that stuff, but it's not what I wanted this blog to be.
   I feel like I'm lucky even to have nine readers with the stuff I've been putting out. And I'm sure you guys don't like reading some of it. I don't blame you. I just don't know if I can write anything good right now. It's like I've said all I can say the only thing I still have is just to sit down and stare off into space until I forget that I'm alive. That's what I've been doing all day, except for a couple of conversations through text messages.
   I apologize for sounding like I'm despairing, but I think I am. I feel weak, and tired, like any minute I'm going to lay down and close my eyes and leave this world. The things keeping my mind in place at all are a handful of people split up between here and home, and I love them and appreciate their patience as I've been indulging in self-loathing.
   I'm trying to look ahead, and see a future for this blog, but I don't know. I can count on my fingers the number of readers I have, and even those few have to settle for me complaining every day or two instead of actually writing something enjoyable.
   It's funny - for a few seconds at a time today, off and on, I've been almost happy. I talk to my psychiatrist again tomorrow .... I wonder what he will say.

Broken Brain

Later In the Evening, As You Lie Awake in Bed ...

"Music and rhythm find their way into the secret places of the soul"

~Plato

   When the very air you breathe, the very sunlight you live by, and everything you touch, see, smell, taste, or hear is tainted, and pain seems to be coming at you from all directions, it is impossible not to fall under the assault. The weight of sadness is great, and the shaking thunder of fear is paralyzing. It is not unnatural to despair, or to become buried in your own troubles. Often when we are in such a state, it is as if a thousand troubling thoughts are clattering around in our heads, keeping us awake with the din. 

   But there is a magic which can combat this army of woes, and defend your mind by occupying it as soldiers occupy a castle. Music is a powerful force, and an entity all its own. It is an energy that exerts itself through thought and sounds, and awakens the soul with its sorcery. Powerful, beautiful music that the mind and soul are attracted to has the ability to flood the mind,and wash out the infection of sadness, anxiety, anger,and ignorance. 

   I often rely on this effect just to survive. Sometimes my only escape from spiraling stress and darkness is to forcefully blast the thoughts from my skull with metal. Or, to call out from the shadows a lost incarnation of myself, if only for a while, to look over the mountain of troubles and see what I have left behind me, and what might lie ahead. I am afraid of what would happen if I didn't have music to listen to.

   It may be hard for people to understand, or to believe, but because of a disease that has evolved in my mind through my growing up, I am almost entirely unable to handle stress, or to properly process grief, or recover from other emotional injuries. I have been accused of being immature for this, or weak, but honestly it is most of the time not within my power to deal with my life. My life is so full of disappointment - I have never gotten anything I wanted [that was actually important]. I feel that I have failed at every aspect of being a person, and that I am predestined not to fit in on this planet. I'm not being self-indulgent or exaggerating - that's what Major Depressive Disorders feel like. If you have been depressed you know what I'm talking about. If you haven't felt this way, pray that you never do.

   But we have a drug that treats the symptoms, without side effects, even if it can't cure the disease. Music makes it easier to cope. It is an avenue through which we can flee our pain for a while. And that is invaluable when nothing else works. If you're hurting, or if you're burned out, or if you genuinely wish to die of natural causes in your sleep tonight, you may find it helpful to flush out your skull with a river of Metallica, as I have been doing all day.

Hate Letter - Saying It All Just Once, So I Can Be Done With It.

(If you don't want to see me at my very worst, I suggest not reading this letter.)



Dear You,
         You will never read this, because you don't follow my blog. No big surprise, considering you never cared about me at all. I have never forgiven you for stringing me along and making me believe I was important to you, and then when I was at my most vulnerable, destroying me. You told me so many times that if you weren't with him, you would be with me. And you lied.  You spoon fed me compliment after compliment - "Joe, you're so nice. Joe, you're so sweet. Joe, you understand me so well! Joe, if I was single, you'd have to watch out!" And then when I called your bluff you fucking choked! You cavalierly tossed me a bullshit excuse - the you couldn't go out with me because I was your ex's friend. What a child!
     And now that your chickenshit boyfriend is acting all insecure and threatened and accusing me of still trying to win you, YOU SIDED WITH HIM! EVEN AFTER THE FUCKED UP THINGS HE SAID TO ME! I don't believe I wasted two years of my life pining for a stupid, whiny little girl who never knew what she wanted, always lied to me, and has no thrown out ever bit of decency there ever was between us! You and that smug motherfucker STARTED this idiocy, AND escalated it after I pleaded for a resolution, and YOU CALL ME A CHILD.
      FUCK ... YOU. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. I renounce you, any and all connection to you that I have or ever have had, and I wash my hands of your ridiculous bullshit! I honestly hope I never see you again or hear your name again. You knew  from our earliest conversations that I have had a troubled history with rejection, and that I have been suicidal as a result of this. You knew that I was a fragile and dysfunctional person. And yet you had NO qualms entangling yourself in my mind like a thorny vine, getting all wrapped up in my emotions, and then RIPPING yourself out of my head like a weed from the soil!
    I can't believe that after so much time of just being cool with what happened and staying on good terms, you made some DOUCHEBAG believe I was a threat to you, and you had the AUDACIOUS, DISGUSTING VANITY to believe that I was still hung up on you after two years, and that every word I said to you was some kind of pathetic attempt to woo you. There are no words that describe the abhorrent repulsion I feel between my interests and yours, so it frustrates the unholy bile out of me that the only words that I can find are FUCK YOU.
       I never want to repeat this fiasco of a relationship for as long as I live. But I should have no reason to worry, as there cannot POSSIBLY be a chance that I will meet another CAPRICIOUS, ABSURD, NAIVE, SELFISH, VAIN, ARROGANT LITTLE BITCH as DESTRUCTIVE to my already fucked-up mind as YOU.

I hope you get dumped on your ass by that little shithead.

Have a nice life.

Epic

"Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns
driven time and again off course, once he had plundered
the hallowed heights of Troy.
Many cities of men he saw and learned their minds,
many pains he suffered, heartsick on the open sea,
fighting to save his life and bring his comrades home.
But he could not save them from disaster, hard as he strove—
the recklessness of their own ways destroyed them all,
the blind fools, they devoured the cattle of the Sun
and the Sungod blotted out the day of their return.
Launch out on his story, Muse, daughter of Zeus,
start from where you will—sing for our time too."

~Homer, The Odyssey 

   "Loneliness," as the song says, "is such a sad affair." And how right she was. I appreciate the feeling of being lonely, and empathize on a deep and fundamental level those who feel so. For solitude is at right angles with the natural lifestyle of our species - we are a gregarious, social animal. And without[meaningful] contact with another human,there is no enrichment,no discourse, and no comfort. We are the forlorn and burning Odysseus, restless for want of Ithaca.

   I say this because, if one is not interacting with anyone who cares to listen, then it is as if one is not even part of this world. For all other people know, we may very well be dead. A similar notion is touched on in the classic question: if a tree falls in the forest, and no one is around to hear it, did it make a sound? Of course it did, as common sense would tell us, but how can we be sure? This is why to be alone is to be separate from the world, and it is a tragic condition.

   It is to my displeasure to tell you, my readers who don't already know (if there are any), that I have the misfortune of existing so. I prefer not to discuss the circumstances of my odyssey, because it is an unpleasant discussion to say the least, but I know the feeling of being alone and far from home. I feel this way even when standing in a crowd, because these are not my people. I feel it when with friends, because these friends, however excellent, cannot replace those dearest to me - my old friends back home. I find it impossible not to miss my family, and to my despair I find myself forgetting the memories and the connection I have with them.

   As I wander further emotionally from my Ithaca, I am burdened also by the longing for a Penelope of my own. There are many beautiful syrens in this place, but I am deaf to their song. I know they are not my people. They don't understand me. They will have nothing to do with me. This reminds me of how wonderful the women of my native Colorado are. Free as the sky, solid as the mountains, and as fluid and changing as the mighty river. All of these things, and yet ... simple and unpretentious. 

   To lie in surrender beside such a creature in a warm house, deep in conversation, and intertwined in embrace - this is my oasis. It is this image that tempers the blade that is loneliness. It stabs the wanting heart at its time of greatest ambition, and leaves an empty sensation in the chest.

   These are all fine words. They are artful and expressive, but they cannot do justice to the plain misery of the lonely man. I am here. And everyone else is there. This is my curse and my sad song. But I hope that those reading this understand, and in fact I'm sure most can relate. We are all lonely sometimes - and some of us are lonely all the time. But I think if we as a species were better at connecting with each other, the evil of loneliness would be abated, and we may see the shores of Ithaca sooner, and find our kingdom less altered.     

... Said the Born Loser to the Wall

"Humiliation - the harder you try, the dumber you look." ~ Larry Kersten

   Pride, in the purest sense, is no evil, and it is an unnatural state of being to be without pride. Pride is a good, healthy feeling. Pride in one's self, one's family, one's accomplishments, or one's values. But when we strike the reverse sideof pride, shame, we nearly always shrink from the confrontation. To be humiliated - by one's self or by others, we are knocked down, and beaten into timid submission by unrelenting shame.

   There is no simpler or more invasive pain than shame. And it is so easy to bring down upon ourselves, we are virtually predestined to shame ourselves repeatedly through our journey across the years. And sadly enough, a great number of these blows will fall on our love lives and sex lives.

   It is humiliating to find that you have mistaken the discourse between yourself and a friend of the opposite sex as flirting, and painfully humiliating to have made a sexual advance as a result of this, and been denied by your confused and shocked friend. And what perhaps is worse than the deep personal sense of embarassment is the fear that the friendship is now doomed. What can we do in such an awkward predicament?

   I would be a fool if I imagined that anyone reading this believed I wasn't writing about myself, so I will take direct credit for my foolishness. I honestly don't understand. I have thought for a long time that I was in fact being flirted with, and when what I thought was a sexual inflection in the conversation appeared to surpass mere suggestion and take the shape of an open proposition, I was sure that this was no longer a platonic dynamic. But today, much to my shame, I find that I have been entirely wrong in my interpretation.

   I am left frustrated, confused, and supremely embarassed. Furthermore, I am unable to draw from this fiasco any sensible pearl of wisdom, or any benefit at all. I fear I have alienated a valued friend, and also ruined my chances of knowing her as more, if I ever had any.    

To Wake, Perchance to Dream

"A daydream is a meal at which images are eaten. Some of us are gourmets, some gourmands, and a good many take their images precooked out of a can and swallow them down whole, absent-mindedly and with little relish" ~ W.H. Auden

      Dreams are your mind's way of telling you something - of shocking or scaring you, or delivering an encrypted message to you. But daydreams are your mind's way of giving itself whatever it wants. Daydreams are like our own personal movies, where we are the screenwriting, director, producer, and often the star. I think I'm safe in assuming that everyone indulges in fantasy from time to time, and I think it's because of this that we are able to survive the slow, humdrum spells of our lives and not go mad. We rarely get what we want in reality, but in our minds, even while we're carrying out a very real day's business, unbeknownst to those around us, we can always get exactly what we want.

   A particular day dream has occupied me quite often and for great lengths of time since I reached the thinking age, and I would like to share it with you, being generous with detail:

  

    It's early morning, sometime in my late twenties. The sun is still breaking the horizon, but is obscured by the hazy green of the willows surrounding my cozy house. My wife and I live in a quiet community, on the banks of a sleepy river, which rolls silently by as I sip my coffee and look out my back door. It's a grand morning, cool and humid with the breath of the river and the rain.

    I turn back to the room behind me, a little living room with an old, comfortable couch and a couple chairs. On the wall are photos of my beautiful wife, and my two beautiful daughters, and of our old labrador. I pick up a newspaper and see a picture of my new restaurant on the front page of the Life section.

    Walking down the shadowy hall, just barely illuminated in the twilight of the house, I crack open my bedroom door and look inside. I can see my wife's curly brown hair resting on the pillow where I left it. She is fast asleep. I look down and sniff my t-shirt - the front of it still smells like her shampoo, because she slept on my chest like she always does.

   The next door is the girls' room. My eleven-year-old looks serene, an unusual condition for her. She has her mother's hair, and in its curly glory it lies in chaos across the pillow. My seven-year-old is in the most uncomfortable-looking position you can imagine, but sleeps completely still, with a hint of a smile on her face.

  Finally is my office, and there on the loveseat where he is frequently to be found is my ridiculous, absurd dog. I think about how he makes me laugh when he follows my wife everywhere. And when he falls asleep in the oddest places and at the oddest hours. And I think about how grateful I am that he scared away the man who broke into my house last summer when my oldest was home alone. I walk in quietly, sit down next to him, and with a groan he wakes up and leans his head against my leg. As I scratch his cheek, I say, "You know, we have it pretty good, don't we?"

    Perhaps I have described it with more of a literary charm than I ever actually imagined it, but that's the virtue of writing, isn't it? And this is just an old daydream, one that I know like the back of my hand, I have dreamt it so many times. But the most wonderful and exciting daydreams are the ones we are having now, that we have at the spur of the moment.

    The funny thing about daydreams is, some of them are just real enough to come true. I know that recently, I have daydreamed quite often about a woman I know, and find myself unable to determine if this is purely a fantasy or if it may come true. To her I say this:

   I don't know what it means. But I know that you awaken me.

Let Not the Falling Whistles Go Unheard

My Friends, 

   

    This evening I once again wander from my usual format because I would like to tell my small audience about a very worthwhile and noble charity that I myself have donated to.

    The story begins with travelers, who when exploring the exotic and turmoiled nation of The Republic of Congo, discovered a tragic and atrocious crime against humanity taking place. It is common in the less-developed world for children, in times of war and civic unrest, to be forced into both state armies and paramilitary guerrilla forces. But in Congo, children too small to use a rifle are now also being exploited for martial utility - as an early warning mechanism.

    Children just old enough to walk in the fields and forests by themselves are given whistles, and sent forward into contested territory ahead of regular fighting parties, bidden to blow their whistles upon sighting the enemy. Hundreds and thousands of small children, not even old enough to attend school, are being killed and wounded in the war-ravaged land of Congo.

    These are the most profoundly disturbing casualties of the world's current deadliest civil war, and an organization called Falling Whistles, founded by those same travelers who first witnessed the monstrous sacrifice of tender youth for tactical advantage, is making a valiant effort to protest this atrocity, raise awareness, and aid in rescuing and healing the wounded and exploited children.

   On their website, you can read the story of the Falling Whistles, donate any amount you wish, and purchase your own whistle - to wear in protest and spread the word. Whistles are priced between $35 and $140, coming a variety of finishes. But the important fact is that 100% of proceeds go to helping to save the innocent victims of the Congo skirmishes, and to combat the practice politically, both in and out of Congo. 

   I strongly encourage - no - I beg all who read this to visit www.fallingwhistles.com and read the facts, and DONATE. Order your whistle, and wear it for the children. Wear it to speak for them. Wear it so that the world may not forget them. Even if you don't wear it, please give what you can spare to this admirable and important cause. 

Thank you for your time, my readers.

Joe Carpenter

http://www.fallingwhistles.com

"Hail Poetry"

"Although we live by strife, we're always sorry to begin it,

 For what, we ask, is life without a touch of Poetry in it?" 

~ W.S. Gilbert

"The  Pirates of Penzance"

   To speak is to release a little essence of yourself, which is a fine thing, if it is caught from the air and retained, but to write is to immortalize yourself. To leave that same piece of your mind, in a more succinct permutation, in perpetual existence, unchanged. 

   We who devote ourselves to this art, this religion, this love affair with language, are dreamers. We hope that our words will outlast the thoughts which produced them, and will be read by the masses, so that just a tiny part of us may live forever. Still more closer to our hearts is the desire to touch another person's heart - or soul. 

   I believe that for a writer, there is no greater pleasure than to know that we have touched someone. We may have a beloved friend who is our inspiration, and though we may have written something wonderful, that felt freeing to write and cleared our mind, a greater reward still is the pleasure that friend feels when she learns that she was your muse. For perhaps she holds a special place in your heart, and you do not know how else to express the way you love her. Perhaps few people really understand you as she does, and for this you desire to honor her in this timeless and far-reaching medium.

   Writing about someone, and knowing that they will read it is a peculiar ecstasy, for it allows us to be just as honest and also as poetic as we like, because it is easier to relate your feelings for someone when you don't have to worry about saying it right the first time. To be able to communicate the best way you know how that you respect someone - or that you love someone - is a blessing not even a god can give.

    Whether our aim is to wound or to woo, words are our weapon and our warmth. The power we sometimes have is an incredible gift, and it is one we have made ourselves. And whether the person we have touched is an old friend, a new love interest, or a unknown young woman in Missouri, it is our earnest hope that when our words were drawn into their mind, our spirits and our lives were for a moment united.  

Let Me Smush You!

“A hug is the perfect gift; one size fits all, and nobody minds if you exchange it.” ~ Unknown

   Have you ever needed a hug? All jokes aside, I believe there is really something to the idea. To be embraced by someone who cares about you and that you care about is probably one of the best feelings we get the chance to experience in our lives. To feel their person, their physical body so close to your own is, I believe, symbolic of spiritual unity. To draw someone to your breast and envelop them in your grasp is as close to becoming one being as is physically possible.

   Hugging is a sign of trust, and a language all its own between the lover and the beloved. The longer you hold them, the gentler or firmer the squeeze, the hand placement - all these and many more factors make up a very communicative body language. It's a way to show someone how much and in what way you care for them. In touching you make them feel tangibly your feelings for them.

   To tell the truth, I have needed a hug for quite a long time. The last good, honest hug I received was probably four months ago. I often experience a sort of empty sensation in my arms, as though they themselves yearn to wrap themselves around a familiar body. In particular, I ache to hug a woman. Not simply because I am heterosexual, but because there is something much more satisfying about hugging a woman - they are better at it. 

   When it comes to expressing affection through such gestures, I feel that women are so much more well-versed than we men are. A woman can melt a frozen heart with a tender embrace, and make their subject suddenly not want to let go. I must give credit to several women I know for being excellent huggers, for I find myself very often remembering vividly the good, nurtured feelings they have given me.

   Have you ever wondered what life would be like if humanity just stopped hugging? Stopped touching one another? Imagine never holding your girlfriend in your lap and just enjoying her warmth in complete stillness. Imagine never again picking up  a small child and holding them to your shoulder. Imagine how terrible saying goodbye would be. Imagine never slowdancing with your husband. Can you? 

Bad Day - and Another Girl

No quote today.

   I'm having a difficult time today, and I'll explain why. The first reason is that I have a headache that has been bothering me for about five hours. The second reason is that my depression symptoms are really getting to me today, and I feel like it would be awesome if I just lay down and went to sleep and never woke up.
   I work with a beautiful, funny, pleasant woman. She's really a lot more like me than any woman I've met in recent memory, and when I'm around her I don't feel as depressed, because I'm preoccupied with just watching her exist. Her voice is sweet and gentle, her sense of humor is excellent, and she is as playful as a child. She's wonderful. There is only one problem: she is happily married.
  I know that I can never have her, and that I should never entertain the thought of having her. And yet when she is near, my gaze is fixed on her. Today in the front seat of a crowded pickup truck, she sat immediately next to me. In this close proximity, I got a very clear sense of how perfectly sized she is - just the right height, and not a "Greek" figure but perfectly lovely nonetheless. I looked at her hands, perhaps long for a woman's hands but petite compared to mine. In this study I sat in content silence, enjoying being with her, in the small capacity that I was.
   I know I can never be more than a friend and co-worker, but is it wrong for me to admire her as I do? Is it immoral to look at her with the eyes of infatuation, and speak to her as if she were just another working stiff?
   What further complicates my predicament is that today at work there seemed, for a fraction of a second, to have been ... sexual tension? ... between us. We had been chatting a little as we worked, and a little joke about her posterior turned into an awkward moment, and unless I am mistaken, I thought I perceived a look of attraction in her eye for a brief instant.
   And so I am a mixture of sadness, annoyance, and suffering, because I like this woman very much but cannot even tell her so. On top of that there is another woman I know who I have begun to think of as a romantic object, whom I also cannot have. And, on top of that, there is as yet no sign of relief for the stress and depression I feel.
   My state of mind as I write this evening is tortured, and introspective, so I cannot write as I usually do. There is no seed of inspiration, no brilliant quote to set the theme, and no wisdom-seeking litany on topics human for me to offer you, my readers. I apologize for my woefully poor form in this installment, but ask for your understanding, as it has been a highly symptomatic day.
    What a beautiful sight is her delicate neck ...

Philios? Eros? Anguish!

"Its hard to pretend you love someone when you don't but its harder to pretend that you don't love someone when you really do" ~ Unknown 

    Love has become a common topic in this journal, but this evening I feel that I must discuss it once more, because I find myself again unable to think of anything else. I believe that we are sometimes caught in the most unfortunate of positions, caught between the love of friendship, and the love of ... love, and uncertain of which side of the line we fall on.

    We as human beings are naturally ignorant of the cosmic truth of things emotional, and sadly are doomed to wander in the fog below, trying to make sense of it all. We see only what is in front of us, and when the haze of circumstance clouds our view, it may lead us down a dangerous path. We may find ourselves thinking about a friend in more-than-friends terms. We will almost definitely desire what we cannot have. We may know that our life is not at all 'together', and that we are in no position to initiate a relationship, but ache to proceed anyway because the draw of attraction is stronger than our own sensibility.

    The heart wants what it wants. Even if we know it's not a good idea. And we cannot change what the heart wants. We cannot reason with it. We cannot tell it, "It could never work. She is there and I am here. I am a wreck and she has enough to think about." The heart will not hear, "I have nothing to offer her," or "I'm too much of a mess." Our inability to reason with our hearts is the great weakness of mankind. Our hearts lead us to dive headlong into almost certain failure because it refuses to rationalize.

   And when time, cruel time is a factor, the odds of hurting ourselves are dramatically increased. When we will only have a brief time with the object of our confusion before we are separated by circumstance, our prospects are dim indeed. The heart will start what it can't finish. And perhaps a connection will be made. Perhaps. Maybe there will be a day of closeness, a "conversation of a lifetime" a la Spanglish (incredible movie by the way), maybe even a fling, and that's where it will end. Wishful thinking on the heart's part, but a dangerous train of thought for us.

   There are questions - so many questions. If anything, we may only have a fling - is it worth it? What if she doesn't feel the same way? What if I alienate my friend? Such difficulty. What can we poor confused people do? I think we can only try to seek happiness, and come what may, we will at least grow. 

Under the Spell

"Sure God created man before woman.  But then you always make a rough draft before the final masterpiece."  ~Author Unknown

    If ever there was created a thing more admirable than a woman, it was lost to oblivion before the dawn of man. What else in the world is so powerful without even lifting a finger? What else can destroy a man from the inside out and not even know it? It seems to me that men have historically been unreliable in the task of expressing our love for women, and while I do not fancy myself an expert by any means, I am this evening consumed with thoughts of loveliness and warmth.
    I know of nothing else in the world I enjoy so much as the company of women, and the reason is that as long as there is a woman nearby to talk to, there is something to smile about.  To see women talking amongst themselves, and laughing, and illustrating happiness and comfort in its pure simplicity is a soothing balm to the wounds of the day, and puts my mind at ease.
    To admire a woman - her gentle face, her fine, silken hands, her delicate fingers, impossibly bright eyes, her curves and lines, her vibrant skin - is intoxication. Every man has a favorite feature, but what most men forget is that it is not the part but the whole that is worthy of praise. For no machine ever built by man is as complex or as capable as a woman, and certainly not as lovely.
     Though I am always glad of their presence, it also pains me to share the world with these dangerously distracting creatures, because I have not one to call my own, and to share my heart with. No face to caress, no neck to softly kiss, no ear to whisper in, no hand to hold. No smile to come home to, no voice of velvet to hear in the morning, and no darling flower in which to bestow my hopes and dreams. And so, every woman is a reminder of my solitude. Add to this the fact that most women I know are already spoken for, and I am in a desperate position indeed.
     If I could ask one thing of women, all together, my plea would be this: if none among you will see me as something to be wanted, will you please try to be less wantable?

And Something Blue...

"There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the markof weakness,but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief ... and unspeakable love." ~ Washington Irving



    The scene is set. "The smile of Garbo, and the scent of roses, waiters whistling as the last bar closes, a fairgound's faded swings ..." [Thank you, Mr. Maschwitz, for putting it so beautifully]. Two souls stare into one another for ages as the lovers' eyes meet for an instant. I speak, of course, of romance. Romance has come to have somewhat of a mythic status in this day and age, but the art is still practiced by many with open hearts, whose lovelives are built around gestures, and brilliant displays of adoration for all to see.
    Some people believe that romance is dead. Others long for it - and still others actively seek it. But romance goes deeper than roses and serenades. There is a dramatic element to it, an unseen force that tears the heart to shreds, and may or may not remake it. Sometimes love is found by the heart, but not grasped. Sometimes it lies behind a pane of unbreakable glass, on display for the lonely heart to desire, yet oblvious to it. When romance takes the tragic form of unrequited love, the vital red of love shifts to a cold, moonlit blue.
    If you have never experienced the painful wrack of romantic misadventure, try to understand those of us who wear a tear on our cheek, and respect us as you do the dead, for we have died, and returned to life forever altered. We know who we are. We are the remains of once-mighty love, starved to death by cold indifference. We have felt unwanted,unneeded, unseen. And it has been our very invisibility which has been our undoing, for it blinded us to ourselves, and we could not see the inglorious position in which we put ourselves. Sure, we know now that we were too shy, that we should have made our love known, that we should have been more confident - or conversely, that there was indeed nothing we could have done to change our circumstances. But does this confession bring solace?
    It is one of the more difficult lessons to learn, when recovering from the shady blue night of romance lost, that sometimes the heart cannot have what it wants, or what it needs so desperately. Nearly everyone has a "one that got away", and some of us are unfortunate enough to have had something ever more painful - the one we chased away. But it is this anguish that teaches us our own power, and at best teaches us how not to wield it. The heart is a strong organ - strong enough to raze to the ground the self that we have built so high.
The hopeless love of an object above our reach - the forbidden love of one already claimed - or the shattered love of friendship, muddied with confused emotions - these are examples of the worst faces of romance, but think of their significance. Think of the aesthetic of tragedy, and the wisdom of woe. What if everything in our lovelives always fell into place? So many wonderful poems, songs,and films would not have been written, exploring and immortalizing the agony of missed chances. Would romance mean as much to us if it was easy? Would love have any value if it grew on trees?
    And yet, those broken souls among us cannot acquiesce to the wisdom of their own destruction. We cannot relate these lessons to ourselves, because to us it will always be too close, too dear, and the pain we carry with us deafens our ears to the truth. It is easy to lie under the weight of loss and sleep in haunted memories. It comes naturally. This is the frightening truth of grief. Sometimes, when the nature of our loss is in our eyes completely unfair,and so bitterly juxtaposed with our wishes, we may never emerge from the tunnel. We may never heal.
    But we must try. We must look up through the blue moonlight of the lonely night, and see on the horizon a hint of red. We must. Without even eyes to see a glimpse of hope, we are doomed to live forever in this terrible bathos. My hope, nay - my plea, is that we all survive the threat of our worst enemy - our fragile hearts. Somehow, some way, I hope we can all traverse the shadow and return to the sun whole again.

Something Borrowed ...

"Thousands of candles may be lit from a single candle, and the life of the candle will not be shortened. Happiness never decreases by being shared." ~ Buddha

   Perhaps what separates the civilized from the savage is not art, or wisdom, or technology, or government, because these things, in some capacity, exist in every human community. Perhaps what makes a human civilized, moral, and decent is the capacity for sharing. To give what is yours to those without, to lend what you have to those who need. For what can be said about a person who, when asked to let a neighbor in from the rain, would turn their neighbor away in the name of privacy?

    The act of borrowing is a pact and a contract of the most intimate and trusting nature to be found in human society. My neighbor has no shovel, so I loan her mine, trusting that she will return it to me intact (or make amends if she cannot). It is perhaps the simplest but most telling indicator of trust between people. And the significance of such a minor thing can be easily overlooked.

    What, I ask, would the world be if no one ever lent, shared, or borrowed? An all-or-nothing fray of specific, strict ownership, of purchase and sale, of gift and theft. What was yours is now mine. All mine. The definition of neighbor would be forever debased, and perhaps the character of friendship as well. Think of the last time you borrowed something from someone - what is your relationship to this person? What change in your feelings toward this person would there have been if they denied your request? Say you need transportation to pick up your sister at the airport, but your car hasn't been running for days. You ask your best friend if you may use his car. And he lets you. Because he sees something to gain by doing so? Certainly not. Because he feels obligated by some force of law to allow it? No. Because you are his friend, and he loves you. Because he would not see you troubled. 

    It is comforting to learn that here in this bizarre and troublesome realm I currently call "home", I have at arm's length such warm and genuine friends, who have opened their home to me, and invited me to their [figurative] table, under no other compulsion than the goodness of their hearts and their esteem for my company. I find myself unable to express in spoken word my deep and real appreciation for the kindness and hospitality they have shown, and continue to show me. It is my hope that amongst my [few] readers, those of whom I speak can be reached witht this message of gratitude, and that the rest may be reminded never to undervalue the kindness of sharing, and the neighborly bond of borrowing.

    Tonight as I write, my heart is touched, and my spirits raised. And it is my hope that when the reader has finished this passage, that he/she will think about what he/she values as his/her own. And then I hope that he/she will consider how it may be shared to the benefit of his/her brother, sister, friend, or neighbor. Learn, if you have not already, the joy, and discover the reward of that pure and minute mioracle of humanity: sharing.    



Something New ...

"Without accepting the fact that everything changes, we cannot find perfect composure.  But unfortunately, although it is true, it is difficult for us to accept it.  Because we cannot accept the truth of transience, we suffer."  ~Shunryu Suzuki  

 Soon, for the first time in my life, I will have to find my own place to live. An apartment, a condo, a townhouse, what-have-you. This is huge. And hugely terrifying. I have never had to get my own place before. And the reason it's scary is because I have no transportation, so if I can't find a place near my job I will have a very difficult time getting to work. Frankly, I don't need this. I can't handle stress, and it's doubtful that I can handle responsibility in my current condition, and I fear that something is going to happen and I'm not going to make it to work one of these days, and everything is going to go to hell.
    Is there anything worse than change? Who says change is good? Change has never been good to me. Change has only taken from me the things I have valued most. Change has broken my heart. And made me fear for the lives of others. And left me friendless and alone. Change led me down a dark path that nearly ended with me taking my own life. Change is an incredible foe. An unfathomable destructive force in life. You can never predict what change will bring, but in my case it never seems to be anything desirable. I have learned to fear change, and to bitterly rue it.
    What, can it be supposed, are the odds that someday things will change for the better? Not just for me but for all of us. When will humanity catch a break? Does life ever get easier? They say that change is an opportunity to succeed and grow, and thus should be valued as a gift. But when we look back at what change has brought us in the past, what will we see when we again look ahead? The future is such a huge but invisible obstacle - we must get around or through it somehow, but it is impossible to know how to attack it, for it is intangible and unknown. Like an army of ghosts, clearly on the battlefield but in formation and post unseen, challenging the general to make his move.
    Change. Good or bad? To me, it is impossible to characterize, but easy to fear.

Something Old ...

"You have to know the past to be able to understand the present."

Dr. Carl Sagan 

    As the day drags by, and we are all wondering when it will end, and why we are stuck here, we tend to ignore things that should be more important. We tend to forget, and to forsake our history and our memories. It's a serious offense against yourself to live forever in the present and future. Why desert the past as if it is meaningless? Of course it is unwise and unproductive to dwell an the past, but is it productive at all not to learn from it and keep it alive in our minds?
   When I was a little boy, life could not have been simpler - I went to school, I came home. I played with my toys, I played with my friends. I have no complaints about my upbringing. But like anyone else, I had difficult experiences growing up. Who hasn't? The difference between me and many people is that I reject the 'water under the bridge' mentality because if you forget where you came from, what are you left with?  Naturally you know where you are right now, but that's the obvious answer. And the future hasn't happened yet - you don't know where you are headed to. So doesn't it stand to reason that you ought to remember where you've been?
   What I am struggling to say through this muddled string of reasoning is that remembering the past allows us to understand the present, and glean a vision of what is to come in the future. Case in point: I grew up doing very well in school, and the unfortunate result of setting the bar high is that people's expectations were therefore even higher. Because I displayed excellence, perfection was expected. Now certain people have been exceptions, of course, but for the greater part of my childhood I have faced pressure from nearly every adult I knew to excel consistently. And now, I almost obsessively reject these kinds of expectations, becoming angry even when someone mentions how 'talented' or 'intelligent' I am. Once again I think I'm losing focus ...
   What I mean is, I have learned from a past full of perfectionism that perfection is not only impossible, but undesirable. I don't want to be perfect. And I certainly don't want to be thought of as someone who never fails. The primary reason for this is that when I do fail (and I can say with complete honesty that I very often do), people are often very disappointed, and their perception of me is shattered.
   A former employer of mine regarded me, in our earliest acquaintance, as a very capable, intelligent, and versatile asset to his team. But as soon as I was unable to meet his high expectations, I was suddenly transformed into a shitbag, and a brainless fucking wonder. This attitude is of course unacceptable, and I will not tolerate being set up for ostracism by absolutism and misplaced confidence. I am not perfect. And when I do something well, that should not be taken as a guarantee that I will do everything well.
   The central thesis of this entry is that remembering the past, the old experiences that shaped and formed my young life, has been instrumental in my continued development as a human until this very day. I know now that it is not fair for people to expect perfection from me, and I know this because I remember where I came from. To say "It's in the past" is a foolish statement, because it has become part of your personality, spirituality, and mentality. It's in the present, influencing your every action, and it will be in the future, steering you toward mysterious destiny.

THE FIRST ONE!!!!!!!!!!

   So, this first blog will be tragically short simply because I haven't got the time to really get into it. But, for a brief introduction, it should suffice. My name is Joe, and as of today (October 27, 2010 in case you didn't know), I am twenty-three years old. I am currently in a suspended status from my job, as a result of a recent depressive breakdown. I'm undergoing treatment, and getting along well enough.
   But enough of the heavy!!! (Forgive my ShayCarl-esque enthusiasm ... it tends to rub off on us Rebellionites). Oh and if you didn't get the reference and you don't know who Shaycarl is, you should really look him up on Youtube. Maybe I'll include a link. And if you don't use Youtube, well then I don't have much to say to you. (laughing)
   Anyway the blog will get much more interesting (I PROMISE), but for today this will have to do. Just wanted to get it started with a nice, simple intro.
 Topics I'd like to discuss are of a pretty wide range, but several of the big ones will probably be depression, mental health, life, family, friendships, travel, FOOD, sex, love, and of course, my darling Youtube.
   I will try to post a new blog entry every ..... day? Two days? Let's say as often as I have things I want to talk about, meaning probably most days. Yes. Is that non-committal enough for you? Is committal a word?