It isn't that there's been nothing to write so much as time's gotten away from me. I stepped away from one job to try and have more time for writing and music (not necessarily in that order), but time's been gobbled up by life, the living and the dying of it. Bass and the book get their allotment, but it's the day to day that keeps me offline. Ultimately that may not be a bad thing as, let's face facts, the rambling I do here is nothing that needs to be posted (foisted) with any kind of urgency or regularity. And in that spirit, let the blather commence.
The last span has been odd. Yes, even in the context of my lack of life. The fire still burns on the mountain, about 40% contained now. And while we can't see flames lapping up the hillsides, the air is still disturbing. Skies are sometimes orange-grey and air quality is... chewy. Some strange mass has taken refuge in my sinuses, rattling around when I blow my nose or gasp while trying to sleep through the night. Coughing has become a regular part of my functioning. This is not so much a complaint as it is my way of giggling at the fact that the accoutrements of 'old man-ism' are now on prominent display. Maybe it's time to add whippersnapper to the lexicon and start yelling at those kids to get off my lawn.
Actually, the demeanor has changed. I saw a photo of me a couple of years back with what looked like a blossoming bald spot, a patch of thinning hair, and thought I'd just head it off at the pass. Yep, shaved the dome. I could reminisce or opine my locks, but the reality is that it'd been years since anyone other than a coiffeuse or me ran fingers through it. Before I bought clippers, I visited a barber a few times. That was enough window into grumpy old man culture that I not only bought my own depilation apparatus, but I quickly became proficient with it. If you haven't, let me tell you that grooming with two mirrors and learning to instruct one's muscles to operate completely counter to what instinct dictates is quite something.
And if you thought that was exciting, I grew a beard. Not one of those lumberjack accessories that hipsters seem to enjoy, the ones that require combs and oils to maintain, but something like you'd have seen on Sean Connery in decades past. Only without the style or flair of that legendary Scot. But I do have a lot more salt than pepper, and while the women in my life tell me that's very attractive to the fairer sex, I have no evidence to support it.
Which works out just fine. For yes, I crave the company of a woman, but I'm even less in a place to have that in my life than I was before. I have only enough clarity now to know I'm completely off balance and out of whack. Then again, when was I ever in whack?
Life of course seldom lets up with its parade of the strange and unexpected. In a rare moment of peace recently, not one but three of my exes wrote. Not to ask how I am or to see what was up, but to flirt or unveil emotional need out of the blue. Neither of these is a bad thing, but it wasn't anything I saw coming. Of course that may be why they reach out, but I'll never know. And in tried and true fashion, as soon as I reach back, they disappear.
But the deepening invisibility is good for perspective. Taking my vanity out of the mix has meant that I can simply go my way anon. There's a line in an anime film that I adore and I apologize if I've brought it up prior, but a character is in existential crisis. While he's a considered and cerebral figure, he's also known and needed for his less savory skills. When discussing who and what he is versus who he wants to be, he paraphrases a Buddhist poem:
'Let one walk alone, committing no sin, with few wishes, like an elephant in the forest.'
And it's to this I subscribe. It would be lovely to share me with someone who wants to share herself, too, but I think unless things line up just so, this is not a contingency for which I need to account. In all honesty, as I'm never out of love, there's no real need for someone in my life. The pleasantness of a partner or playmate is offset too often by that jarring, jagged weirdness of the blindsiding that occurs when something has come up in her cognition and rather than bring it up for discussion, she simply launches into some strange behavior or diatribe counter to whoever she's been to that point. If I have learned anything it's that this is the point where she's already got one foot out the door and this is the gesture that makes that exit easier and smoother. For her.
So I remain a solo act. I have a life filled with love, but I have no human contact. No canoodling or cahoots. I hug two or three people a year, but I'm more likely to roll around with a dog than caress a lover. I dole out some of the carnal on the written page, and I think there's sensuality -- even sentimentality -- in my music, but none of that is spent easing my own flesh. This is a time for living in my head, not below the neck. Maybe again someday, but not today.
Nope. Off kilter is not something to invite someone to join. Whoever I am now, it's not who I was a few years ago when I enjoyed the company of a lover or the squishier emotions. This person is too impatient and not empathetic enough for a partner. A time when I want attention is the time not to have it. If I feel that, then I have nothing to bring to a relationship. As nice as it would be to receive, I'm too damaged at the moment to give. This is when I need to let go, to find those things that are toxic and send them into the ether. So much needs untethering.
So how's that for a ramble? Sean Connery, Buddhist elephant imagery and a fire that won't stop burning. Sounds about par for this course, for discourse.
Monday, August 27, 2018
Saturday, July 7, 2018
Blather While the Mountain Burns
Living in a fringe community, one expects a certain amount out of the ordinary. I've lived in a few and find them much more welcoming than big cities, where I used to thrive. As a young man I lived on an island for a while. Life on a mountain isn't the same as that but it isn't wholly different.
I remember the day I came to see the cabin. Every fifty or so yards on the one little road into town was another warning: mudslides, rock slides, bears and deer in the roads, wildfire. As strange as this is going to read, I knew I was home. More than a dozen years later that's still true, even as a fire required us to evacuate yesterday.
This isn't the first time and I doubt it will be the last. The town's been closed due to snowfall and a few years back we made national news when 9' drifts of mud took out the road and the president actually deemed our tiny town a disaster area. Last summer an arsonist (coincidentally one working in the Fire Service) started a blaze that forced me to return to work on a Friday evening and camp out. Because of all this I started keeping basic supplies in my car a long time back. Last night I was glad the sleeping bag was among them.
But they named this burn: the Valley Fire. Before I left home they had estimated 200 acres had burned. By the time I made it into the flatlands a few hours later it was up to 400. When I finally packed it in last night, 1000 acres were gone. This morning it's still at 0% containment.
Here's where I play the age card. Even though I live in a town with a population that swings between 1000-1200, I found out a few years ago that we actually have a handful of public access webcams on 24 hour feed. A friend told me about them when I was trying to find out about snow conditions one winter, to see if I'd be allowed up the road. So for the last half day I've been able to go online or provide a link for people to get in the moment status on the mountain. Even ten years ago I couldn't have imagined such a thing. As much as I kvetch about the state of things and the direction they're going, I really do think this is kind of a positive. At least in the sense that I can assuage the concerns of some about my situation; they all still know that I'm nuts.
So as I look out at an orange sky that's normally slate and soft pastel purple at this time of day, knowing that I'm going to spend a big chunk of my weekend living at work, I find myself surprisingly not too curmudgeonly. There are reasons to carp if I want them, but why go down that road? I'm awake and alive. The handful of things I managed to bring down the hill other than my clothes mean I have the absolute luxury of writing, reading and making music. If that isn't luckier than I deserve, I don't know what is.
Of course my being here means there could be another incident of online word vomiting before the weekend's gone, so you may not be so lucky.
And so it goes.
I remember the day I came to see the cabin. Every fifty or so yards on the one little road into town was another warning: mudslides, rock slides, bears and deer in the roads, wildfire. As strange as this is going to read, I knew I was home. More than a dozen years later that's still true, even as a fire required us to evacuate yesterday.
This isn't the first time and I doubt it will be the last. The town's been closed due to snowfall and a few years back we made national news when 9' drifts of mud took out the road and the president actually deemed our tiny town a disaster area. Last summer an arsonist (coincidentally one working in the Fire Service) started a blaze that forced me to return to work on a Friday evening and camp out. Because of all this I started keeping basic supplies in my car a long time back. Last night I was glad the sleeping bag was among them.
But they named this burn: the Valley Fire. Before I left home they had estimated 200 acres had burned. By the time I made it into the flatlands a few hours later it was up to 400. When I finally packed it in last night, 1000 acres were gone. This morning it's still at 0% containment.
Here's where I play the age card. Even though I live in a town with a population that swings between 1000-1200, I found out a few years ago that we actually have a handful of public access webcams on 24 hour feed. A friend told me about them when I was trying to find out about snow conditions one winter, to see if I'd be allowed up the road. So for the last half day I've been able to go online or provide a link for people to get in the moment status on the mountain. Even ten years ago I couldn't have imagined such a thing. As much as I kvetch about the state of things and the direction they're going, I really do think this is kind of a positive. At least in the sense that I can assuage the concerns of some about my situation; they all still know that I'm nuts.
So as I look out at an orange sky that's normally slate and soft pastel purple at this time of day, knowing that I'm going to spend a big chunk of my weekend living at work, I find myself surprisingly not too curmudgeonly. There are reasons to carp if I want them, but why go down that road? I'm awake and alive. The handful of things I managed to bring down the hill other than my clothes mean I have the absolute luxury of writing, reading and making music. If that isn't luckier than I deserve, I don't know what is.
Of course my being here means there could be another incident of online word vomiting before the weekend's gone, so you may not be so lucky.
And so it goes.
Friday, May 25, 2018
Time, Distance and Equilibrium
It's been a while since I sat here to write. Not for lack of desire, but for lack of time. Random life events and unexpected drama mixed with the busyness of my day to day and successfully conspired to keep me from clogging the internet with more of my meandering ruminations. But with my first breather comes this return to the screens of strangers with... what?
Nothing. Genuinely nothing. No planned course for the word flow and nothing to get off my chest or out of the grey matter. Simply a return to the improvised silliness that for some reason makes me feel better.
For someone shy and without a lot of self-confidence who chose to make a living as a performer (funny how that works), there may be a sort of symmetry in my choosing to quietly fade into the background. I've come into that point in my life where I look around and see that years have passed in what I thought were months. Friends' kids are going off to college, starting careers and building families. Some I remember as young people are now homeowners and rising corporate stars. Fans of mine have gone on to stardom. This is wild to see and also gratifying. In a strange way it feels good to be irrelevant.
At the same time realizing I am in the 21st century and that there really isn't a way out of it, I've decided to actively pursue what roleplaying game nerds and authors call world building. For the last few years I've been writing more than what appears here, on others' websites or in the magazine. In my free time (I love and loathe that phrase) I've been working on a story. Initially I was thinking it would be a novel but the deeper I get into the characters and the cosmology, the more I realize it will be a series. I like rereading that sentence because it makes the practical considerations of telling the story sound so pretentious!
To keep my heart in it and to make the rest of my life bearable, I'm scribbling away with no plans to even try and publish. That could change but right now it's just delicious to leave the concerns of the world in the flatlands and sit in a cabin where I can step into a world that's like this one but different. Different horrors, delights, truths and dangers. I don't need to worry about genres or pigeonholing or anything more than letting the characters interact and the events unfold.
So what is it? I don't know how I'd describe it. I've been telling friends it's anachronistic fiction, but the truth is that it has elements of fantasy, conspiracy, philosophy, action and even comedy. There's a bit of intrigue, but what I'm enjoying in the penning of it is the dichotomy between what happens on the page versus the unwritten, the internal life of my protagonist.
Is it autobiographical? I suppose, kind of. I'm not a good enough writer than I know how not to draw from my experience and perspective. Everything in the text is filtered through my brain as much as my hand so I suppose so. The man character is/was an artist and a hermit. He's on a literal and metaphorical/metaphysical journey. There's transformation in the tale, but I'm not going to get into that here.
Instead I'll tell you that this return to the mechanics and logistics of writing, of immersing myself in it whether or not it goes beyond the reams of scrawl in my cabin, has proven cathartic and liberating. Taking myself from the largely right brain creative process of making music to what for me is a much more left brain activity has done great things for how I see and express things. Others around me may disagree, but my inner life is the colorful one now. That's probably what I have most in common with my main character. Our worlds are changing around us, but the only thing that allows either of us to cope is through the struggle of trying to make some sense of what's within. So maybe my work is more paralleling my life than reflecting it?
Dunno. But as I work on that, as I see more gray in my hair and watch more of what I know disappearing from the world, I acknowledge the inevitability of things. I've made my peace with it. I think it's reassuring that the world has no need of me, that I have made some impact and also that the world isn't done with me. It's nice that as I become more and more invisible, I can look around and watch all those things that I can't understand and simply marvel. Then when I'm through with the surreal for a while, I can climb the mountain, close the door to my cabin and return to crafting another world and do my best to tell one story from there.
I was so terrified of change and the unexpected when I was a boy. Now these are among my sources of delight. Another symmetry, perhaps, and one I treasure.
Nothing. Genuinely nothing. No planned course for the word flow and nothing to get off my chest or out of the grey matter. Simply a return to the improvised silliness that for some reason makes me feel better.
For someone shy and without a lot of self-confidence who chose to make a living as a performer (funny how that works), there may be a sort of symmetry in my choosing to quietly fade into the background. I've come into that point in my life where I look around and see that years have passed in what I thought were months. Friends' kids are going off to college, starting careers and building families. Some I remember as young people are now homeowners and rising corporate stars. Fans of mine have gone on to stardom. This is wild to see and also gratifying. In a strange way it feels good to be irrelevant.
At the same time realizing I am in the 21st century and that there really isn't a way out of it, I've decided to actively pursue what roleplaying game nerds and authors call world building. For the last few years I've been writing more than what appears here, on others' websites or in the magazine. In my free time (I love and loathe that phrase) I've been working on a story. Initially I was thinking it would be a novel but the deeper I get into the characters and the cosmology, the more I realize it will be a series. I like rereading that sentence because it makes the practical considerations of telling the story sound so pretentious!
To keep my heart in it and to make the rest of my life bearable, I'm scribbling away with no plans to even try and publish. That could change but right now it's just delicious to leave the concerns of the world in the flatlands and sit in a cabin where I can step into a world that's like this one but different. Different horrors, delights, truths and dangers. I don't need to worry about genres or pigeonholing or anything more than letting the characters interact and the events unfold.
So what is it? I don't know how I'd describe it. I've been telling friends it's anachronistic fiction, but the truth is that it has elements of fantasy, conspiracy, philosophy, action and even comedy. There's a bit of intrigue, but what I'm enjoying in the penning of it is the dichotomy between what happens on the page versus the unwritten, the internal life of my protagonist.
Is it autobiographical? I suppose, kind of. I'm not a good enough writer than I know how not to draw from my experience and perspective. Everything in the text is filtered through my brain as much as my hand so I suppose so. The man character is/was an artist and a hermit. He's on a literal and metaphorical/metaphysical journey. There's transformation in the tale, but I'm not going to get into that here.
Instead I'll tell you that this return to the mechanics and logistics of writing, of immersing myself in it whether or not it goes beyond the reams of scrawl in my cabin, has proven cathartic and liberating. Taking myself from the largely right brain creative process of making music to what for me is a much more left brain activity has done great things for how I see and express things. Others around me may disagree, but my inner life is the colorful one now. That's probably what I have most in common with my main character. Our worlds are changing around us, but the only thing that allows either of us to cope is through the struggle of trying to make some sense of what's within. So maybe my work is more paralleling my life than reflecting it?
Dunno. But as I work on that, as I see more gray in my hair and watch more of what I know disappearing from the world, I acknowledge the inevitability of things. I've made my peace with it. I think it's reassuring that the world has no need of me, that I have made some impact and also that the world isn't done with me. It's nice that as I become more and more invisible, I can look around and watch all those things that I can't understand and simply marvel. Then when I'm through with the surreal for a while, I can climb the mountain, close the door to my cabin and return to crafting another world and do my best to tell one story from there.
I was so terrified of change and the unexpected when I was a boy. Now these are among my sources of delight. Another symmetry, perhaps, and one I treasure.
Wednesday, March 14, 2018
Cynicism, Romance and the Confessions of an Idiot
So I carp a lot. This isn't lost on me. And to anyone who slogs through these words, thank you for persevering and enduring. It is appreciated. This junk is all trapped in my head so being able to put it 'out there' is powerfully therapeutic. I imagine it's either entertaining, disturbing or some mix of the two for you, however.
I repeat: thank you.
I figure rather than pontificate or offer up something like life advice, perspective or whatever what I typically post might be described as, this piece is going to be more about insight into me. You know, the kind of thing that shows you why I write the things I do and why I've made the choices I did. More than usual, I'll wish you good luck getting through the morass.
I've described myself as a grudging romantic. That's not really accurate. I'm a dyed-in-the-wool romantic. I love the stuff. I still get choked up watching or reading (or writing) love stories. Love is about as close to religion as I'm going to get. In my case it really is all I need. I have lived for it and I will not be surprised if I die for -- or from -- it. I love love. I was once called a love junkie. That may well be true.
Let that sink in.
If you've read more posts than the one you're pushing through, let that sink in more.
The issue in my case was that I didn't realize until I was in my 40's (yes, you read right) that not everyone has the same idea of love. By that point I'd made the connection that not everyone knows what he or she wants. Okay, most of us don't know what we want... but we think we do. The point here is that what love is to me is not what it is for most people. I kind of wish someone had explained things to me better as a kid, but I don't know that I could have or would have heard.
(Tangent: you begin to see why the conditional tense and I are not friends.)
For me love is what I was taught. It's what I read in books and saw in movies. It's that massive thing. It's Big Love. This means it has nothing to do with reality. In fact my definition of love is divorced from worldly concerns. Love is what makes it possible for me to endure the world.
So all the times I've opined being left or hurt, the truth is that I have really never lived much in the real world. I've had jobs, paid rent, been homeless, etc., etc., but for me it's always been about love. Big Love. If there were problems in a relationship, love would be enough to see us through.
Wrong.
Love was enough to see me through.
I remember vividly the first time a woman I was with told me love isn't enough. I can even remember what I felt. All of it. How could someone say that????
Easy. It was true.
Not for me. It's still not true for me. But now I grasp that the way I see the world is not a common thing. I don't give a shit about much. Looks, money, ambition, career... pretty much meaningless to me. But openness, directness, honesty... these are sacred. Probably because they're unicorns.
It's taken me a lifetime to realize that what someone says may have no bearing on what he or she thinks, feels or believes. I know for most people that's obvious, but I am not most people. And by now you realize that I learn slowly. Sometimes I don't know if I learn at all. For much of my life, I believed what people told me. In other words I led a disillusioned life. I was disappointed, frustrated and confused. A lot. Well, I'm still those things but not for the same reasons. For a long time that disappointment, frustration and confusion brought out a cynical, sarcastic edge. I could put some of that down to going through adolescence in the 80's when cynicism and sarcasm were kind of the way, but that would be inaccurate. I wore that armor as a defense. And I ripped it off every time I ended up in a relationship.
So, yeah, I was left by most of the women in my life. No explanation and no goodbye in most cases. Like many romantics, I saw this as being done to me. I saw me as the victim. That was only true inasmuch as I was naive. I clung desperately to a belief that my view was THE view.
But as I wrote earlier, my view was just my view.
Period.
Does that mean I've embraced cynicism? Am I well and truly sarcastic now?
Quite the opposite. I'm a romantic and I'm open about it. But I don't generally have faith in humans. I just don't. I don't even like most humans. The things I see, hear and read these days hurt me. People are open with hate and hostility. I can't say that things were ever 'golden' but things are different than they were and the direction I see things going scares the hell out of me.
So why would I choose to be a romantic?
Because it's the only fucking thing that makes sense.
Once again, let that sink in.
Take a moment if you need it.
In a world that's gritty and actually uses terms like 'murder porn', where a reality TV star is president of the US, where nuclear war is actually BACK on peoples' minds as a very real possibility, I choose love.
This is not a wide-eyed, puppy love. No. It's me being brutally frank and acknowledging that most people will never see things as I do. It's holding out as a solo act unless I meet someone who actually wants to know me and not be infatuated with some concept of me. It's a part of why I stopped recording and performing music in public. It's a part of why I shaved my head. It's a part of why I'm not particularly social. I make music every day, don't want my looks to be a factor in anything and am happiest when my interactions are one-on-one.
And I don't advocate these choices for anyone. Not for a soul. I choose a solitary life because it makes it easier for me to function. It strips away illusions and simultaneously allows me to spend more time in a world I prefer. The fiction I write is not happy or sappy. But there's humor and affection mixed with the carnage and chaos. My characters live as I would if I had their opportunities or if the world I spread on those pages was the one I wake to daily.
We aren't built to be alone. Not biologically and not sociologically. But most of us aren't built to love the way I do. I've written that I don't know how to fall out of love. That's true. I'm still in love with everyone I've ever loved, but since most of them have cut me out of their lives it makes no difference. I don't hear from them and I rarely see them. Having left social media for the most part, I don't even hear about them anymore. Not really. And I doubt given the chance I would ever be with any of them again. Trust is gone. But I do love them. I always will. And I'll continue to hope for the best for them. It's strange and hurtful to me that the friendships had to end, particularly with no explanation or saying goodbye, but that's life. It just is.
So, yeah, I'll still pen the harder edged comments but now you know that beneath the armor, under the scarred surface, I'm a marshmallow. I'm goopy and sugary. An idiot.
But you know what? Love is all I need. Having felt Big Love, even having lost it a few times, I'll take love over the alternative. I salute those who can live in the real world. They have my undying admiration. But my wiring is different and even if I could change it, I don't think I would. Sometimes the thought of feeling less or hurting less is appealing, but then I think I wouldn't mute the colors of my world. Not if there's a choice.
So I'll take the loss and the derision. The pain is a badge of honor, in a weird way. I may never be with anyone again. But I can live honestly, even if it's as a fringe dweller.
This is not abandoning hope but is actually embracing it. And for someone who lived most of his life as a pessimist, that's saying something.
If life has taught me anything it's that the unexpected is far more commonplace than I ever think. Half a century down and I'm still here. That's something, too.
I'll take that and rise to meet whatever's ahead for me.
Bring it on.
I repeat: thank you.
I figure rather than pontificate or offer up something like life advice, perspective or whatever what I typically post might be described as, this piece is going to be more about insight into me. You know, the kind of thing that shows you why I write the things I do and why I've made the choices I did. More than usual, I'll wish you good luck getting through the morass.
I've described myself as a grudging romantic. That's not really accurate. I'm a dyed-in-the-wool romantic. I love the stuff. I still get choked up watching or reading (or writing) love stories. Love is about as close to religion as I'm going to get. In my case it really is all I need. I have lived for it and I will not be surprised if I die for -- or from -- it. I love love. I was once called a love junkie. That may well be true.
Let that sink in.
If you've read more posts than the one you're pushing through, let that sink in more.
The issue in my case was that I didn't realize until I was in my 40's (yes, you read right) that not everyone has the same idea of love. By that point I'd made the connection that not everyone knows what he or she wants. Okay, most of us don't know what we want... but we think we do. The point here is that what love is to me is not what it is for most people. I kind of wish someone had explained things to me better as a kid, but I don't know that I could have or would have heard.
(Tangent: you begin to see why the conditional tense and I are not friends.)
For me love is what I was taught. It's what I read in books and saw in movies. It's that massive thing. It's Big Love. This means it has nothing to do with reality. In fact my definition of love is divorced from worldly concerns. Love is what makes it possible for me to endure the world.
So all the times I've opined being left or hurt, the truth is that I have really never lived much in the real world. I've had jobs, paid rent, been homeless, etc., etc., but for me it's always been about love. Big Love. If there were problems in a relationship, love would be enough to see us through.
Wrong.
Love was enough to see me through.
I remember vividly the first time a woman I was with told me love isn't enough. I can even remember what I felt. All of it. How could someone say that????
Easy. It was true.
Not for me. It's still not true for me. But now I grasp that the way I see the world is not a common thing. I don't give a shit about much. Looks, money, ambition, career... pretty much meaningless to me. But openness, directness, honesty... these are sacred. Probably because they're unicorns.
It's taken me a lifetime to realize that what someone says may have no bearing on what he or she thinks, feels or believes. I know for most people that's obvious, but I am not most people. And by now you realize that I learn slowly. Sometimes I don't know if I learn at all. For much of my life, I believed what people told me. In other words I led a disillusioned life. I was disappointed, frustrated and confused. A lot. Well, I'm still those things but not for the same reasons. For a long time that disappointment, frustration and confusion brought out a cynical, sarcastic edge. I could put some of that down to going through adolescence in the 80's when cynicism and sarcasm were kind of the way, but that would be inaccurate. I wore that armor as a defense. And I ripped it off every time I ended up in a relationship.
So, yeah, I was left by most of the women in my life. No explanation and no goodbye in most cases. Like many romantics, I saw this as being done to me. I saw me as the victim. That was only true inasmuch as I was naive. I clung desperately to a belief that my view was THE view.
But as I wrote earlier, my view was just my view.
Period.
Does that mean I've embraced cynicism? Am I well and truly sarcastic now?
Quite the opposite. I'm a romantic and I'm open about it. But I don't generally have faith in humans. I just don't. I don't even like most humans. The things I see, hear and read these days hurt me. People are open with hate and hostility. I can't say that things were ever 'golden' but things are different than they were and the direction I see things going scares the hell out of me.
So why would I choose to be a romantic?
Because it's the only fucking thing that makes sense.
Once again, let that sink in.
Take a moment if you need it.
In a world that's gritty and actually uses terms like 'murder porn', where a reality TV star is president of the US, where nuclear war is actually BACK on peoples' minds as a very real possibility, I choose love.
This is not a wide-eyed, puppy love. No. It's me being brutally frank and acknowledging that most people will never see things as I do. It's holding out as a solo act unless I meet someone who actually wants to know me and not be infatuated with some concept of me. It's a part of why I stopped recording and performing music in public. It's a part of why I shaved my head. It's a part of why I'm not particularly social. I make music every day, don't want my looks to be a factor in anything and am happiest when my interactions are one-on-one.
And I don't advocate these choices for anyone. Not for a soul. I choose a solitary life because it makes it easier for me to function. It strips away illusions and simultaneously allows me to spend more time in a world I prefer. The fiction I write is not happy or sappy. But there's humor and affection mixed with the carnage and chaos. My characters live as I would if I had their opportunities or if the world I spread on those pages was the one I wake to daily.
We aren't built to be alone. Not biologically and not sociologically. But most of us aren't built to love the way I do. I've written that I don't know how to fall out of love. That's true. I'm still in love with everyone I've ever loved, but since most of them have cut me out of their lives it makes no difference. I don't hear from them and I rarely see them. Having left social media for the most part, I don't even hear about them anymore. Not really. And I doubt given the chance I would ever be with any of them again. Trust is gone. But I do love them. I always will. And I'll continue to hope for the best for them. It's strange and hurtful to me that the friendships had to end, particularly with no explanation or saying goodbye, but that's life. It just is.
So, yeah, I'll still pen the harder edged comments but now you know that beneath the armor, under the scarred surface, I'm a marshmallow. I'm goopy and sugary. An idiot.
But you know what? Love is all I need. Having felt Big Love, even having lost it a few times, I'll take love over the alternative. I salute those who can live in the real world. They have my undying admiration. But my wiring is different and even if I could change it, I don't think I would. Sometimes the thought of feeling less or hurting less is appealing, but then I think I wouldn't mute the colors of my world. Not if there's a choice.
So I'll take the loss and the derision. The pain is a badge of honor, in a weird way. I may never be with anyone again. But I can live honestly, even if it's as a fringe dweller.
This is not abandoning hope but is actually embracing it. And for someone who lived most of his life as a pessimist, that's saying something.
If life has taught me anything it's that the unexpected is far more commonplace than I ever think. Half a century down and I'm still here. That's something, too.
I'll take that and rise to meet whatever's ahead for me.
Bring it on.
Sunday, March 11, 2018
Digital Emancipation and That Kind of Thing
I don't like to threaten. It feels childish, like I'm taking a position on the playground, drawing a line in the sand. Instead I'd rather just state my intent, giving plenty of notice and follow through. So before I shut down my primary social media profile today, I wrote about it there more than a week ago. Throughout the week, even though almost no one saw it, I posted it so that anyone who might see would not be blindsided. Yesterday afternoon I noticed a post from someone I know about people making empty threats about closing their accounts, essentially browbeating them as cowards.
It was all the reassurance I needed to fire up the computer this morning and turn my back on what's become, for lack of a better term, the gauntlet.
When I first meandered into social media, it was nascent. News boards and forum groups. But it was growing fast into something else. It still is. But back then, more than 15 years ago, my life was different and I was a different person. I wanted attention and I had a career in music to promote. My marriage was breaking down. I spent more time on the road and playing in clubs when I was in town than I did with friends or loved ones. Feeling something like validation in the form of 'likes' and even flirtation fed into that craving. Fostering virtual friendships and seeing the number of followers rise was more than pleasant; it was satisfying. It meant something to me that I had more than 25,000 profiles following mine on MySpace before I left that site. It was no less exciting watching as I quickly maxed out the number of 'friends' I could have on Facebook and having to open a second profile, a music page.
But my life has changed and so have I. The need and desire to take 'breaks' from virtual reality became a bigger thing. The last time I did it lasted years. For the last month I have done a little experiment. Every Monday morning before I left home, I'd open Facebook and scroll through my feed. Each week it took longer to find something I wanted to see. Last week, after an hour of looking, I gave up. What wasn't openly hostile was depressing. Painting politics in black and white or sharing video footage of cruelty to animals. Emojis depicting laughing uproariously were the only commentary and captioning of cell phone captured celebrations of human stupidity. Memes had become more popular than the construction of sentences or coherent thoughts. The only way to have any exchange with actual friends was in private messaging or risk incurring derision from others who've decided that public 'conversation' is really an invitation to be mocked. Or worse.
Again, I don't want this to read like I'm taking a superior position or that I'm slamming social media. I'm not. In fact, I still belong to a few sites. But the reasons I go to them now are not what they were in the past. It's rare that I'm seeking anything more than some momentary diversion or distraction. To do that in some places is like walking onto a shooting range wearing a target.
It's taken me a long time to build a life that I like. I'll take that over what I generally see online now. I'm too old to decipher the changing vernacular, to decode a language I don't really want to understand. If it's a place you enjoy, I hope you continue to. You'll find me in the world of matter these days, not in the online soap opera and feud factory.
Except of course that I posted this online.
Sunday, February 18, 2018
To Be This Particular Animal
Normally I sit here and simply vomit words onto the keyboard and ultimately the screen, but I have started this multiple times. My initial intention was to write something lighter, about being a middle aged man who's never been able to make sense of the mixed message that have come at me from society and from women in general. But the truth is no one really cares about that, including me. We're all bombarded by things that make no sense. What a man deals with is nothing compared to the horse shit that comes at women like it's shot from a bazooka. Yet I see some people who are able to simply... be.
Whether it's being told we're not enough, not conforming to some idea of what we're supposed to be (that damn conditional tense again) or just being made fun of for being different, we're besieged by this stupidity. As a man, the messages are confusing and conflicting. As a woman, they're insane and somewhere beyond the far side of debilitating.
So how are some able to push past all of it and even thrive?
In some cases it's the result of being raised to believe in oneself and having that belief reinforced. This is more than having confidence. It's a synergy of elements and conditions that can put an individual on a positive trajectory.
In some cases it's finding the right partner, be it personally or in one's field of endeavor. That collaboration and support is rare.
But some individuals have none of these things and manage to succeed. How?
The answer, as far as I can tell, is to believe in oneself and in one's goals to the point of simply knowing they're right. This means not getting caught up in the messages of individuals or society to the contrary.
In some ways this lines up with the earlier post about answers being out there, but I think this is deeper than that which was really about hard work and tenacity. This is more ineffable. Doing all the hard work in the world means nothing if you're not working toward something.
And this is obviously a lot harder than what we teach children. This requires more than depth of conviction, more than the confidence that comes from training. I'm talking about knowing in one's blood and bones that something is what one's meant to do, that it must be done. In a way this is rising to one's calling.
No, I'm not on about something so grandiose as starting a religion or saving a culture. This is more about developing into the person one wants to be or creating something, be it in the arts, sciences or manufacturing fields. This is knowing one's truth before ever setting foot on the road of life. This is what we marvel at without ever really stopping to think about what this kind of individual faces in terms of resistance constantly.
We can all learn from people like this, but in this day and age what I see is much more often a chorus of those trying to bring him or her down. Being different and 'other' should be embraced because it throws light onto what we are not. It shows us that there is another way to be and another way to approach things.
Yes, I'm aware that I've employed the conditional tense, but this is also the sort of context where that works.
Maybe next time will be the lighter piece and I can blather about the woes of being a clueless guy who's wanted love and romance and found himself a hermit. Or maybe I'll finally pen something cohesive. This time you got neither.
Saturday, December 9, 2017
Fifteen Minutes Later (Having Once Been a Part)
Even given my proclivity for blather and palaver, this is unlikely to be full of insight. If you're undecided whether you want to sit through another meander, well, it's time to make up your mind. This one is going nowhere quickly. Or rather it's going to sashay leisurely with no destination in mind.
I was never really a fan of Andy Warhol. This is not a popular admission among bipeds my age but it's never been true. I appreciated what I saw as humor and social observation, but his creations were just never my thing. At the same time that famous phrase stuck with me: 'In the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes.'
Then of course it happened to me.
Life has a funny way of giving us the things we ask for. When we're lucky enough we can learn a bit about ourselves in the process, but most often it's a chance to realize that we didn't want what we thought we did. I also love this.
But I digress.
Fame. Mine was not big celebrity or wide social appeal. Instead I was a part of a small movement in a small community, which meant for a while there were people who knew my name. This brought attention and things my way. It gave me opportunities I would never have enjoyed otherwise. This made possible my having a career in the music industry and writing for a bass magazine. I've signed autographs and been recognized in unexpected places. When I was still playing for a living, I got to walk some big stages and make the acquaintance of some remarkable people. I am grateful for all of this.
And I'm even more grateful that it's passed.
I never wanted fame. Attention, yes. Validation, absolutely. Respect, of course. But with fame comes the loss of privacy and the invitation of others to interpret one's life and art through their filters, neither of which ever appealed to me. As my moment in the sun was a little one and fleeting, I got to experience just enough to know with certainty that I was happy to have enjoyed it and equally to let it go.
Art has been at the center of my life since before I can remember, both the enjoying of it and the creating of it. I don't make any lofty claims in terms of my ability or talent, nor do I state that I know a damn thing other than I can recognize what resonates with me emotionally, intellectually or spiritually. I understand a bit of my aesthetic. That's about it. I know geniuses and savants. More often I witness those with facility who can impress but not make a particularly profound statement, at least by the standards I hold. This isn't judgment so much as finally grasping what's real and good for me. There are things which get acclaim I can't understand, but that's just fine. There's a hell of a lot I don't understand. Actually, that may be one of the hallmarks of my life.
A rant for another time.
But it does dovetail into something that's happened recently.
I got the sudden and unexpected news of a young actress' death this week. This is not someone I knew personally, only someone whose work I enjoyed. As I didn't know her, I had no way to know that she was -- like so many of us in the arts and otherwise -- battling depression. When the online backlash of a statement she made was massive, vitriolic and ongoing, she stood up for her position, attempted to clarify it and ultimately gave up fighting. If one is to believe the news, she hanged herself. And of course the lack of empathy rains down still.
As someone who's fought depression for decades and has survived every suicidal impulse, episode and spell, I will tell those who have never been touched by it that they are supremely lucky. This is a darkness they can't imagine. The fact that so many who have never felt it and refuse to acknowledge it is horrifying to me in a way I can't express, and expression is what I do. If I were to spend all my posts trying to articulate what it's like dealing with this or convey what it's like when it hits, I could never do it justice. This is horror on a level that no book or film will ever capture. Maybe that's why so many of us who have this in our makeup turn to horror to distract and entertain us.
If you've never dealt with depression first hand, I'm glad for you. This also means you can't understand what someone depressed feels. It isn't being sad and there's nothing worse than saying, "Can't you just be happy?"
No. We can't.
It's a cyclical thing but not in a predictable way. It may or may not have triggers as it may or may not be tied up in trauma. If trauma has never touched your life, be glad. Be overjoyed. If it has, you will never be the same and you will often be blindsided.
All of this, as I stated initially, is not building to anything in particular. Maybe I'll write about having mental health issues at some point. Maybe I shouldn't as it all but inevitably invites attacks from those same people I'd like to enlighten.
I dunno.
It's funny to me -- not so much the 'ha ha' variety -- that none of us chooses to be born but so many of us are judged for how we do or don't cope with that, as if we're all given the same tools at the start. If you're one of those lucky enough to be confident and content, I am genuinely happy for you. If you're someone who can't understand the rest of us, I hope you choose something better than belittling or seeking to hurt those bereft or your benefits.
Wow, that really did go somewhere I didn't expect.
I was never really a fan of Andy Warhol. This is not a popular admission among bipeds my age but it's never been true. I appreciated what I saw as humor and social observation, but his creations were just never my thing. At the same time that famous phrase stuck with me: 'In the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes.'
Then of course it happened to me.
Life has a funny way of giving us the things we ask for. When we're lucky enough we can learn a bit about ourselves in the process, but most often it's a chance to realize that we didn't want what we thought we did. I also love this.
But I digress.
Fame. Mine was not big celebrity or wide social appeal. Instead I was a part of a small movement in a small community, which meant for a while there were people who knew my name. This brought attention and things my way. It gave me opportunities I would never have enjoyed otherwise. This made possible my having a career in the music industry and writing for a bass magazine. I've signed autographs and been recognized in unexpected places. When I was still playing for a living, I got to walk some big stages and make the acquaintance of some remarkable people. I am grateful for all of this.
And I'm even more grateful that it's passed.
I never wanted fame. Attention, yes. Validation, absolutely. Respect, of course. But with fame comes the loss of privacy and the invitation of others to interpret one's life and art through their filters, neither of which ever appealed to me. As my moment in the sun was a little one and fleeting, I got to experience just enough to know with certainty that I was happy to have enjoyed it and equally to let it go.
Art has been at the center of my life since before I can remember, both the enjoying of it and the creating of it. I don't make any lofty claims in terms of my ability or talent, nor do I state that I know a damn thing other than I can recognize what resonates with me emotionally, intellectually or spiritually. I understand a bit of my aesthetic. That's about it. I know geniuses and savants. More often I witness those with facility who can impress but not make a particularly profound statement, at least by the standards I hold. This isn't judgment so much as finally grasping what's real and good for me. There are things which get acclaim I can't understand, but that's just fine. There's a hell of a lot I don't understand. Actually, that may be one of the hallmarks of my life.
A rant for another time.
But it does dovetail into something that's happened recently.
I got the sudden and unexpected news of a young actress' death this week. This is not someone I knew personally, only someone whose work I enjoyed. As I didn't know her, I had no way to know that she was -- like so many of us in the arts and otherwise -- battling depression. When the online backlash of a statement she made was massive, vitriolic and ongoing, she stood up for her position, attempted to clarify it and ultimately gave up fighting. If one is to believe the news, she hanged herself. And of course the lack of empathy rains down still.
As someone who's fought depression for decades and has survived every suicidal impulse, episode and spell, I will tell those who have never been touched by it that they are supremely lucky. This is a darkness they can't imagine. The fact that so many who have never felt it and refuse to acknowledge it is horrifying to me in a way I can't express, and expression is what I do. If I were to spend all my posts trying to articulate what it's like dealing with this or convey what it's like when it hits, I could never do it justice. This is horror on a level that no book or film will ever capture. Maybe that's why so many of us who have this in our makeup turn to horror to distract and entertain us.
If you've never dealt with depression first hand, I'm glad for you. This also means you can't understand what someone depressed feels. It isn't being sad and there's nothing worse than saying, "Can't you just be happy?"
No. We can't.
It's a cyclical thing but not in a predictable way. It may or may not have triggers as it may or may not be tied up in trauma. If trauma has never touched your life, be glad. Be overjoyed. If it has, you will never be the same and you will often be blindsided.
All of this, as I stated initially, is not building to anything in particular. Maybe I'll write about having mental health issues at some point. Maybe I shouldn't as it all but inevitably invites attacks from those same people I'd like to enlighten.
I dunno.
It's funny to me -- not so much the 'ha ha' variety -- that none of us chooses to be born but so many of us are judged for how we do or don't cope with that, as if we're all given the same tools at the start. If you're one of those lucky enough to be confident and content, I am genuinely happy for you. If you're someone who can't understand the rest of us, I hope you choose something better than belittling or seeking to hurt those bereft or your benefits.
Wow, that really did go somewhere I didn't expect.
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