Blah Blah Blah, Ramble Ramble Ramble

Last night (or actually earlier today) I dreamed that I was playing a racing video game. I had the worst car, because I was a beginner, and it was set up that your car improves as you play (which is how a lot of video games in general are set up in reality). Boy was I racing! I was going so fast. I wasn't winning, but I was doing pretty good, especially for my shitty little jalopy.

Eventually our little cartoon video game cars reached a stretch of highway that was thick with real cars, which was a whole 'nother challenge.

When I woke up I felt very emotionally balanced...almost unemotional. But I did pine a little bit for the days when I had a car, and could go driving about whenever I wanted, and could go places that were far away with barely any planning or thinking. A couple of days ago I had the chance to go to New York City (where I've always been wanting to go!) to visit a friend, but I couldn't because the tickets would have cost so much. I could have taken a greyhound bus for slightly less money, but it still would have only cost about half that much to drive, plus it would have taken about 8 hours of driving each way, instead of 12 hours, and I could have driven directly to where my friend was staying, instead of to some greyhound station or airport. Well...I had to cancel, which made me sad.

I could actually afford to buy a car, but only if I lived in it, with my car payments taking the place of my rent. Plus I would have to take out a loan, and I'm already taking out so much for school. If I were gonna take out a loan for anything, It would have to be for a computer, which I've been needing for a very long time. Sigh...maybe I should go back and live with Mark, who would let me sleep there and store my stuff there without having to pay rent. But me and Mark always got along so shitily when we lived together, and so harmoniously whenever we didn't; I would prefer to keep that harmony going. Anyway, I'm so happy in my room, so I'd like to keep that going too.

My pseudo-lover is being moody, but that's fine. Maybe he'll decide that he really doesn't want me, and life will be easier then.

But I feel good toady. I kind of feel like my old self again. Wow. I think I just realized what the problem has been for the past month: I've been trying to be sexually sober, and part of my definition of being sober is mastrabating no more than once a day. For years I've been jerking off two or three times a day. Sometimes more, sometimes not at all, but on average I would say it's usually twice a day. This makes it difficult to have sex with others, because I'm already sexually spent, and also because the heavy fantasizing that I have to do to get myself off makes real sex seem...not boring, but not sexually stimulating enough to actually get me off. I do it for the well-being that the orgasmic rush of endorphins through my system gives me. If I do it about twice a day, then the level of endorphins that keep me feeling balanced in the way that I like is sustained. I've been back to jerking off a couple of times a day for a couple of days now, and now I feel like I'm back to my old self again.

'Course, it could be the fact that I've been drinking a fair amount of caffeine for the past few days.

Also, I went back to thinking little afrimations to myself to combat feelings of insecurity and unworthiness. There are two things that I know about affrimations: 1) The impact on the psyche of a painful thought is much stronger than the impact of a pleasurable thought, so in order for an affrimation to work it has to be done more frequently than the painful thought it is intended to nullify. I've been told that each affrimation should be thought ten times in response to each painful thought (which really isn't as much as it seems. And anyway, what does one usually think about as one, say, walks down the street? "that guy's cute...it's going to rain...what time is it?...watch out for that dog shit.... A pleasant affrimation is really not such a waste of time compared to such things). 2) In order for an affrimation to be effective it should state the exact opposite of the negative thought, even if this makes the affrimation something that you totally don't believe in. For example, if the though you want to nullify is "I hate myself", then an appropriate affrimation would be "I love myself", not "I'm not really such a bad person. I don't really hate myself all that much." Or, if the thing that you're thinking is "I'm ugly", then the appropriate affrimation would be "I'm attractive," not "I'm okay looking." It doesn't matter if you don't believe it. The point isn't really to get at the truth, but to bring you out of the depression and despair that the negative thoughts are creating. It's not like the negative thoughts were all that true either. You gotta fight fire with fire, as they say (which, by the way, always sounded really dumb to me: if you fight fire with fire, then you just get a really big fire. Smart firefighters use water, not fire....or else that weird chemically engineered foam from the fire extinguishers...anything but fire).

Blah blah blah...ramble ramble ramble...i'm going to study Korean for a short while now, simply because it amuses me.

I just took a test. My essay was big on ideas, low on evidence (not good for a history exam). But I guess I probably got a "C". That's fine. As far as history goes, I really am just average at understanding it and analyzing it, so a "C" is actually an appropriate grade for me : )

But it's over now, so I feel better.

Broken Record

I don't understand what's happening to me. I don't care about anything right now. No, that's totally un-true. I care about many, many things right now. The only thing I don't seem to care about right now is my schoolwork. I just can't seem to muster up the interest or the inspiration to do it.

I know this is pretty much the same thing as my last blog entry, but that's rather appropriate. I've been stuck on this problem for awhile now, with no solution in sight. I could be doing so many interesting things right now, exciting myself in so many ways; instead I'm banging my head against the wall, trying to make something happen against it's will. I don't want to work right now, so why force myself?

I wish I weren't human. I wish I wasn't physical. I wish I were pure abstract consciousness, that didn't need to worry about getting fed or keeping warm. I wish I were existing eternally, without fear of death or disease. I wish that every emotional state was harmless, existing in isolation, without consequence. I wish that there were no ramifications to any of my actions.

What I really wish is that I could be a child forever, being fed and taken care of through no effort of my own. No, to be honest, I wish that someone would just take care of me, give me food, shelter, and healthcare without asking anything from me in return.

I'm not fit for this world. I'm non-functional

Damaged goods;
send me back.
I can't work, I can't achieve.
Send me back.

-Gang of Four

Sometimes I fantasize about going back to live on the streets. It really wasn't a bad situation. I ate everyday, I was always able to find shelter. I would say that I was healthier then than I am now. I wasn't happier, though. I was really bored. I would start in on learning some new skill, or learning about some subject, but it would never lead to anything, because the book I was reading or the object I was manipulating became too much of a hassle to carry around with me anymore: I needed to use my limited carrying capacity for objects of more immediate usefulness, like blankets or extra clothing. So I decided to go back home, so I could store stuff. My plan was that I would work for awhile, buy a van, and travel around in that. But once I got started on the whole working and living indoors thing it was difficult to give it up. It was much more interesting than what I was doing before. And anyway, if I had really bought a van I'd have to have money to keep it running, which would involve work, which would defeat the whole purpose of living on the streets. So I decided to just keep on with the domesticated life. I did have the freedom to hold on to things again; unfortunately, I didn't really have the time to enjoy those things anymore.

Blah...

I don't know what's going on with me...I'm in such a weird mood...I know..."weird"...that's so descriptive.

I just feel...very resistant...and angry at having to do things. Whenever I try to get something done I get distracted right away, willfully. I let myself go with the distraction, because it's painful to force myself down a path that is not immediately attractive to me...like, to enforce any sort of order and direction feels emotionally painful. I'm like a little kid, who doesn't want to listen to it's parents, who just wants to do whatever it wants, whenever it wants. It's always an argument between parent and child with me, no matter what I do...it's just that lately the child seems to be making better arguments (i.e. do what I want or I'll hurt you).

I don't know...I want to blame it on the fact that I haven't smoked in about a week, but I've been in this mood all quarter, most of which time I've been sucking down the cancer sticks like there's no tomarrow.

The real problem is that I know that studying (the thing that I'm resisting the most strongly) is really not the best thing for me right now. For the personal development of my soul I feel like I should be interacting with the world around me, excercising my creative muscles, and learning from direct experience instead of through books and classrooms. There's nothing wrong with books and classrooms mind you, at least not as far as I'm concerned; it's just that I just spentthe last three months with my head in a book, and now, for the sake of balance, it's time to do something else. But no. I'm a student. I'm required to study, even if it's against my better judgement.

I want the practical world to just go away for awhile. I want to live for pleasure now, with no sense of obligation of any kind. Later, in a couple of months, I'll gladly take on some responsibility...or at least I would, if I were allowed to relax now. But because it's all so relentless, and I never have the right to choose when it's time to be responsible and when it's time to be whimsical, I allways feel like I'm resisting the direction of my life. Or maybe the reality is that the outside world is resisting my flow, and going agaisnt what's natural. I guess me and the world are just flowing in opposite directions right now, and there's a power struggle to see who's going to win out. Well...not so much a power struggle, but just two natural forces collideing and working against each other, not because they especially want to, but because they can't be controlled...

I guess this all makes me sound really bourgeoise: "You mean I have to do things? I just want to drink champagne, read novels, and smoke cigars. I've decided not to work today, Mummy; tell the whole world to stop for a moment to indulge me." Yeah, yeah...life is work and there's no getting around it. Even if I were rich, then somewhere down the line somebody else would have to suffer and work twice as hard to provide me my leisure.

"Dating"

I've been avoiding blogging lately. It's not fun anymore. I feel different than I did before. I've come down to earth some in the past couple of weeks, and that's not really very interesting to me, not something I enjoy writing about. Perhaps I just need to find a new mode of writing...

It seems that I am dating someone now, someone that I'm not really wanting to be dating so much. He's very distant and avoidant. My doctorish friend told me that my lover sounds like he has Borderline Personality Disorder. Disregarding the tendency to group every annoying person who seems like they're crazy but in some ill-defined way under the catergory of Borderline Personality Disorder, I think he may be right. But ya know, that's just fine. I don't want to be dating anyone right now, but if I'm not dating someone then I'll have to deal with people trying to hit on me; if I'm not dating someone then folks in general will assume that I would like to be dating someone, and I'll have to deal with the occasional proposition. I just don't want to deal with that. So I'll just be dating this guy. He avoids me, stays away for long periods of time, and when he does come around he doesn't stay long. He's safe. I can pretend to date him with few consequences.

What I'm afraid of, though, is that I'll decide that I want to start dating again someday (which, horrifying as it may sound, will most likely happen), and the person that I'll decide to start dating won't be this guy; he'll be somebody else, who probably won't be too happy if I'm trying to get with them while dating this other guy. So it will be too clear at that point that I'm dating this guy for dishonest, disrespectful reasons. But actually, I know for a fact that he's kind of full of shit when it comes to his desire to be dating me, so should I really worry about it?

Well, at the very least I'll be leaving Columbus one day, and he doesn't seem like the type that would want to move somewhere. Maybe for real love he would, but not for neurotic pretend love, like him and I have. I'll be able to escape one day....

Johnny Marzetti

The best home fries in all of Columbus are found at the Goody Boy, on N. High street, just north of the Short North. Buttery, Soft, Bland, Red Potatoes. Very filling, and always satisfying.

Today at the Goody Boy everyone was talking about the Johnny Marzetti. The first time I heard about Johnny Marzetti was at the Coney Island Cafe (which, by the way, has the worst macaroni and cheese ever). The waitress there, a stressed out young mother of three with a long, too-lined faced, was telling me about the specials for the week (which are the same every week) : "Now on Wednesdays we used to have Johnny Marzetti, and I wish we still had it, 'cause it was really good." What's Johnny Marzetti, you ask? "Sort of a pasta dish, kinda like spaghetti."

But they had it at the Goody Boy today. "What's that?" said the one lower middle class business guy to his co-worker. "It's Johnny Marzetti" he answered, shoveling a red mass of elbow macaroni into his mouth. The waitress butted in: "Ya know, I thought everyone had Johnny Marzetti when they were a kid. But I guess not. My mom used to make it when I was a kid, but she called it Goulash."

Oh, right: Goulash. My dad would make that for us. It was bland, but nutritious, and good cold on a summer night. "Yeah," began the first worker, "My mom made it too, only she'd bake it: she'd mix cheese into it, ya know, put some chesse over the top," and then shrugged agreably.
"Ya know, I think my mom used to bake it too," said the watress, trying hard to remember. "What was really good, was when she'd make macaroni and chesse, and mix stewed tomatoes into it, then bake it. Now that was really good."

The men nodded, like they knew what she was talking about. I didn't, but it sounded good anyway.

"Your mom never made Johnny Marzetti for you when you was a kid?" she asked to the second guy.
The first guy answered: "Oh, he makes it himself, but he puts roasted garlic and herbs and stuff. What'd'ya call that?"

The second guy mumbled something in reply, that I couldn't make out. Perhaps he wasn't too keen on advertising his cooking prowress. But there ain't nothing wrong with a man cooking; and actually, the way my Dad made it, it sounds just the same as the way that guy does: no cheese, lots herbs and spices, probably some garlic, andstewed tomatoes instead of tomato sauce. From the looks of it, they use tomato sauce at the Goody Boy.

Just then two black people came in, a man and a woman, who worked at the same place, if you could take their matching smocks as evidence of that. Probably at the dry-cleaner's across the street. They sit down at the counter (it's all counters at the Goody Boy), and the first thing the woman does is start looking for the specials: "where they at? What do they got today?"

The man finds them first: "Johnny Mar-zetti" he says, sounding it out. "What's that?"

She's shocked: "Your mom never made Johnny Marzetti when you was a kid?"

He shakes his head.

She's apparently exasperated. "It's just tomatos, ground beef," (which my Dad never included, as far as I remember), "and elbow macaroni." I guess he does not react favorably to this, 'cause she goes on: "It's just like spaghetti, only with elbow macaroni. It's good. I can believe your mom never made that for you."

The waitress makes her way over to them. "How're you doing today?", "Fine, Fine", "Our special today is Johnny Marzetti." The man says he doesn't know what that is, so she starts in on her spiel again: "I thought everyone ate Johnny Marzetti when they was a kid. 'Course at my house they called it Goulash" and at mine as well. She describes it again, but he's not impressed, so after handing him a menu she immediately runs off.

"Lord" begins the black woman, "I don't know what...I feel so...I need some iced tea." I sip on my iced tea: I know what she means.

The waitress comes back: she's got a spoonful of the stuff, the Johnny Marzetti, to give to the man. He's not impressed, so instead the couple orders: The woman wants coffee and iced tea, and she wants breakfast. Then she just wants the coffee, and wants the man to get the iced tea. He gets a pink lemonade and a hot sandwhich. The waitress takes down their order, and goes off to fill it.

What did you get?" she asks, "Iced Tea?"

"Uh, no, I got the pink lemonade."

"Charleton!" She's exasperated again. It's true: men just don't get it.

She goes on: "You know, it's real good to have breakfast food in the afternoon. Just, eating breakfast in the afternoon is real good, satisfying."

Can't argue with that. One last bite of egg, one last bite of toast, and of course I gotta finish up the last of the homefries and the iced tea, and then I'm out of there, just about two o'clock. I go up to the cash register, which for the first time (though I've been there a least a dozen times) I notice is absolutly ancient: tall, narrow, metal, and manually operated, with what looks like years of grime caked up under the big wooden and metal levers (the purpose of which, those levers, I could not even begin to guess).

"Was everything all right?"

"Yeah! It was good," I say gruffly. After a moment's pause, I say "That's a real old cash register you got there."

She's a little defensive: "Well, it works fine."

It's nice to see old things working."

"Well, we get it serviced once a year, and it works fine." She looks straight at me. "It's better than those new ones, ya know, 'cause it's made of metal." She gestures in a circle with her pointed finger at the made-of-metal cash register. "All those gears, they're all made of metal. Those new ones, they're just made of plastic," and she gives me that look, that and-you-know-what-that-means look.

"Oh, right, like those old cars."

"Yeah...",

I step out into the hot summer sunshine, and reach to my pocket for an after lunch cigarette. I think to myself about my Dad, making Goulash (or, 'round these parts, Johnny Marzetti) in the summertime. My Dad always cooked dinner, and my Mom always cooked breakfast. If they tried to switch places it was always disaster, resulting in pracitically inedible food. Homemade pizzas, enchiladas, roasts, corned beef and cabbage, spaghetti and meatballs, and, of course, Goulash. 'Course, the crazier he got, and the more he drank the less and less he cooked. The last time I saw him cook was when I visted him in his apartment, after he had left us, or after we kicked him out. He had a roast on the counter that looked to be days old. The whole apartment stank, and the roast just made it worse. I wonder where he is now? The last I heard he living in a halfway house, in some small town in Minnesota, and they were having him work in the kitchen, cooking and such. Probably a good thing, for, as my Mom puts it, he was always happy doing that.

Bees; Going Places

Ah. The Blog: Looming over my head, singing to me too loudly. It's torture. I love my blog, but it is also a source of nervousness and fear for me. The idea that people are potentially reading everything that I write...makes it a great struggle for me to sit down and write. I'm no longer thinking about what I want to write, but more about what would amuse other people and make them want to read more. This makes me sad.

What would I be writing right now if no one was reading? Maybe I'd be talking about bees: they've come out in full force on the campus, the Bumble Bees, and are very exciting. In fact, they're mating. I was talking to my friend outside of my morning class, and they were buzzing all around us, fighting and tumbling in the air, right in front of our faces (a mating pair actually banged right into my face once! I guess they were carried away by their intoxicated passion). I was so scared. My friend, the Backpacker, was like "Bumble bees won't sting you. Honey bees will, but Bumble bees will only sting you if you provoke them." I believed her enough to relax and let myself watch the bees and talk, but I didn't really believe her, and I never let down my gaurd. They had stingers, perhaps? These long pointy things, coming out from between their "legs". "Is that his penis?" the Backpacker asked. I didn't know. I guess, according to her, that Bumble Bees have especially large genitalia. "How do you know that they won't sting?" I asked her, thinking perhaps that they actually enjoy stinging quite a bit, and this whole mating ritual was really just a preperation for a mass stinging orgy on my arms, legs, and face (and, heaven forbid, my stomach!)

"I used to want to be a beekeeper; that's how I know." Yes, of course. "They call them Africanized. It's horrible! When they get all agressive like this, they call them Africanized." Yes, I suppose that explains the large genitalia as well...

The Backpacker is going away for the weekend, to go backpacking. I wish I were going with her; I'm so sick of Columbus. I have one "friend" that I know would be up for going on a little road trip, but I'd have to perform certain, rather disgusting, sexual favors for him in the process. Also, he'd take me to places where people have lots of sex ('cause what else is there to do, when you go to a totally new place, where everything is fresh, unexplored, and exciting?), and I would totally end up breaking my sobriety (which, by the way, is coming along quite nicely). He would tell me, I know, that I don't have to have sex with him. But I know from experience that he, in his subtle, all-too-persistant way, would find a way to get me to do it, without actually telling me I have to do it, and making it seem, objectively, that I'm doing it because I want to.

Sigh...maybe I'll just go on a long bike ride instead....

Geology T.A.

Sigh...again, I am developing a crush on one of my teachers. A T.A. this time, for my geology lab. I usually don't mention my crushes on teachers, 'cause for me they're just par for the course. But this guy...well...he's very gay. Like, I would be shocked (shocked!) if I found out he was straight. He says the gayest things, all in his gentle, sing-songy voice, with lilting intonations, as though he's constantly asking little questions. He described to me the reason why we cannot tell the process by which some rocks come to be as they are, because they formed so long ago that we can't trace their development: "They're not like butterflies, where you can tell exactly which worm they come from," and he got all dreamy and inspired as he said it. A moment later he was all nervous and insecure acting. Is he nervous because of me? I thought. Is he attracted to me?

Butterflies indeed. How gay! Also, he's constantly relating rock grains and textures to hygene products, such as nail files and pumice stones. No self-respecting straight guy would do that; he would relate them to something manly, like something to do with cars, or factories.

And he's so cute. He's slender, with that wiry kind of muscle that you get from using your body a lot, as opposed to lifting weights. He is a geologist, after all, and those geologists tend to be rather physically minded. His face is long and bony, making him look...not severe, but very serious and earthy; I can see his bone structure easily, and so it's easy to think about him in physical terms, like he's a mass of bones, muscle, skin, etc. Blood and mucus. Lol: you wouldn't think that would be sexy, but it really is.

I kind of freaked out a little bit today though, 'cause he was wearing a ring on his ring finger, and from a distance it looked just like a wedding ring. I felt betrayed, and misled. When he got up close to me- he touched my hand!- I could see that it was silver, and of too cheap a metal to be a wedding ring. Thank god! I was so relieved.

This is so irrational. I don't even know him. I must forget about this. It is simply a crush. It's so much nicer when my crushes are directed towards those who are unattainable; it's so much easier when there's no chance of them coming to fruition, and therefore no chance of me fucking it all up and making a fool of myself. No chance of sleepless nights, worrying about how I'm gonna get the guy to like me, how to finagle my way into his heart. Allright, I'll calm down: friends first, and then think about love and such later- much later. If we don't get along as friends, then there's no point in even thinking about a relationship. Perhaps this crush, like so many others, is not a real attraction, but just a desire to connect with someone, and once a connection is made I'll forget that I ever wanted him.

Today...I am in a strange mood. Ok, more details: the things that I'm thinking are very negative and depressing (I hate myself, life is worthless, everything sucks, etc.), but the actual emotions I am feeling are very nice. I'm wearing a light pink shirt, and light tan khaki pants; I think that that almost perfectly describes my emotional state. I feel as though I'm wearing a light pink shirt and light tan khaki pants. And I am happy to be doing so. It's kind of a soft feeling, a glowing feeling. I'm not numb...just snuggly. And if I'm looking down on myself all the while, then what of it? That is not detracting from my pleasure.

Slave to the I Ching

Do you know what the I Ching is? It's an extremly old form of divination from China. I've tried many forms of divination, and they've all shown themself to be false, except for the I Ching. The I Ching has proven to me, over and over again, that it is accurate and reliable. Hence, over the years I've become a total slave to the I Ching, making no major decisions without first consulting it. I don't always do what it says is the best idea, but I almost always consult it. When I don't, then I tend to make extremly bad decisions that send me down inappropriate and unsatisfying paths (and as you know, being intellectually satisfied is one of the few things that I really want).

A few nights ago I got an extremly interesting reading. I was feeling angsty about my life, and so I was asking things like "what if I devoted my life to...(fill in the blank)". First I was like "What if I devoted my life to doing domestic, househusbandy things like cooking, cleaning, etc ?" And the I Ching was like "That'll be fun for a little while, but you're gonna get bored and stagnant feeling really quickly," and I was like "yeah, I knew that already, actually." So then I was like "What if I devoted myself to writing, and becoming a better writer?" and the I Ching was like "That would be a turbulent and emotional thing for you to do, but if you start out small, then eventually you'll be in a position in which you'll have a little bit of influence in the world." I was like "whatever; having influence is the last thing I want from life."

This was getting frustrating, so I decided to take a more direct approach. I said "Okay then, I Ching, what is the purpose of my life? What should I be devoting my life to?" And guess what I got? I got the EXACT same hexagram that I got for my question about devoting myself to writing! I mean, the EXACT same one, with the same changing line and future hexagram and everything (for those who are interested, I got hexagram 29 with 9 in the second place). Do you know what the odds are of that? Well, I'll tell you, it's pretty unlikely. It's not like picking a card, where you can put the card back, and then just subconsciously reach in and pick the same card over again, because you remembered where you just put it, or remembered some small scratch on the back of that card. Getting an I Ching hexagram is a much more complicated process, that's much harder to control subconsciously. (if you want to know more, this website may be able to help you: http://www.littlestcat.com/iching . But be aware that the interpretaions of the hexagrams on that site are really lame. The interpretation I use at home it the Wilhelm [or is that Wilheim?] one, which is considered to be the best English translation available).

So, all I want is to be happy, healthy, and intellectually satisfied; and I should devote my life to writing and becoming a better writer. There. I have my instructions. That should keep me satiated for awhile, keep me from freaking out about the meaningless of things.

And really, because of this I'm even more of a slave to the I Ching now than I ever was before, for it has given me answers that appear meaningful to me, and make my life seem worthwhile. Beat that, Science and Rationality!

All I Want Is...

I dreamed a very confusing dream, in which I was in two time periods at once, overlapping each other, so that I was neither here nor there; in fact, I wasn't supposed to be in either place. It was a class that I wasn't signed up for, two different sections of it, at different times, that I was attending concurrently. Very confusing. The problem was arising because I was actually asleep, but trying to go to class at the same time. In order to wake myself up, I decided that I must write, to realize that in reality I was sitting on the toilet, writing in one of those composition style notebooks, and that everything else was just a dream. So I began to write: I began to write in front of me, knowing that what was really in front of me was a sheet of paper. I wrote over the trees, the desks, and everything, watching them dimple under my pencil like they were pictures in a magazine. Eventually they began to fade, I could see the actual paper in front of me, and could tell what I was writing. Here was the last thing I wrote:

"All I want is to be happy, healthy, and intellectually satisfied."

I woke up then, and was really surprised that I wasn't sitting on the toilet, writing in a compostion notebook.

But what a statement! If someone asked me what I wanted from life in waking reality, I don't think that's that what I would have said. It would probably have included those things (though the phrase "intellectually satisfied" is a little odd), but would also have included some sort of interaction with other people, maybe helping them somehow. As it is, my desires look a little selfish. And what a strong qualifier! ALL I want is...

Well, if I can take this seriously, then I should start working on keeping myself healthy. Yeah, Yeah...gotta quit smoking...

Sitar Man; My Mother Moves.

All day today, and all day yesterday, I kept thinking of all the things I want to write about on this blog-thing here. It's all a big tangled ball of yarn now. In order to untangle this knot, I'll latch on to the most obvious and appropriate of threads: The dream I had last night.

This Arabian man had a very special stringed instrument, which he called a sitar: it was actually his penis, which was detachable. Very long. The neck was the cock itself, while the large balls were the body. It had to be at least semi-erect for him to play it. He was playing the most beautiful music, and I was enchanted. He also had many special tools with which to strum the strings: a padded stick, and something that reminded me of a feather duster. When he started to use these tools the music changed, and was not so good; I think this had less to do with his technical or artistic skill, and more to do with what was playing on the radio in my room at the time in the waking world. He only played for me, in private, in his small, plain room, with sparkling white walls. Rather intimate.

This man was staying with me and my mother back in Minneapolis. We were living in the house that we were living in right before she came into a little bit of money and bought her own house.
Her friend Mary had gotten a divorce from her husband, with whom she had lived a stifling life of domestic responsibility, and had moved in with her foreign born lover in a bad part of town (in waking reality Mary does live a somewhat stifling life of domestic responsibility, but she loves her husband, and is pretty happy). My mother was going to move into the same apartment complex as Mary, in order to keep her company and help her feel safer. My mother is an avid pack-rat, and I said to her "even if you only keep what's in this kitchen [where we were sitting], you'll still have more stuff than what could fit in that tiny apartment." But, as usual, she was stubborn, and refused to listen to reason.

I was annoyed at her behavior, but wasn't at all surprised. It was entirely natural for her to be giving up her way of life to live in an inner-city apartment building. In waking reality this would be a very sad and depressing thing for her to have to do. Both her and Mary, in this dream, were doing exactly the opposite of what they would be likely to do in reality; and they were happy doing it. Perhaps this reflects a desire on my part, to go about my life in a slightly different way than before; to change my character, and embrace new possibilities; to redefine what is reasonable to expect from me. The fact that it was two older women, one of which is the woman who has had more to do with laying the groundwork for my basic personality than anyone else, indicates to me that this is a desire to change on a very fundamental level; not just the details of my life, but the overall spirit of it.

The other night I had a friend over, and I was showing him all my old photos of myself. I keep the photos of myself seperate from my other photos, 'cause sometimes I like to look exclusively at ME. He was remarking that in all my photos I look entirely different, and that if he hadn't been told they were both me, then he would have assumed they were different people. This pleased me, but I had to admit that over the past four years, since I've moved to Columbus, my image has stayed relatively stable. I've grown up, in my own way, or at least solidified. And this is good, because I've gotten much more accomplished here in Columbus than I did anywhere, or anywhen, else. But there is still the desire to change, to grow, to make new and exciting my sense of reality. The trick, for me, is to figure out how to have both; I want my delicious cake to change with every bite, yet still remain the sweet, dependable, nourishing cake that I've come to know and love.

As far as the man with the sitar goes, I can only wish that my own mastrabation could be as beautiful, abstract, wholsome, and inspiring. Instead of saying "I'm gonna go jack-off now" I could say "I think I will go and practice my sitar now, and further perfect the art of making beautiful music." Ah...maybe that's how I could view my ideal sexual behavior: as a work of art, a tool to create pleasure and harmony, both for personal enjoyment and for the pleasure of the occasional lover of fine music.

Baby Dream

Last night I dreamt that I had a baby. I've had lots of dreams about having a baby or taking care of a baby, so this dream was pretty normal for me.

Here it is: I wanted to get pregnant, but I couldn't get pregnant, 'cause I'm a guy. I got pregnant anyway. Well, I couldn't get pregnant so I was given a child by someone else. Eventually I had a baby somehow. It was my little brother in the waking world, except he was still a baby, and in waking reality he's actually 17.

I loved my baby, but only sometimes. Which was unfortunate, because there was a risk involved: someone was trying to posses my baby, take away it's eyeballs and it's brain, and use my baby as a mask. They wanted to take out my baby's eyes, just like in one of those paintings that you see in creepy old mansions in mystery shows, where the propriator of the mansion will spy on his guests by replacing the painted eyes with his own. It was just like that, and my baby was to become an automaton, a shell, for use by evil forces. There was a way I could save him though: I had to be constantly telling him that I loved him. This would fill him with his own good essence, and make it impossible for him to be possessed: no emptiness = no room for an alien personality.

I woke up very frightened: the image of my baby's eyes being taken away, and seeing someone elses eyes take their place really creeped me out. I had to wake up and turn on the light. Luckily, I fell right back asleep.

But this dream reminded myself of what I do in reality: I constantly remind myself I love myself, in order to not feel empty, weak, and vulnerable. Lately it hasn't been working so well though...I forgot to do it for awhile, and I'm having a hard time convincing myself that I really do love myself, and that I really am a good person, etc, etc...hence I feel weak and vulnerable.

I can be difficult to talk about dreams sometimes, because often there is more than one version of reality going on at one time. Like in my dream for today, I got pregnant, but couldn't get pregnant at the same time. I both gave birth to the baby and adopted it from someone else. That complicates matters. However, this isn't science or history, so these types of ambiguities, irrationalities, and complications are not a real concern. They just make it more difficult to make myself understood.

Cheesy Existential Angst : )

I've come to the realization that my future holds nothing of interest. Life will be boring and meaningless from now on. I'm sure of it. I wish I was making a joke about this, but I'm not; I really don't see any value to living right now. I wish I knew how to not feel this way anymore. It's just that the options ahead of me, based on my income level, skills, and personality, are very limited, and none of the paths that seem to be open to me seem inspiring or worthwhile.

Perhaps I'm just too hung up on status and power. I don't want to waste my time writing, even though I really enjoy it, because I know it will never get published, and it's not going to have any impact on the world. I don't want to accept a life of working in an office, 9-5, as a low level clerical worker, because my pride rebels, and anyway, that's so boring. I think that, above all, I want my life to be interesting, to engage my mind and emotions in some way. Right now nothing is doing that. Everything I do seems pointless.

It's times like this that I really want to act out, because even though sex isn't actually all that meaningful, at least not the way I do it, it still feels meaningful and interesting; it certainly is engaging.

But is being interested in life really all that important? When I'm lying on my deathbed, is that really what I want to be saying? "I lived a good life: I kept myself entertained and occupied." I need some sort of deeper interest...to entertain myself with things that actually have meaning and purpose. But that's where I always get tripped up: What is actually meaningful? What is a worthwhile purpose? Not to be cliche, but what is the meaning of life? What's the point? What am I supposed to be doing? Anything? If there is no point, then keeping myself entertained is a worthwhile purpose...but no more worthwhile than anything else...and not being entertained is just as well. Actually, the only reason I want to find some sort of meaning to life is because otherwise I cannot think of any reason to not kill myself, and I've been indoctrinated with an ideology that says that killing yourself is wrong, and I follow that ideology with all my heart and soul. So killing myself is not an option...but what do I do instead? I mean, aside from going out and sucking as much dick as I can get my hands on...

Shaa...I dreamed last night that I had worked really hard on what I believe is the 4th of the 12 steps of SAA. It basically involves taking a personal inventory of how your addiction has hurt yourself and other people. I typed it up, and made it look quite impressive.

I'm to be meeting with my sponser for the first time tomarrow. I'm excited. I'm feeling like I really want to get this started in earnest now.

I dropped one of my classes, bringing my credit hours down from 20 to 15. This is good for me, though I'm feeling guilty or nervous about it for some reason. It's not even a withdrawl, 'cause it's too early in the quarter. It's still just a drop. Yet I feel disappointed in myself, as though I have given up too quickly. I haven't. I'm making the right decision. This is not the time for pushing myself; this is the time for stablization, the time for gentleness, for slow, consistent, permanant development.

Sigh...I should quit being so abstract...should use less exposition. Somehow I'm feeling shy right now...some of the things I've been doing lately are things that I'm rather uncomfortable about, which I don't even want to think about for more than a minute at a time, let alone make conscious enough to write about them. And it's not like I've been doing anything that's really bad, at least not in an objective sense. But somehow I'm very uncomfortable talking about myself right now...I'm feeling out-of-control, and vulnerable. Very out-of-control....it's good that I'm dropping one of these classes, and can focus on leading a more balanced life again...

Good Times, Good Times....

Why is life so complicated? Things go so much more smoothly when I just do my school work and forget about everything else. I'm just going to pretend that people don't exist for awhile, except for my teachers and the folks in my classes, of course. But even them, I'll just have to view them as abstractions, like characters on a T.V. show, and my responses to them will have to be, like, thinking out loud, to myself. I will not let the fact that the T.V. characters are responding to what I'm saying phase me...it's just a conincidence, is what I'll tell myself. They aren't real, they're only acting like they're real. They're actors, they're clever like that.

Wah. I have lots of work to do, but I'm not going to do it. When I'm doing my work, I feel dreadfully lonely. When I'm hanging out with folks, I worry incessently (Incessently! Incessently!) about all the work I'm not getting done. When will my life be full of pleasure? When will the pain go away?

Today I was reading Silas Marner by George Eliot, and she was like...how did it go...this is a paraphrase...something about how this guy, whose wife is infertile, would spend his middle age regretting not having kids, feeling like that was the one thing keeping him from thourougly enjoying his life, because he, like all of us, are under the mistaken impression that it's somehow possible to ever thouroughly enjoy life. I agree with Ms. Eliot. Thouroughly enjoying life is impossible. It doesn't happen. Not to say that life isn't fun, it's just never pure fun, untainted. The spectre of death is always looming in the background : )

I dreamed last night: I went to the rainforests of China for six months, and then I was going to France for six months. It was nice to feel as though things were changing, that I was stepping outside of my comfort zone, and doing new things. Actually, that's how I feel about the classes I'm taking this quarter. I'm taking an Honors course, which is quite outside of my comfort zone, and I'm taking a class on Science Fiction. What is so "out-of-the-box" about it is the fact that I didn't ask the I Ching's permission (an old chinese method of divination) to take them, like I usually do. I'm sick of the boring harmony and happiness that the I Ching offers me. I want something that's gonna push me to do something greater than I'm really capable of. I want to break free from myself, and really learn something new. Fuck the I Ching.

A couple of months from now, when my life has gone completely down the drain, and I'm living in a cardboard box somewhere in Mexico, I'll repent of my actions, and start consulting the I Ching again. But for now I'm just gonna "wing it."