epiginoskete's Xanga

a mite overwhelmed

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 18:00:39 GMT

Grad school decisions recommendations personal statements transcripts application fees short on time

Automobile decisions repair trade in finances short on time

Working editing making gifts housework slipping slipped social life tenuous trying unbalanced

Residency decisions car taxes permanent address permits and short on time

Bureaucracy frustrations

Missing him away loneliness desires and short on time

Even sentences are too much

Sometimes I just stop

Wanted

Mon, 02 Nov 2009 03:00:40 GMT

Seeking: music and people without sharp edges. Tonight, I am all made of nerve endings.

Love-Cracked Nut, Incarnate

Tue, 27 Oct 2009 16:50:50 GMT

These feelings come as the residue of a dream... though I'm now awake, they lie in a part of my consciousness, gazing out at me -- through me -- with their harlequin eyes. Self-examining, other-examining, neither intimate nor remote, they evade entanglements with rational questions and answers. Perhaps they are influenced by the things I have been watching, by a pattern of clarity-confusion that oft repeats when I visit home, by the recent reemergence of people I used to love... but they also contain a seeming consciousness unto themselves, independent of me, my thoughts, or my desires.

Love... the appropriate metaphors are not what come, but rather: love is a nutcracker, and you're a nut to be in it. Like someone tied to the tracks, you've struggled, lost, grieved, and accepted; now, you relax your muscles and watch with disinterest the train as it comes. Was this how it was meant to be? I have lived the analogies multiple times, died on the tracks to wake up in a traincar. Who does it please that it should be so?

In part, I envy those who have loved once, those who have never died and seen themselves come back just a little different. I don't believe in literal reincarnation, like dying and coming back as a cow, but at times it feels as though I am a reincarnation of my former selves; the eyes looking out on the landscape are not the same as those into which you, or he, looked years ago. And so, I have come to understand, as useless as it is to compare dissimilar objects in this, it's more so for dissimilar people.

But I fell in love again; I broke myself again and lost a few of the pieces; I came a little more awake. I don't know how long or how many times the cycle goes. The train moves on, and though I fear it may derail or crash altogether, crushing me or sending me maimed into the next, I keep riding it. I want to see where it goes. How it all ends.

More Things I Like

Sun, 18 Oct 2009 05:38:30 GMT

I like lists. However, I don't like the kinds of things where people define who they are primarily by what they don't like; thus, to give you more insight (uh, that's questionable) into me, you get specifically some of my "likes." It's more than you'll want to know, I'm sure, but I'm not quite over this whole egocentric "it's my birthday weekend" thing.

cranberries -- cranberry juice, fresh cranberries with honey on them, cranberry sauce, dried cranberries (preferably not too sweetened).
Autumn -- I adore this season.
being able to do really good push-ups. Also, being sore after a good workout.
getting a new CD or album on vinyl from a favourite artist.
poetry books; if they're good, I'll read them over and over, more than I would prose.
(not that I do it often, but) cooking for people -- a proper, balanced meal, not just mac 'n' cheese.
colored pens, gel pens (more the G-2 variety than the sparkly, high-school kind), and fountain pens.
using a typewriter instead of a computer now and again.
writing letters by hand and mailing them. Also, getting letters in the mail.
getting packages from Amazon.
dishwashers, specifically mine.
art supplies -- having them, using them, and even just being around them -- making art supply stores a dangerous place to take me.
coupons for free food, due to my birthday, that are good for a week or two after the day itself. Especially 'cause a big restaurant meal, with all the sides and stuff, is generally two or even three meals for me.
my bed; it's a Sealy, and it's divine.
men -- no joke. I like their brains -- what glimpses I've got -- and not in a zombie kind of way. When I read A Grief Observed by C.S. Lewis, I was really struck by his longing for the "otherness" of H. That "otherness" of men is something I enjoy. I like that some are hairy and sweaty, that some are focused (single-minded) and passionate, that some are gentle and emotional, that some are articulate and erudite -- and that some aren't, and some are all of those things (those tend to be my favourites ); again, it's that otherness. Don't worry, women, I like us, too. I'm just sayin', I have a special affinity for the fellas....
flannel; I suppose for me it comes from being a lil' bit rural and doing a bit of growing up in the 90s. I'm surprised to see it's back "in."
black-brown eyeliner: the only makeup I wear regularly.
Settlers of Catan and its various expansions. I don't know if I've ever liked a board game this much.
sell-by dates, which sometimes allow me to purchase perfectly good food for much cheaper (especially organic milk, yay!).
Magnetic Poetry.
having a blog name for my man, the Man Who Is Away.
the current temperature in my apartment: 60°F (according to the thermostat), thus, I don't overheat the second I step in the door or when I'm sleeping, and I can wear a couple layers with comfort.
seeing my parents' faces light up when I've given them a gift they really love, not just appreciate. It really sticks with me.
sidewalk chalk.

Well, uh... thanks for your attention, and good night.

Seeing Only As You Want To See

Fri, 16 Oct 2009 03:57:00 GMT

Someone who saw me perform yesterday evening sent me a message via the ol’ Interwebs, complimenting the performance and my originality – but he also said something that bothered me. He commented that he saw a tear over “the good guy” I sang about breaking up with in one of my songs. I puzzled over it for a second – where had he gotten that idea? The song is classic “it’s not you, it’s me,” but a bit more like “you’re a good guy, but too nice / I guess there’s such a thing as too nice / once again, it seems that I’m the jerk… don’t blame yourself – my restless spirit / is to be blamed, and if you’ll hear it / I’ve got apologies, but not much else” (actually, it’s exactly like that, ’cause those are some of the lyrics). If anything, I sing it with a bit of a sardonic tone and a shrug, as if to say, “This sucks, but oh well…” and that’s the attitude with which I introduced the song (something like, “This song is about dumping somebody, and feeling like a jerk about it, but doing it anyway”).

Then I realized that the guy who was listening merely saw what he wanted to see: a little sadness over losing the "good guy," which is simply not how I feel about it. (He was, by the classic definitions, a good guy, but not right for me. I knew it well before I broke up with him. I had it über-confirmed recently when he implied that Obama supporters are merely “mindless drones,” and I quote. What’s the appropriate rational response to such an argument? “Well, you’re a doodyhead?” Where’s the friggin’ respect? But, back to what I was saying....)

Anyway, the point is that this casual, first-time observer of my music was kind and complimentary, but he also missed the mark (especially since he mentioned it to me as though he’d caught onto something special there), because he saw what he wanted to see instead of what was there.

As much as that small incident grates on my artistic sensibilities like they were made of cheese, I realize it’s probably an honest enough little mistake – and a common one, at that. How often do we enter interactions with blinders on, seeing only what we want to see and completely ignoring the whole field of vision? Plenty, sure. We do it with the past, too, with memories, and with the future in our imaginations. That ex-boyfriend did it with the comment about “mindless drones,” and it seems in politics this is the easy way out that so many people take, it’s almost impossible to have reasonable, logical discussions on topics… especially when plenty of politicians and pundits find it in their best interests to convince everyone right and wrong approaches only exist in polarities, and any kind of “middle way” is for sissies, the mentally inept, the wishy-washy, the sheep, and of course, the neo-Marxists in disguise.

“I just can’t see how anybody can think _______.” I hate this statement, in its various forms (“I just can’t see how any smart person could vote for Obama;” “I can’t see how any Christian could support Obama;” “I just can’t see how anyone could be pro-choice;” “I just can’t see how anyone could be anti-choice;” et-freakin’-cetera). The statement is meant to point out the utter departure from sanity of those who hold the other side’s viewpoint, but the flaw lies in the sight of the speaker. My response, “Then open your eyes,” may seem passé, but it is the only way to start when the speaker’s eyes are closed. The vast, overwhelming majority of the time, there is something there to see, if that speaker would look for it. Seeing the possible rationality of an opposing viewpoint (or even a “middle way” viewpoint) doesn’t automatically invalidate one’s thoughts on the topic, as seems to be the fear behind the “I can’t see it.” Is the fear of being proven wrong so strong that it is greater than the desire for truth and honesty? Acknowledgement that there is something to see should not be viewed as a threat, but as an opportunity to grow in understanding; even if one is not swayed at all, at least then the speaker can say, “I see your point, but I disagree, and here’s why.” Then, finally, reasons have a chance to be presented, and we can make some progress on these topics.

You see, the problem is that the impacts are not confined to the theoretical; unfortunately, these honest, little mistakes have real, life-sized consequences. None of us lives in a vacuum, where seeing only what we want to see affects nothing and no one around us. Though it might not rise out of malicious intent, not seeing often does the same kind of damage as malicious intent. Not seeing has allowed us to do significant damage to the environment of which we are a part, the world that sustains us, our health – and to go on without ever seeing is to commit suicide out of ignorance. Not seeing has allowed otherwise seemingly decent people to oppress and deprive their fellow men, women, and children. Not seeing has perpetuated unhealthy lifestyles, the kinds that keep my friend the social worker as well as my friend the confinement officer at the county jail quite busy. Not seeing may allow a person to chuckle at calling those of the opposing viewpoint “mindless drones,” but at what cost? At what cost does the current political “debate” come to us, where reason is subjugated to whoever’s got the best set of pipes to yell the loudest and longest?

I don’t mean financial cost, though that will certainly be affected. The cost to ourselves, to the dignity of our minds, our understanding, our compassion – the cost to quality – is what we don’t see, when the only focus is narrowly defined to a small, preconceived field of vision. That kind of distorted vision wins the battle but loses the war because of what it can’t even conceive.

Perception

Sun, 04 Oct 2009 08:46:34 GMT

Sometimes I smile, and even though I think it screams, "Liar!" they don't seem to catch on, or care. The first of those possibilities probably lowers my esteem for them; the second, my esteem for me.

losing time, illusions, and other things

Sun, 04 Oct 2009 08:38:55 GMT

I love losing track of time, turning off my cell (and my only clock until I got on this computer about fifteen minutes ago) and trading out lamps for a couple candles. It's amazing what I can get done sometimes when I don't let the passing of time get to me. I mean, that's not so much the case tonight; four episodes of "Roswell," pinot noir, my favourite pair of ripped jeans (that way from wear, not from the factory), and recording a heartfelt but not perfect cover of Ryan Adams & the Cardinals' "Mockingbird" were not my first choice of what to be doing. Somewhere in there, I consumed some Cheetos, french fries, and a salad.... but it was a surprise to me to turn on the ol' computer and see the five o'clock hour staring back at me. I realize I don't have much to say tonight, so I'll move on, to something from a few nights ago....

Don't hold back. I am here for the asking. And I am telling -- just not down the usual avenues; what was held back even from whispers in the corner of a room over coffee and sanitized tables, I declare through a microphone so strongly the little light flickers red, and my breath is warm on the grating. I have learned that I have to give my life force to them first, or they sit there playing dead and afraid to clap because they don't believe in fairies and would hate to prove themselves wrong by keeping one alive. I have to let my breath radiate and warm them till the scales melt away. But then, sometimes, they give it back to me, and this energy helps sustain me in turn, keeps my hands from getting too cold and stiff to pluck the notes.

And not that it matters, but I, who never have real remorse about anything so silly as a haircut, am sorry I had the woman at the salon who always does a great job cut off those extra few inches instead of just getting it trimmed. I miss the length, and if I were in a normal frame of mind this would not be an issue, because it's still a really good haircut... but as it is, it's been bugging me all day.

But anyway, it's interesting to look at yourself without some of those illusions we often allow ourselves, ya know, in order to go about our lives and our loves and everything without sitting on the floor crying.... at least, that's what I was thinking while I was sitting on the floor earlier. But really, it's hard to pretend something other than reality when you're staring down an empty apartment with two candles for light at five-thirty in the morning. I'm playing music now, but earlier I sat in silence. Fascinating, what the mind can do in silence. I mean... but don't worry about me. I'm a professional at being sad, I think. My music seems to say so.

I'm really dying in here \ I'm really dying in here \ and I'm afraid \ no, I'm scared - Ryan Adams, "Afraid Not Scared," from the album "Love Is Hell"

Things Learned: an Abridged Inventory

Fri, 02 Oct 2009 04:20:35 GMT

October just crept up on me this year; as it's my favourite month, I don't really mind that it's here -- in fact, I'm quite glad. However, I do wish it had given me just a little more time to prepare, maybe to find a way to be a little less down. It's necessary, though, I know....

I am taking stock of things, leaving this lateral drift for a bit to take some steps forward -- to do some ideological static latching, if you will. As I know the further I go, the more it (life, knowledge, honesty, truth, and on...) demands of me, it's been daunting -- is daunting. Between this and a hard conversation that nevertheless needed to be had, I am drained and totally microwaving some comfort food right now (man, I wish I had some fried chicken!). "No eating such-and-such a time before bed" -- pshaw!

Anyhow, before I step forward into this territory partly comprised of the known, the known-but-not-articulated, the semi-known-but-now-crystallized, and the unknown, I thought I might mentally glide over some more familiar territory -- take the deep breath before the plunge, as it were -- that is, take a look at some things I consider established, things I consider "learned." (Pulls out imaginary checklist.)

I've learned that tears need neither blur my vision or choke my voice; I can see and talk through them if I try.

I've learned that being a conscious and conscientious consumer can be difficult, but that I also consider it worth the difficulty.

I've learned that I get attached easily, and repeatedly, and that I'm not sure I would do anything about that if I thought I could.

I've learned that a person can only live out of balance in a way for so long before balance restores itself for you -- like a cosmic bucking bronco.

I've learned that, despite the previous reality, many people "successfully" manage to live out of balance for longer than I would have thought possible.

I've learned that peanut butter is an excellent addition to a s'more.

I've learned that much of the time "you feel unpeaceful even if it's right."

...Well, it has begun. Happy October, everybody.

"Every time she sang, she died a little. That's how much she gave."

Tue, 29 Sep 2009 04:56:52 GMT

You get points if you can tell me who said that about whom. How many points, you ask? Well, in tangible terms, you get the 2 credits from commenting, I guess; intangibly, well, you get some kind of personal satisfaction from knowing you have the answer... yah?

Anyway, I watched her in Easter Parade (that's your hint, and your only hint), and her character is sweet and so very vulnerable... I've been thinking about vulnerability today -- since yestereve, really, especially -- and I realize I've become much more comfortable with being vulnerable (which, I suppose, isn't hard, considering I was once an invulnerablaholic, deeply opposed to any vulnerability on my part). I'm a better person for it, and it's made my music better, too. Funny, but still people tell me I'm like a completely different person when I sing and play the guitar. Perhaps it is so, but I think I've been finding more consistency between the two... though it is true that I'm still rather shy in everyday life.

Anyway....

I should mention, for purposes of fuller partial disclosure, that I'm writing this as I drink what's called a Kamikaze, only since I have no old-fashioned glasses to put the drink in, I simply made a double and put it in a pint glass. Hey, "Kamikaze" is the name of the drink; what do you expect?

I'm also listening to Billy Joel tonight, after a beautifully chilly fall day, grey and blustery (oh, it makes me think of Winnie-the-Pooh, "blustery")... and there's something about the weather, and the music, and maybe the drink a little too, that just wrecks me. Which is what I want it to do; other than my love for this fella of mine, and a few snatches of music and rhyme, this is the most beautiful thing I've got artistically, this "amen" through dried tears, this reminder of everything I am working and sometimes struggling for.

This song... the piano destroys me, before he's sung a word... and then, he sings... and it's the best thing. My favourite song of his. One most haven't even heard of, which is just a travesty. So, in similar fashion to my latest post, here are two live performances of the song... only, instead of three years apart, they're 31 years apart:

Man, 31 years... 31 years...

Damn. I hope I can... in 31 years... 'Cause so many people, generations, go years without doing anything. See, the thing is, every time Billy sings, or I sing, or you... whenever we write, or drink, or hold our lovers, or cry, we die a little, too. Most nights, I can accept that without dwelling on it too much, but in autumn -- which to me is the truest season because everything's going, going, almost gone...-- with the beautiful, reaching cold and the music that tells me everything I could be and everything I am not, well, it just causes me to dwell on it, I guess. I don't know how much to say, or how much I should say, but... it's after you have some kinda nervous breakdown, and you somehow find a life you can live without constantly finding pieces of that breakdown wedged in your shoes and digging into your soul (haha, that's a play on words... shoot...) that you learn what really gets you through: things like love and sweaters and books that make you feel like the sun's come out again. And for me those things, but especially it's music; it's writing songs that draw out the poison, songs that soothe the aches. And I get behind that microphone and sing them for all those people who can't sing, because they're dying a little, too, in the same ways, but maybe they just don't have the words or the melodies for it.

something saved for an intermittently rainy day

Sat, 26 Sep 2009 02:45:04 GMT

Before you get upset with me for holding out on you, know that it's only been two days....

Hmm... I've lived a lot in those three years, and funny, but I think it shows.