NOSTALGIA IS A WEAPON

It’s 4 am, and I’m standing beneath the overhang in front of the building where I work. Not due here for another hour, I’m alone. Staring out over the wide, empty parking lot, watching puddles form in the wake of a gentle, steady rainfall. Finally, this rain. It’s quiet, somewhat lonely, but peaceful. In the periphery of the streetlights I see hundreds of thousands of tiny flickers pass by, little white dots so numerous and falling so fast, becoming threads that make up a net that covers the expanse of the world beyond my little concrete barrier. “There’s a reason they’re called ’sheets’ of rain,” I think, watching a passing wind ripple the wet air in front of me, the way curtains next to an open window bend and wrinkle when the breeze sneaks through.

Been drinking a lot more lately. Got high for the first time in many months the other day, too. It’s all about getting out of my own head, I think, or at least altering the way things are being processed. Not healthy, I’ll be the first to admit, but I’m not doing well with the self-discipline thing these days. At least the experience with the pot was somewhat educational- I’ve learned the stuff is pretty much of no use to me anymore. Can’t read while on the stuff, can’t write either (as evidenced by forty-five minutes spent searching for that *one* vocabulary word that just wouldn’t materialize). Listening to music can be fun, but my attention span resembles that of a 3 year-old with ADD while stoned, so I can’t really sit through anything long enough to enjoy it. During college and in the few years after I felt pot helped expand my mind, but these days it just leaves me disoriented, my thoughts muddled rather than clarified. No thanks. I can find more effective, less obnoxious ways of fucking with my system.

More destructive behavior: along the lines of those wacky cell phones with built-in breathalyzers, I insist upon the invention of computers that can gauge the user’s emotional vulnerability and prohibit certain pre-set actions accordingly. Was it wise of me, knowing very well how raw I was feeling, to start digging back through several years’ worth of chat logs? It’s amazing, reliving conversations with people who are no longer in your life, seeing what you shared with whom, what you were feeling and saying and doing all those days ago, word for word. The transcripts of dialogue that took place within the last year were the most damaging; thankfully some internal self-defense mechanism activated and shut down my wanderings pretty quickly, leaving me with only small scrapes and scratches, spared the wreckage of deep cuts. They hurt, but the pain is not anywhere near what it could have been. Nostalgia truly is a weapon, and may be a more appropriate name for this place than I’d realized two-plus years ago.

The obsessive-compulsive tendencies have emerged again, timing their appearances with increasing frequency. I lie in bed reading, stopping every few pages to slide the bookmark in, cross the room and check the alarm. Once. Then again five minutes later. Two minutes after that. Checking the alarm, not even making it back to bed before turning around again, thinking that I never even looked at how it was set, just that I’d made the motion. I long for the carelessness of falling asleep in someone’s arms, the comfort found in a warm body pressed against my back, the arm around me. Forgetting to check the alarm, perhaps even waking late one day- that would be exquisite, the best and only excusable reason I can think of to be tardy to work.

For now: a warm mug of chamomile tea, some calm breathing exercises to clear my head, and - with any luck – a night of restful sleep. Here’s hoping.

Spent a lot of time tonight reading the journal of someone I know through a close friend. I consider him a friend, I suppose, but we’ve only hung out a handful of times in the last year, not enough time spent together for that to really be true yet. This journal of his, it’s many years old, and I stumbled upon it accidentally this afternoon. I don’t know if I should feel weird about having read portions of it, but I found myself identifying with a lot of things he wrote. Since I’ve been having trouble completing any of my own thoughts lately, I thought I’d share something small of his that is a fairly complete description of where I am right now:

Sometimes I think I might be a really selfish person. I have people who care about me and love me, but I still always long for those few who really know me. It just feels so right not to have to explain myself if I don’t want to. Because those people have been where I am and felt how I feel.
…..
Maybe I expect things to be more magical than they’ll ever be.

Hmm. Wonder if there’s another kindred spirit in this fellow.

The writing is coming back, bit by bit. I still don’t have anything whole to share yet, but there are dozens of fragments floating around, and new ones arriving with a greater frequency than before. As an experiment, I thought I’d open up the folder where all these pieces sit (separate documents for each attempt) and see if anything therein would spark inspiration, or perhaps give me a jumping-off point to continue an unfinished thought. Well. I hadn’t realized the sheer enormity of the aborted efforts. I provide a screenshot of what happens when all text files are opened at once, within the viewpoint of the “all windows” function of Mac OSX’s Exposé:

Um. Yeah. I have some work to do.

As with any neglected skill, my complete lack of writing these past few months has left me rusty and incapable of spitting out anything lucid, it seems. I was never very good at it anyway, but this is just frustrating.

This is just a post to say that I’m at least trying to update again, and to apologize for once again being a bad blogger. Not that I suspect anyone checks here regularly anymore; this place lacks only boarded-up windows and a “for rent” sign on the front porch. I’m still here, despite appearances otherwise. Hopefully I’ll actually have something to share soon.

And thanks to all for the hugs and well-wishes on the last post. I didn’t mean to leave you unacknowledged. You words and thoughts help more than I can tell you.

Wondering if there’s anyone still out there to give me a hug and tell me everything is gonna be okay. There’s certainly not anyone here.

I’ve got so much in my head right now, so much pressure, and I think all I’d need to release some of that is for someone to hold me and let me cry, just let it pour out of me through the flood of tears.

I wish I could cry on my own. But I can’t. So I guess it’s up to me to try and keep a hold on that growing mass in my head, to keep it from spilling over in destructive ways. Wish me luck.

Been thinking a lot lately about something syndromes said once long ago:

“Maybe it takes more than one person’s puzzle pieces to make it all fit together.”

Sometimes I’m fine with being single, self-sufficient, strong for nobody but myself. But these days my life is punctuated by periods that make less sense, and I’m confused and frustrated often. Above all I’m just so goddamn lonely.

Sigh.

I don’t know if I’ve ever been as horrified or disgusted at myself as I am right now. I’m going to go find a deep, dark hole to crawl into. If you don’t hear from me for a bit…. take care, folks.

seeing myself this way
I am a monster I believe
and seeing is believing
……..
I sicken myself so much

-Toad the Wet Sprocket

-The world is a bit of a haze now, seen through the eyes of several beers, a mildly drunken filter placed in front of the world.

I stand in front of the mirror, shirtless. My eyes, pupils shrunken against the light. I see that I have form but not build. There is very little substance to me. My pants, size 28 waist, hang loosely just below my hips. Even the smallest waist-size pants fit me improperly. I am not frail, whispers of muscle definition, borne only by my exertion at work, peering around the edges of my frame. Yet it would take only a strong wind to sweep me away.

And there is a revelation: my mental self dwelling parallel to my physical body. Here is this structure which moves about and speaks, and yet exists as very little other than such. My true self, my personality, only visible at the corners, hides in the shadows. Incomplete perhaps, as the muscles are. In need of discipline, exercise, practical use in order to build into something tangible. -

Nothing but stream-of-consciousness ramblings written minutes ago, long after I should be asleep. God knows why I’m posting this, but who cares, really?

Good god, the passing of time is astounding these days. Already it’s been nearly a month since Enji’s visit. Where has that time gone? What have I done since then?

Time spent with E was wonderful, of course. There’s one picture up on flickr from our gay bar karaoke night (sadly, none of the show pics came out well, or I’d have more to share). Video footage of our duet to Natalie Imbruglia’s “Torn”, sans- interpretive dance (I totally chickened out) does in fact exist, but for the sake of humanity I’ll spare you my atonal vocal stylings. Enji totally rocked out Christina Aguilera’s “Ain’t No Other Man”, though. As if you didn’t know, girl can sing. I’ve said it already, but thanks again for coming, E. Miss ya already. There’s always a bed and a hot mug of tea here for ya.

Since then a dozen more partial entries have been composed, but I’ve still nothing solid to put here yet. I should make finishing something a priority, if for no other reason than proving to myself I can still write a damn coherent essay. But that won’t be happening tonight, I’m afraid. Life is still interesting. Maybe one day I can tell ya’ll about it.

To those that still happen upon this page, or who haven’t given up hope that I’ll ever post again: I hope life is treating you well.

Um, wow. ‘Course, this was inevitable at some point, but seriously: ouch.

That’s a very nonchalant way of describing what is possibly going to become a roiling mess of pain in my stomach, but I guess we’ll just wait and see how I feel in the light of tomorrow.

G’night, all (or few).