with good behavior

I have never managed to keep a grudge. People have done things to me I've sworn I would avenge--and usually a month or two later we're pretending it never happened, or I'm apologizing or they're apologizing and then everything is normal again. I never forget. I just don't hold a grudge. They aren't bad people. Sure, they've betrayed me once or twice. That's fine--who hasn't, really?

So I can't keep a grudge. I can live in terror of someone else keeping a grudge. Against all assurances that they haven't, against all reason, against all evidence--when I've wronged someone I can't confront them. It will go horribly wrong. It will be awkward--all nervous laughs and walking on eggshells, testing the waters, hoping nobody says anything to bring it all back.

I know people are usually pretty good people and don't keep a grudge, water under the bridge and all that, I shouldn't worry about it--but I have to do my time.

my human interactions

I've known people who routinely spend a week or so going without something they feel like they are addicted to--television, the internet, sweets, unhealthy foods. Or they spend a week where they exercise every day or they don't sleep in or they always eat three meals a day at regular hours or they read every day.

I've never quite gotten the point, so I thought I'd try it this last week. I went seven days without any human interactions. I spent the days in my bedroom with a stack of books and wandered out at night to fix some of the foods I'd stocked up. It was challenging to avoid my roommates but I managed, mostly by listening to see if anyone was around, moving quickly and quietly, and not taking food that required a lot of preparation. I managed, though. I saw no one and spoke to no one.

This of course included interactions online. Those were easier than you would think. Ultimately I wrote several poems and filled up the rest of a journal I'd been working on and burned through several books that I'd been meaning to get to. It was nice to be able to focus and get rid of the distractions human interactions cause--and really I think we could all go without them for a while.

You shouldn't have to feel alone just because there's nobody to share your fears with.

camera shy

There was a photographer over the other night. She wasn't here just as a photographer, but he did keep taking pictures--not just of us, but the house, random objects, things she thought were beautiful, things I thought were silly. I asked her not to take any of me, and for the most part she respected that, but as the evening wore on she started trying to when I wasn't looking, trying to persuade me to let her, to stop looking away.

To be honest I don't know what I was afraid of. It wasn't just being genuinely captured on film--no one is genuine when they smile for the camera--but that had to be a part of it, right? She eventually asked me, when everyone else had gone to bed and I was still eluding her camera, why I was so camera shy. Answering the question would ruin it, I said. She insisted. I said it was so I could maintain an air of mystery. She said I was plenty mysterious enough--but that wasn't it, either. If I could have explained it I'd have let her take my picture.

cyanide capsules

I've been seeing someone who is glued to the political blogs, the news websites. There is a certain fervor that perhaps I never noticed in previous years, but it seems more pungent this time around. People are confident in a Democratic victory--the climate is sure of it. But the polls don't mirror that! What's wrong? Which statistics should we listen to?

Of course I've gotten into it, too. It's starting to dominate the topics of my conversations, and it's giving me this shapeless sort of fear, not just for politics, but for understanding. Causes and effects--does worrying change things? Will it make it better or worse? Does knowing about the climate affect how things will happen? Does it simply tide us over?

She's managed to get enthusiastic for November. I just want it to be over with. I wonder if this will make the little rift, some of the tense political conversations, get bigger. I wonder if my worry will affect my daily life--if the worried buzz going around the media is going to win the election but ruin my personal life. She treats my worry like it's a poison, and I agree with her that it probably is. She just thinks I'm doing it on purpose, and I'm not even sure I believe it when I insist I'm not.

uniquely you

After she died I found myself searching for someone else who could be her--her smile and the way her hair was always a mess and her laugh. It's been years now and I'm still searching. The hardest thing has been finding somebody with her smile. She didn't smile often, except when I was around. So it was almost my smile, in a way.

For a long time I didn't understand my failure--put it up to bad luck, perhaps, or being in the wrong city. Maybe I was too late, I thought. She would be older now, more mature. A lot can change in a few years. There were a lot of reasons I could have been failing. I never stopped to consider that I was hoping to meet her again.

There's a song with the lyric "I met a hundred people yesterday, and none of them were you." At some point when I was listening to it I realized that she was unique--not because of any special qualities she had, but because everybody else wasn't her. That there was a convergence of forces so intricate and complex that it would never be duplicated again when she was born, acting on every moment of her life--and that it would only be futility to try to reproduce them.

What else could I do? I gave up.

all my darkest secrets

I met a girl on the bus yesterday to Tacoma--I wasn't going there for any real reason, just to take a trip. It was a fairly bright, sunny day, as it so often is, so I had my sunglasses on, so I never had to meet her eyes. Traffic was terrible but we spent most of the trip talking--sharing secrets. I told her I was afraid I was unable to commit to anything and she said she was afraid she was desperate to commit to anything. I worried I was lying to myself about my quest for meaning, that I was trapped in the past, and so on, and so on. I told her everything I'd ever thought or worried about myself and she told me all of her fears and I realized, to my surprise, that this was a real conversation. Not just a chance to vent--I can vent anywhere, I do vent anywhere. This was reaching out to someone and actually getting something in response.

There was a desperation about us both--we both knew that even if we ever saw each other again it would never really be the same. So we held on to the moment as much as we could, bared our souls, said it was such a relief to tell someone all this even though we'd both said it a hundred times before to a hundred different people. We were both too poetic to have any dark secrets we actually kept.

But it was honesty not because I valued a relationship or because I thought honesty was the best policy or that lying or keeping secrets was morally wrong--it was honesty because it was safe. It could never come back to hurt me. I even told her that. I told her that she was the one girl in my life who could never come back to hurt me--she felt the same way.

I wanted nothing more than to live forever with her, despite knowing only that she had the same fears and problems as any number of similar people, caught in the moment. But I knew one day I'd have to take my sunglasses off, look her in the eye--and that would ruin the moment forever. She knew things about me some people had never heard but she didn't know what color my eyes were.

thoughts of the macabre

Driving across the mountain passes these days makes me uneasy, not because I'm afraid of an accident, but because I always find myself thinking of how easily I could end my life--just moving my hands a few inches, barely a twitch, and my car could go careening out of control, off the cliff--and I'm not afraid of this, no, but I have the power. I think about it. I even have to fight back the impulse.

I don't really know what it means. I could probably reference a handful of philosophers but that doesn't mean anything, it's just wrapping it up in words and making it sound palatable when the fact is it's just wrong--and it doesn't make it better if other people are the same way. And then I'm driving and the moon comes up over the mountains and somehow everything is better, but I still know it's only temporary.

blackouts

Last night we had a blackout and a thunderstorm. Even the phones were dead. I was hanging out with my girlfriend at the time. I thought it was exciting. She thought it was a profound reminder of how much we rely on technology.

It struck me then that every five minutes we're reminded how much we rely on technology. It's nothing new. It's not even interesting anymore. Yes, technology is convenient. Yes, sometimes it breaks and we have to rely on more archaic methods. This is nothing new. It isn't paradigm-altering. I'm going to go right back to using my laptop and cell phone and electric lights when this is all over, I said.

But you can't now, she said. Doesn't that make you feel enslaved to technology? You're stuck with candles and you can't call anyone and you have to write on paper.

I tried to explain that I was really just enjoying myself with the candles, but she was bent on believing that there was something important to be learned from this. I think it's this: we have too much time to wax existential when our technology fails us, and not enough drive to just run with it, or find a solution.

how to disappear completely and never be found

It was sometime in the evening last night that I started feeling like I wasn't real anymore. I was at a show, watching the crowd between sets, and felt this weird sort of disconnect, like maybe I was imagining the whole thing--just a passing ghost that nobody could see or, worse, nobody cared about. I knew I wasn't, of course, but then there's that whole question: what if I'm wrong?

As I made my way to the bus stop I suddenly felt very ill and very weak, without any real prompting. I staggered into a seat and watched the empty 1 am streets, coughing occasionally, trying to fight off the sickness in my gut, the dreamlike certainty that the bus driver wouldn't even stop for me.

I heard a siren down the road, and I remember this very clearly, like it was a scene from a movie. A car sped past, going perhaps sixty miles an hour in the narrow downtown streets. The wind from its passing blew a bus transfer from the sidewalk, swirling it up and onto the ground at my feet. I stood up and looked down the road, where a police car was fast approaching, weaving past a few cars. I put a finger in my ear so the siren wouldn't deafen me and wondered if he saw me, if he was coming for me. I watched him drive past before I realized of course not, I wasn't really even here.

There was a crash down the road. Someone yelled something about it, but I wasn't listening anymore.

letters i'm afraid you read

I found this, yesterday, in my sent items folder. She never responded.

I'm worried that when I tell you I love you, you're dismissing it, like it's just something I say, some rote thing. I worry about that when I ask you how your day is, too. Or how you are. I want you to know that I ask these things because I care--about you more than about anything I've ever cared about. It is important to me that you know this, especially now.

I feel ridiculous but I feel lie [sic] you've come to define me somehow. Sometimes I worry that my love for you, my concerns, are selfish only--that's what they're telling me, isn't it? I love because it makes me feel better, to quell the empathic pain I feel with your pain--they use words like codependent and enabling and tell me I shouldn't try to help, I'm only making it worse, and I tell them I can't do that. We're in this together, you and I.

I'm worried you think I'm inconsistent, schizophrenic in my dealings with you--confident sometimes, worried at others. I'm a wreck, I'm a neurotic wreck, it's true. You know how they say the best way to see how a man will interact with a woman is to look at his relationship with his mother? I used to think that was silly--my mother passed away years ago, I would say--but now I wonder if I'm not forever five years old, trying to come to the rescue, feeling responsible. I want to save you, from everything. I want to take you away from all this.

I wonder if you recognize how much of what I say is planned? I wrote that last line in the last paragraph because it's a cliche, an old movie cliche--it captures everything so perfectly, so beautifully. I lace my letters to you with references to songs and movies and books because I'm sure you'll know them. Then I worry that perhaps you'll miss it entirely, and I will be left feeling vaguely ridiculous.

I hope you are well. I say this--I even write this in letters to others--but know that with you everything I say is uniquely sincere. With you I am incapable of lying, or of false sincerity, or of any ill intent. I truly hope that everything is well with you.

I am very truly yours,

is that me?

I go back sometimes and read things I've written. Old essays from high school, emails, rambling blog posts. Even just casual one-liners, things I wouldn't give a second thought to. Usually I remember writing them, but it's through a haze. I don't think like this anymore. I don't talk like this. I don't believe this. I remember holding these beliefs.

I often say things like "I am not what I was" and then I start to wonder, who was I back then? Is that part of the story not real anymore? How much of me, the core of who I was, is still there? It's entirely foreign to me, but has anyone else even noticed the difference? How much of that influences today?

I've been feeling increasingly fragmented lately. Like there are several aspects to me and they don't mesh, they don't fit. I have more self-awareness than some people and the cost of that is being self-aware. All of these glaring inconsistencies in my character--I want to go vigorously assert that I am myself but I'm not even sure how. And even if I could I'm not convinced it would be sincere.

upkeep, reprise

I had big aspirations for our house. Do you remember? It was run down, but I saw such potential in it. I told you we'd fix it up, make it beautiful, make it the best house we could possibly have. You told me it was too big, there was too much to do. I said that with the two of us, we could make it work, and you smiled.

I began our great work and you helped at first--cleaning up dust, getting rid of old furniture that was beyond repair. I thought we were making a lot of progress, and said we'd be done in no time. You said we'd never make it past the entry chambers, the dusting and the furniture. I said to just be patient, it would take time, but we could do it together. You and I. You smiled.

You took ill--from the dust and mold, maybe--and I did some of the cleaning on my own. I promised I'd do what I could but I needed you to get better. I needed you to help. This was too much for me to do on my own. You said you didn't think you'd get better and I said I was sure you would--and then you smiled.

You started telling me it was no use, the project was too ambitious, you preferred the house in its old, dilapidated state. Your health was still faltering--headache, fever, coughing--and I told you it was better for you if we fixed it up. You smiled and said it had more character the way it was, and the project was still too big. I kept working but never seemed to get anything done.

I tried to fix our room, at least, so maybe your health would clear up, but you were angry--so I was angry, and we shouted at each other and said things we both ended up regretting, and I fled the house, found somewhere else, swore never to come back. And I thought of your smile, and worried I never quite understood.

exhausted, finally

A few days ago I was filled with this inexplicable energy, where I was enthusiastic about everything and went about my daily tasks with an unmatched gusto. Whether it was eating breakfast or brushing my teeth, I did so with a singular joy for the activity I'd never known before. Everything seemed new and exciting. I didn't get that feeling of deja vu I always get when I do anything--like this is just the same day as yesterday but I'm wearing a different shirt. Life was fun again. I went for a walk in the morning and talked to my neighbors. I was vibrant and energetic and interesting.

It was only in the evening that I started feeling like this energy must have been some sort of curse. As I was winding down for the day I found that this new-found joie de vivre was keeping me from sleep--there was so much to be done tomorrow. It was quite literally like being a child at Christmas time.

This went on for a few days. I started increasing my daily activities, adding on some energy-intensive workloads, but nothing seemed to happen, and soon my newfound energy was troubling me for the whole day. Where did it come from? Why was I so ecstatic? I devoted myself more wholly to my tasks. I was more cheerful than ever, more talkative, more lively--even while I was tormented with the fear that this energy was bringing me to ruin.

The exhaustion hit me all at once a few hours ago. In the middle of a conversation with a dear friend of mine I found that the energy I had been relying on--even as I despised it--was gone, replaced only with that drained feeling and a hunger for sleep like I'd never known. I told my friend I had to go and made my way into my bedroom, collapsing onto the bed and shutting my eyes and finally found contentment.

a plausible narrative

I was writing a poem the other day, in the corner of a softly lit bar, waiting for a band to go on stage. I was struck with a sentiment that I immediately sought to put into words, and as I put pen to paper decided that I couldn't directly express it--couldn't acknowledge it, even in private--so I used an extended metaphor.

I'm still unwilling to mention it, talk about it, but now it's haunting my mind. I don't want to accept these thoughts, I still don't really believe they're there. And it seems like everyone around me notices that something's bothering me. They keep asking questions about it. I dismiss it with a shrug, say it's nothing, or provide a plausible narrative to explain my behavior. "I'm tired," I'll say. "I haven't eaten yet." "I have a headache." Sometimes it's even true--partly. Those little half-lies where you aren't actually telling any lies but you're only telling truths which make people believe something which is false, right?

It helps being given to mood swings so I don't have to tell anyone about it. But I don't actually care if they find out--I'm only really keeping it secret from myself.

disapproval

A few weeks ago people started giving me disapproving emails. "Do you have a job yet?" "Are you seeing anybody?" "What are you doing these days?" "Anything new going on there?" It's started to make me paranoid. People ask me innocent questions when I meet them, ask what I do, just small talk and I answer in a defensive, dismissive way--I make little jokes, end up drawing attention to it. Or maybe they don't notice at all? I can never tell if they're smiling with disapproval in their eyes or if that's just me, just my paranoia. I keep smiling, keep joking, and meanwhile my interactions come unraveled around me.

ghastly

In about two and a half hours, as of the writing of this post, an entry my friend Chris and I made for Scary-Go-Round's Feats of Strength will be running on the SGR website. I'll edit up a link when it goes live. I thought you'd be interested.

So, welcome to any new visitors from SGR. I hope you stick around.

To my regular viewers, stay tuned for a link to the live comic...


UPDATE: It's up and available here.

wrong decision

I drove through Spokane recently--a few times, really. It's become a sort of Mecca of existential angst--I always see the familiar sights and the exits and think of how it used to be my future. I stopped at a Spokane Valley exit this time. The gas station was closed, but I'd been here before, so I got out anyway, wandered around--I was looking for something. I wasn't sure what, but I found it, after peering in the darkened windows and walking around the edge of the building.

I stood in one of the parking spaces for a while, staring at the pre-dawn sky, picturing everything that could have been if I'd made one different decision. Eventually I walked back to the car and headed back west. Turns out I'd taken a wrong exit, but there would be plenty of gas stations between here and Seattle. I decided it was best not to worry about it.

secret notes

I've been writing a message since February of 2006. Everything I've written since then has been in code: misspelled words or weird grammar, cues--if someone were to analyze it all, or even most of it, I'm sure they'd find it. I never actually figured anyone would read it, or even take the time, but it's there. I've only just now completed it, but it's there.

I do that a lot: leave secret notes out in the open, hope someone will find it, will understand. One day I hope someone will say "I know everything you've been writing--all those secret notes." And they can't just say that, they have to know. We can sit down over coffee. I'll buy lunch. And we'll talk, and I'll really, truly be honest about everything. I need someone who knows my secrets without me telling them. I'm only ever honest when I'm wrapping my message in code--well, here it is. My coded message. It took me two years but I'm done.

insufficient postage, pt. ii

Ever since writing about the letter I found myself thinking about it more than I had before. I saw it more often and eventually grabbed it and put it in my jacket pocket, without really thinking about it. I subsequently forgot that I had done so.

Today I was digging through my pockets for a spare scrap of paper and found it again. I didn't read it very closely but in it I talked about how I had always wanted to burn a letter--how poetic it would be. I had hoped that letter, the one I wanted to burn, would be one written by the recipient, of course.

The letter I'd written had become a monument to all of my failures. I never considered myself the type of person who was capable of such venom--something I have always thought of as inexcusable in every way. For some reason I felt I needed to remind myself, privately, that I could still fail.

When I found it in my pocket I immediately thought of opening it and reading it, but the words, the writing, the shape, kept me from doing so. Then I thought of the matches I kept in my pocket, and without a word I went outside. It was raining and a little windy, and the matchbook had all but lost its friction, but on the second match I kept the flame going long enough to light the letter aflame. I dropped it on the driveway and watched it burn, staying to make sure the last remnants of ash and soot had burned away. The wind, and my breath on the embers, scattered the remains.

I haven't checked yet, but a pair of used matches ought to be all that remains--if even that much.

license information

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