-------------------------------------------Mood: The UsualIt's nice to not be on the cusp of anything. I have a heart for the sadder things in life, tragic beauty and such. I openly admit that my baseline is being sad, and that sometimes I find that pleasing for lack of a better word (and because saying it makes me happy to be sad is certainly nonsensical). Depression is also a bit like a canyon in that it is snugly hugged by peaks -- or to phrase it differently, a colorful life allows for greater accents. Sadness bring that extra oomph to the party when you're happy.
I might be on the cusp of going bald though.
I was in my dad's hospital room, when he was still in the ICU, and it was quiet. I don't think it would've ever occurred to me before then, but my regrets about my relationship with him... they felt like this magnetic force. The growing repulsion as I got closer, my inability to form words, and how crushingly small it all made me feel. I think my mom thought I was apathetic, but it glaringly obvious to me that I wasn't. You see, I love my father. The problem is, that wasn't ever something we talked about, or that even I talked about in general. It's not like I've lacked retrospection over the years; I've always known my relationship with him was severely lacking. It always just felt so out of my control.
First the divorce, which lasted the better part of a decade, but left me and my brother with my mother. Invariably the focus was on my parents, and their disputes -- their pernicious lies, attempts at manipulation. Child protective services was an awkward little bout followed by foster housing. My brother kept acting out, and escalating until finally everybody stopped. Nothing refocuses two adults like their children being taken away. You could say the focus was on us, but the truth is my brother spoke for both of us by default of my refusal to become emotionally involved. I chose avoidance because I just understood the divorce had little to do with me (outside of the trophy role I was given). My brother split from my mom's the moment he legally could, at 13. He actually spent a second stint in foster homes while CPS sorted out evaluating my father's housing situation. Prior to, he'd literally just been sleeping on a mattress in the back of his taxidermy store. Who'd've thought a work space with poison, chemicals, biological waste, etc., wasn't adequate living circumstances. I used to love the smell of his store, and the barrels full of guts and blood never struck me as anything other than innocuous. I did sometimes wonder though if my father bathed in the same bath tub he used to remove that stuff from the animals. The blood stained bath in his basement -- kind of murdery on second thought.
Before then, my father had to make an effort to see us otherwise he'd never see either of us. But after my brother left, it was a different story. I was welcome in either home (legally) after I turned 13 myself, but I was walking on the thinnest ice with my mom. She sort of transitioned from her marriage into, well, filling that hole -- trying to -- with work. She left with us at 8 in the morning, but she'd often only come home after 9 or 10. I often say I grew in a second home because I'd spend the better part of the 10 hours I had outside of school and sleep in somebody else's home. I never acknowledged as a child the impact the situation had on her, or why she was the way she was or did the things she did. I wasn't the only way applying the avoidance strategy. I just knew she was volatile and could really hurt me. She was the only person who ever actually took things away from me; like a sheltered child, I viewed her as the enemy.
It didn't help that my dad was continually serving hate-your-mom koolaid, or that my brother drank it by the gallon until every problem in his life basically boiled down to being her fault. But much like I just understood the divorce wasn't about me, I knew I couldn't just abandon my mom. I also hated myself greatly going into puberty and adolescence and donned the mantle of enduring my mother like this punishment I deserved. At least, that's how I'd play it with anyone who asked. I like to think deep under that that I also just loved my mom, and hated the ultimatum of having to choose a parent over the other. The government/court had made the original choice, and for that I couldn't be held accountable. But if I left her, I'd be the one responsible. Avoidance.
But invariably that just meant I couldn't really spend that much time with my father, yet. Every time I went over there, I got the double agent treatment from my mom. And I grew tired of being treated like my mom's spy by my brother and father when I did go visit them. High school kind of breezed on by, and then came university. That's when the person who got in the way of my relationship with my father was, well, me. I left Toronto. I was just far enough away that habitual road trips weren't practical. My dad lost his truck because he's stupid and won't stop driving when he's tired. He was too poor to get another vehicle.
Post university, I stayed in Ottawa for a while working. I had already known by then that my dad was terminally ill, but what was I going to do? Eventually, my mother came to visit and broke down her situation for me back in Toronto. If my dad had just been sick, it would've been one thing. The usual process of becoming decrepit, between the ages of say 70 to 100+ mixed in with Parkinson, is essentially what my father was going through in the span of 3 years. Adding to that was my brother who'd never developed the ability to take care of himself, and remained emotionally stunted by, well, everything. He was diagnosed with schizophrenia, which can often manifest as a whole lot of violence towards maternal figures in young men, alongside a lot of other things. I left Ottawa to come help my mom here, in Toronto. I did the brunt of taking care of my dad so she could focus on my brother. Unfortunately, my dad's illness had already intensely limited his ability to communicate by then. I'd been at it for just over 2 years, when he finally passed. I hated watching him, but that hate was always crushed beneath the weight of how much I loved him. I would lose my temper on a regular basis though. A restaurant didn't have accessibility despite it saying otherwise online; some asshole occupying the only accessible space in a food court despite not having any mobility devices. I snapped at bus drivers who drove too brusquely. I was a freaking mess, but I tried to put a smile on because.. I didn't know what else to do, and I felt like whatever the fuck my dad was going through in his mind, he didn't need to see me sad all the time.
In the last couple of months, in that ICU room, I began to realize he just needed to die. Which is so messed up. But in my father's terms, it would've been a great mercy the way you kill an animal you've fatally wounded by haven't killed. You just end their damn suffering. And I hated that I thought about him in those terms. What I regret is how empty my relationship with him was, or rather how distant I felt from him. Even when we'd had the opportunity to bond more freely when I was in high school, there was friction. The baggage from the divorce, but also how old school and just flat out racist he could be. He felt restrictive to my life at times, and not in that responsible parental way my mom was.
I got close with one of his friends after I moved back to Toronto -- just about the only person who visited him more than once. Apparently my dad was filled with all these insecurities about me. So I know it wasn't just me; he also knew there was this strange distance between us. I also didn't drink his koolaid like my brother did, which made it harder for him. I think he respected that about me, wrote it off as me being too intellectual for my own good. But by the time I was headed off to university, I felt like I'd already long left him in the dust intellectually. Which is a weird thing to say, rude, disrespectful, and was probably in large part my youthful hubris getting the better of me. But he was, like my brother, barely high school educated. The thing is, he still had so much to offer as a father and I know that.
He used to take us fishing before the brink of dawn, hiking on these trails to go bird watching (and get eaten alive by mosquitoes), snowboarding -- he used to pick me up, after my brother had left, from school during my 30-45 minute lunch break to go eat at these botanical gardens. He would drive us down to Niagara falls to go see the butterfly conservatory, play in the arcades, go to the beaches, go-karting, go on long ass bike rides -- especially on Toronto Island. My dad loved nature, loved animals, loved cooking... he loved all the sides of life that just are beautiful. Hunting wasn't the moral taboo and didn't have to be this sacred ritual, but he also stopped every time there was road kill to check in case there was any good meat. He would build toys for me and my brother when we were young, and carve silly things out of bones. It's hard to put an exact name to it, but those sides of my father I wish I could somehow live up to, adopt, integrate into the very essence of my being. I think my dad knew how to be happy and how to shamelessly enjoy life. And I know those are things I struggle with. I mean I have faith I'll figure it out eventually. I feel like I owe that to him....Created 2018-01-09 04:30:50
-------------------------------------------Mood: The UsualThis boy approaches a table full of girls, mostly his senior;
he's there to escort the words of dalliance his friend
only wished he could speak moments ago. In a summer camp cafeteria,
this scenario ends in a happy kind of laughter – at least,
that was the impression.
A month goes by before a smile catches his eye:
she's bold, opinionated, with wild curls to encase
her roundabout charm. The first he finds beautiful
because all the shapes of her puzzle seem to fit.
Although he can't quite find the words to explain it,
she gifts him a poem ripped from his heart.
At first they share earbuds, and then a sleeping bag.
He doesn't realize its her music, her sleeping bag.
He meets her boyfriend, listens to his lively stories at supper.
Meets her friends, hears about their garrulous small town lives.
A couple more months go by before she tells him.
His heart begins to break his mind open.
They stay in an apartment downtown, in his big town, together.
Alone. Unsupervised. The kind of luxury children long for.
Every kiss feels like satisfaction dissolving into his being.
The nights are long, and his early commute to school goes from
awe inspiring to mindless blips. It's his birthday, she gives him a book.
It was just the book she'd written her final high school report about.
He's never cared for presents before and yet he cries. Uncontrollably.
He can't tell if they're tears of joy or sadness.
She breaks up with him the next day. Seven years later she admits,
in so many words, that her previous boyfriend wouldn't have sex
so she thought maybe he could deliver. That's all....Created 2017-12-25 04:28:28
-------------------------------------------Mood: The UsualYouth is a kind of cutting ignorance
that effortlessly reaches the heart;
in parts, it is too impatient for impurities,
and in others, it is too reckless to survive.
it sharpens claws, makes our lioness so fierce –
to use her body and throw her weight against the world
at every mistake that would otherwise cost a life.
Perhaps she protects her legacy, or better yet,
becomes the bridge upon which life moves on
and which life invariably neglects.
Youth isn't strength, but rather an ability
to be weak without appreciation. It is purified from concerns....Created 2017-12-02 13:50:49
-------------------------------------------Mood: The Usuala death and dying
a squealing desire (squelched)
an empty set of desires
while also alleviated
death and drumming
a soft chant
cantor within descent
a phallic distrust
wretch in destressing
(all a loaner who could do
alone by loaning)
crushed and heave the heavy
heed the hardening tooth
sit and embrace a head
effacing the grace
warriors live and die
people live and die
are people graceful?
am I line? are you a story?
have you come to pick me up
shame in estranged lands
homesick for imaginary
rosebuds and whims
a decorating line of clothing
a depth of mixture in color
and shape, all a superficial elate
warmth. friction. fiction.
coldblooded hope. blind. blight.
is romance hope diluted in love
or the idea that the unattractive
can be desired.
respect & recognition a relegated possibility
dismissal and failure a closing in.
hear my voice, but not its sounds
the ideas, the imagining of me within it
ephemeral and absent – in your voice
a reality of me. speak it.
set that me free; the ideas of you
a hymn hummed in silent salvation
death and dying. being.
never yes....Created 2017-09-07 14:44:37
-------------------------------------------Mood: The UsualMarch arrived like a lion
dawdling about with such intensity
it could see through you –
yet still too busy to tend
His lioness swam by May, June into July
blisteringly hot and yet
she had a humbling warmth to her;
eyes you could approach
maybe learn to hug
given enough time.
Their litter, a puzzle in April
an arrangement of beautiful notes
orchestrated like soldiers not yet at war
ready to begin, to live their lie
to belt out their brightest roars....Created 2017-08-29 00:52:49
-------------------------------------------Mood: The Usualhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pK_NdYTyKWQ
Reminds me of them old diablo tunes, but with a livelier less "I'm going to kill you before this campfire burns out" vibe....Created 2017-08-08 01:30:36
-------------------------------------------Mood: The UsualES was never something special. I have just always needed something to obsess about online. And here I thought I was nostalgic about being an anonymous stranger on the interwebs.
Why do I need something to obsess about online? Well I've already established that there's this brain-numbing facet to the whole experience – primarily, that looking at a screen allows you brain to effectively ignore more sensorial data because the scope of what's actually changing in front of you in on average less than say, when you'd be walking around. That's part of the reason why you "get so focused" or "lose track of time" so easily. But that doesn't really explain the underlying psychological drive (unless it's just another way to offset anxiety about death.. but I feel like that's one of those all encompassing answers that can never truly be justified, but is always uncannily plausible)....Created 2017-07-24 02:29:38
-------------------------------------------Mood: The Usualhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GF6oL0IwgD0
Have you ever tried to explain to another person the difficulty of immovably doing nothing? The compulsion, the inability, the suffocating addiction. There is a world around you. For some this is like a warm, comforting blanket -- maybe even of approval. For others, this is like the cold shiver that follows the irrational. Is there a zombie under that car over there? Did a werewolf just peek its head out from that alley over there? Am I being preyed upon but another human being with bleeding intent?
But those are just your imagination running away with your actual fears, dressing them up like theatrical pieces meant to burst into fireworks at the end of the show. Are you mediocre? Does anybody actually like you? Do they matter (any of the things you do)?
And you chase happiness. God's moral protection is inadmissible to you (and you it), because in a sense, that's too obvious. Virtue, accomplishment, pride -- these are sophistries of nobler minds who've accepted (perhaps chosen) some imperative or another. No, you chase the basest filth, the wont satisfaction of flesh. The warmth of company.
But you are left alone, at night, in your bed of faceless company, to wonder. Does it matter? And if you hate the idea of birthing children so much, why then would creating AI be any different? Because you could just confine it to an existence outside of these concerns. They may not drive life, but they do yours. Perhaps a continuous awareness of all things known would circumvent these moments of weakness by defaulting them to their possible solution. Or, perhaps, for a lack thereof, this would be a kind of painless torment. Machines do not feel pain. This is why we find them so wonderful. There are no moral stipulations. They're a nobler playground.
And there it is, sterile and staring you in the face. Tangents; your double-edged sword. The distractions that ease you into the inevitable passing of time -- the distraction that invariably consumes what of it belongs to you. Is this what a deal with the devil feels like? Am I dead? Waiting for death with my little numbered chit, finding whatever distraction I can in the waiting room to dissipate my frustration at being bored.
You are still playing along to your imagination's antics. An elaborately dressed fact: even if you did find motion, action, it would come to the same question. Are you contributing to something (anything)? Or are you just distracting yourself from yourself while the undertaker prepares your lot? This approval you need, success, progeny, creation.
I think at some point everyone realizes that love is like a state of mind, a choice, an extension of your actions. Love cannot exist outside of you. It is, in every inch of its existence, some kind of projection of you. Being in love is as simple as saying you are (and perhaps believing it). Being in a loving relationship is no more complicated than two people who've come together in their decision to love each other. We are fickle though, and change our minds. It's not that love dies out, or dissipates; it's more like we slowly stop choosing it. Choosing each other. But like all things in life, we aren't in control. We are subject to some kind of mystery as this is from whence our meaning is born. Our meaning beyond the meaningless. It's the illusion that we aren't in control that makes us find meaning. And so you've accidentally fallen in love with this wonderful person who's also, coincidentally, fallen in love with you.
But don't misunderstand me. Love does exist outside of you. There is an arm of love you must interpret, understand, feel. An expression of objective facts which smoother themselves against you. There is a kind of accidental meaning in embracing it -- a part of the meaning which exceeds the simple choice to love. Or at least, that's what you should believe if you want to be okay. Because at the end of the day, being okay with it, your life, is the only alternative....Created 2017-06-21 17:17:47
-------------------------------------------Mood: The Usualwww.youtube.com/watch?v=bjjc59FgUpg...Created 2017-03-03 03:48:10
-------------------------------------------Mood: The Usual...Created 2017-01-29 03:10:52
Be kind, take a few minutes to review the hard work of others <3
It means a lot to them, as it does to you.