Quarter to one, and I have a few drinks in me amidst copious, conscientious hydration. I feel like a failure for taking care of myself. Hell, I feel like a failure for not double-spacing after a period, sometimes.
I split my time between trying to write, noodling on the internet, working on comic books, kung fu, drinking at the same coffee shop and the same bar for long stretches of time, going just past my comfortable threshold on both of them (which has become pathetically minuscule in recent months), sitting still for dental work, sitting still for therapy, sitting still for rolfing, sitting still for meditation, and doing whatever I can to keep from picking a fight with someone just to break something, just to feel like what I'm doing matters.
There's but one person who wants to talk to me. I love her dearly, but we're not going to work outside of an intense, beautiful friendship that will last our whole lives. Even then, I don't seem to know how to talk to her, how to communicate all of what I'm thinking and feeling, and it makes me feel so alone, so freakish that I can only seem to talk to people after dulling my senses with alcohol. Even then, I come on strong, I stick on stupid topics for too long, and I can't escape that feeling that I'm far too "unique" for anyone to speak to me. Have I just lost touch so badly that simple conversations have become impossible for me? Do I face certain doom for wanting what I want and not settling for the fucked-up scenarios that come across my path? Do I face a future of unquestionable doom for disappearing from the radar of promising fields because I keep my integrity?
Good lord, I know I fuck up; I really do. There's just so much bullshit out there. It seems so pointless to try, sometimes. I probably will anyway. I'll face the same uncomfortable glances at anywhere but me, the same discussions on anything but what I'm talking about, the same stiff discussions about "what I do" rather than "who I am" and I will try my damnedest not to seem like a brooding teenager past his prime. I'm going to wonder whether or not I'm a waste of space. I keep falling asleep nad holding down various keys.
Hopefully this little confession unclogs something.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Friday, March 25, 2011
Cerberus Whip Chain
Recently, I had a bit of a breakdown regarding the internet. Trends move and change from week to week, people talk almost exclusively in references and shorthand, and the outside world, ads and all, have become an inescapable foe.
I'd been strapped to the front of monitor since '94, back in the days when the word "Compuserve" meant something and the All-Seeing Eye of AOL stared from the top of its Gnostic Eye-of-God pyramid, bestowing the most meager of us with 14.4kbps of information trade. I remember waiting over a minute to get connected, listening for the slight variations in modem noise to see if the phone wires were loose or if, get this, too many people were on the internet at the same time. Dial-up had a magic to it, a spellbook of timing to dodge through porn sites and see maybe one boob in a half hour, sneak into the grown-up chatrooms (hell, cybering taught me typing much better than either Mario or Mavis Beacon. However, this now brings up a disturbing mental image), and find all the mods and cheats for Doom II and Heretic. While certainly not king of my domain, I made a decent run of it, and found a certain level of contentment with the spinning dishes of Early Internet Adolescent.
Jump forward eleven years. I was three years out of the depressive episode that consumed my collegiate aspirations and nearly took my life along with it. I had tucked myself into a closet near the Art Museum with enough space for a loft bed and a Playstation on top of my fridge. This was the year that I would cut my umbilical cord to the wall socket. My college friends had moved to NYC and the land-line had become obsolete as a result. On top of this, the Free Wi-Fi movement had finally pulled off its birthing caul and shrieked in triumph throughout the city. It became time to cultivate a taste in black coffee and dive into that secret world once again. At this point, the world was... well, less secret. The anticipation had gone. The Secret Porn Missions were obsolete when over half of Google images were filled with The Most Degrading Things Ever. Plumbing the depths for secrets gave way to gamefaqs.com.
At this point, I feel self-conscious for having left links out, for having one of the default backgrounds on this blog. I don't know how to embed pictures. I don't have the attention span to Photoshop an image, let alone find one appropriate. I still don't know or care about 4chan, and I can only stand to read maybe five webcomics, three of which my friends make. My phone is not smart. In fact, my phone is pretty dumb, old and tired. Does this really make me less of a man?
Fuck no.
Perhaps what's happened is that I'm applying my "Information Superhighway" skills to everyday life. I use my timing to figure out the right time to get all of my chores done and chase the momentum like a rabid dog. My Dirty Pics Search has finally grown up into a search to find strange and interesting ways to bring together the various circles of my life, between cocktail bars, connoisseur cafes, comic book stores, kung fu schools and student dentists, to name a few. The many, strange online personae that I've cultivated have developed into a still-evolving, well-meaning mask to navigate this scary Real World ("What do you mean there're no dragons here!? Who's going to keep the elf population in check?") and find the best way to pretend to be myself in a way that doesn't disturb the people sitting next to me or leave me as fodder for the Twitter Riots that I'm sure are going to happen again. The internet has no anonymity, but in the real world we can twist up that spit-curl and face what we can actually defeat.
I'd been strapped to the front of monitor since '94, back in the days when the word "Compuserve" meant something and the All-Seeing Eye of AOL stared from the top of its Gnostic Eye-of-God pyramid, bestowing the most meager of us with 14.4kbps of information trade. I remember waiting over a minute to get connected, listening for the slight variations in modem noise to see if the phone wires were loose or if, get this, too many people were on the internet at the same time. Dial-up had a magic to it, a spellbook of timing to dodge through porn sites and see maybe one boob in a half hour, sneak into the grown-up chatrooms (hell, cybering taught me typing much better than either Mario or Mavis Beacon. However, this now brings up a disturbing mental image), and find all the mods and cheats for Doom II and Heretic. While certainly not king of my domain, I made a decent run of it, and found a certain level of contentment with the spinning dishes of Early Internet Adolescent.
Jump forward eleven years. I was three years out of the depressive episode that consumed my collegiate aspirations and nearly took my life along with it. I had tucked myself into a closet near the Art Museum with enough space for a loft bed and a Playstation on top of my fridge. This was the year that I would cut my umbilical cord to the wall socket. My college friends had moved to NYC and the land-line had become obsolete as a result. On top of this, the Free Wi-Fi movement had finally pulled off its birthing caul and shrieked in triumph throughout the city. It became time to cultivate a taste in black coffee and dive into that secret world once again. At this point, the world was... well, less secret. The anticipation had gone. The Secret Porn Missions were obsolete when over half of Google images were filled with The Most Degrading Things Ever. Plumbing the depths for secrets gave way to gamefaqs.com.
At this point, I feel self-conscious for having left links out, for having one of the default backgrounds on this blog. I don't know how to embed pictures. I don't have the attention span to Photoshop an image, let alone find one appropriate. I still don't know or care about 4chan, and I can only stand to read maybe five webcomics, three of which my friends make. My phone is not smart. In fact, my phone is pretty dumb, old and tired. Does this really make me less of a man?
Fuck no.
Perhaps what's happened is that I'm applying my "Information Superhighway" skills to everyday life. I use my timing to figure out the right time to get all of my chores done and chase the momentum like a rabid dog. My Dirty Pics Search has finally grown up into a search to find strange and interesting ways to bring together the various circles of my life, between cocktail bars, connoisseur cafes, comic book stores, kung fu schools and student dentists, to name a few. The many, strange online personae that I've cultivated have developed into a still-evolving, well-meaning mask to navigate this scary Real World ("What do you mean there're no dragons here!? Who's going to keep the elf population in check?") and find the best way to pretend to be myself in a way that doesn't disturb the people sitting next to me or leave me as fodder for the Twitter Riots that I'm sure are going to happen again. The internet has no anonymity, but in the real world we can twist up that spit-curl and face what we can actually defeat.
Friday, February 25, 2011
The accumulating moss provides mortar
Solitary life has been an adventure, mostly mental in scope, rather than physical. There've been many days where I've set out with a goal to complete tasks X,Y, and Z and inevitably end up trembling in front of the computer screen, safe and sound watching videos or digging myself into deeper sorrow by scrolling through all of the profiles of the pretty, happy Facebook profiles out there. Then there're days where I over-book myself socially and end up a frazzled wreck, my mind screaming for a drink to calm my rattled nerves. The paradox then persists where, in feeling so lonely, I drink far too much and stumble home, wake up angry with myself, and then panic once again at feeling unable to share it with others, becasue I find their concern too jarring to handle. Most often, it has absolutely nothing to do with me, and mostly with their own problems, and my honesty and desire to feel understood initiates yet another well-meaning disconnect, which drags me back home where I judge myself too harshly on the tasks I have yet to do, annnnnd... you see the pattern emerging, right? The real triumph in all of this is seeing this pattern. It feels good to call it out and give it a solid elbow to the face.
I don't work well under pressure, and I work even less well when observed and critiqued mid-process. I don't like a lot of periphery distractions while I work (lengthy conversation, music, numerous interruptions). I do weird things. I experiment. I set up long, spiralling series of actions that economize effort and opt for the preservation of all elements involved. Doing anything in a hurry has only led me to frayed nerves, ratty corners and easily-avoidable damage all done for the greater good of speed without greater acknowledgment of all factors involved. I work deep, and I work thorough. If I can't do much, I do something. If I can't focus on a task, I find something else to do that's useful in the meantime just to keep the ball rolling. "Done" exists in purely conceptual terms, and I'm fine with that. I perform most tasks better when calm and alone. All of this is okay. It's my nature and my method of operation.
It's been a big deal to feel okay with this. I've ground myself into dust trying to pull something together in a manner that's counter-intuitive to the way that I do things, that in fact feels disruptive to that way. Acknowledging that I really have to put forth effort to interact socially is damned well enlightening. It's one thing to relax around people, and it's another to relax with people. The former is possible and enjoyable, the latter... mnreh.
In spite of this desire to act alone and realign myself with my working methods, I feel like allowing my introversion to play out has made me a lot better with people. I smile more. I have more patience. I can understand where others are coming from more easily, and if I don't feel like I can take the interaction I let myself go elsewhere, with no ill intent toward others. Other people and socializing becomes less daunting, more a slight need to focus and redirect than a barrage requiring dug-in heels and a riot shield.
For those reading, thank you ahead of time for respecting that this post is a one-way street. I disabled comments, and I ask that you refrain from commenting on this in other forums of communication. There's nothing here for others to take personally, but an observance of my own behavior and what works for me. If this runs counter to methods you may use to do things, then we simply have different methods (focused attention vs. diffusive attention, for instance). Sure, it's dumb to post something and not expect feedback, but sometimes a person just needs a pressure valve to let something go and someone to witness it. Rock on.
I don't work well under pressure, and I work even less well when observed and critiqued mid-process. I don't like a lot of periphery distractions while I work (lengthy conversation, music, numerous interruptions). I do weird things. I experiment. I set up long, spiralling series of actions that economize effort and opt for the preservation of all elements involved. Doing anything in a hurry has only led me to frayed nerves, ratty corners and easily-avoidable damage all done for the greater good of speed without greater acknowledgment of all factors involved. I work deep, and I work thorough. If I can't do much, I do something. If I can't focus on a task, I find something else to do that's useful in the meantime just to keep the ball rolling. "Done" exists in purely conceptual terms, and I'm fine with that. I perform most tasks better when calm and alone. All of this is okay. It's my nature and my method of operation.
It's been a big deal to feel okay with this. I've ground myself into dust trying to pull something together in a manner that's counter-intuitive to the way that I do things, that in fact feels disruptive to that way. Acknowledging that I really have to put forth effort to interact socially is damned well enlightening. It's one thing to relax around people, and it's another to relax with people. The former is possible and enjoyable, the latter... mnreh.
In spite of this desire to act alone and realign myself with my working methods, I feel like allowing my introversion to play out has made me a lot better with people. I smile more. I have more patience. I can understand where others are coming from more easily, and if I don't feel like I can take the interaction I let myself go elsewhere, with no ill intent toward others. Other people and socializing becomes less daunting, more a slight need to focus and redirect than a barrage requiring dug-in heels and a riot shield.
For those reading, thank you ahead of time for respecting that this post is a one-way street. I disabled comments, and I ask that you refrain from commenting on this in other forums of communication. There's nothing here for others to take personally, but an observance of my own behavior and what works for me. If this runs counter to methods you may use to do things, then we simply have different methods (focused attention vs. diffusive attention, for instance). Sure, it's dumb to post something and not expect feedback, but sometimes a person just needs a pressure valve to let something go and someone to witness it. Rock on.
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