Happy days are here again...

Disclaimer: this post was written in parts, so it isn't as cohesive as it would've been had I not been lazy.

It's the day after my birthday, and I'm sitting on my parent's couch--smiling. I forget sometimes how good it is to be alive, how comforting it is to be around people who love you. With all of the deadlines, the unspoken expectations and the drama of intellectual performance, the real things--the things that matter--often get overlooked. For the moment though, my eyes are wide open, and I am immensely grateful.

* * *
I've been reading a book for the last couple of days (research, for pleasure!) and soaking in the happiness that comes with minor victories. I made it through my first year. It may not seem like much to many, but to me, it proves that I might be capable of something--even if that something is (frustratingly) veiled by time. Even in the midst of the reverie, I can't help but wonder how things will turn out in the years to come. But I'll get back to that in a minute.

* * *

The book I've been reading is Walter Mosley's Blue Light. Now I've only read half of it (some books, like foods, are meant to be savored), but the half I have read has been devastating in the most interesting ways. The book is a serious one. There are moments in the narrative that I have to laugh to keep from falling into a pit of despair; at those times I find my self thinking that there has to be some core connective system that keeps us (humanity) afloat. I mean, can we be so intrinsically "flawed" that we're always teetering on the edge of self destruction? The answers that Mosley provides to this one, fundamental, question hurts at times; turning the page is often like pulling the trigger in a game of Russian Roulette.

I've always heard that a good read causes you to question things, inspires you to re-consider things, pushes you to set aside the accepted (in whatever form it takes) in order to perceive the possibility of an alternative place or space. In some works the place is fantastic; in others, the space is all too real. Either way, the "actual" is only as legitimate as the dots the reader connects in his/her head. Blue Light is so disturbing because the dots are located in some pretty tender places. The more I read the book, the more I realize that the type of fiction it represents (which is difficult to pin down) is about as close to "real" as anything gets. It foregrounds a sort of intellectual and experiential symbiosis that we seem to be careening toward, and, at the same time, presents a pervasive propensity for self-sabotage. It seems to be senseless, but I'm wondering if its not purposeful--which leads me to what I said I'd get back to.

Reading, thinking, and writing about this stuff makes me happy, despite its obviously depressing aspects. I know that none of it is new and that it is essentially the same fundamental struggle that has kept us going through the ages, but sometimes, I think the move toward specialization (I'm speaking about my field, though I'm sure it's a pretty common trend) does nothing more than obfuscate the crap that's as plain as day--the reality that inspires fiction and the fantasy that seeks to change reality. This is why I'm always preoccupied with how things will turn out and why, like Andrea, I'm at a loss as to what I'm going to become; I doubt very seriously that I'll be able to contribute to the incestuous body of bulleted references and regurgitated "original" ideas. At the same time, I love talking about foundational issues that rear their respective heads in every utterance and through every system of social ordering, so I'm sure what I present is bound to fall into the trap of intellectual inbreeding that I've just pointed out. But I guess my way around this is to work on the periphery. You see, I too like to talk about the tangents because they belie connections that a central "focus" is often too busy to acknowledge; they serve as examples of how certain issues create a web of association in seemingly disparate elements that coalesce and counter "centrality." Maybe this post is an example. It's definitely unfocused enough...

What I'm getting at is that the picture of humanity that Blue Light and other such works presents is one that needs to be more than observed. It's one thing to recognize the overarching motifs in a work (the focused, specialized, detachment is safe and not without its interests), but it's something else entirely to understand that the ordered chaos that a work presents is as much a charge as it is a portrayal. I'll stop here, because I now recognize that I've entered into rant mode. But I look forward to reading the rest of the book as much as I look forward to seeing if my attitude will get me anywhere. At this rate I'm looking forward to a cardboard box next to a recycle bin (at least I'll be environmentally conscious) and a nicely framed diploma.

Flying saucers, unicorns and top down delusion ...

So, I was listening to the jazz station on Comcast's Music Choice (because being a graduate student in English apparently requires one to "listen to" at least a modicum of the "good" stuff in order to check off yet another box in the "certified elitist" list) and hardcore Reggaeton started playing. I was reading at the time, and it took me a while to realize the switch, since most music, when reading, is really just nicely ordered background noise. When I did notice, I couldn't help but laugh.

Here I was, up to my eyeballs in education debt and trying to figure out how I could budget enough money for food for the next couple of weeks as I read Joyce's Dubliners and listened to a random assortment of sophisticated, energetic, clamor. I love (most) music, especially jazz, but sometimes, in specific situations, it's just sounding brass and tinkling symbols; when the Reggaeton started playing, I realized that this was such a situation.

* * *

I've already made the post(s) about the despair and utter loneliness that this path provides, about languishing under the weight of oppressive expectations, and sipping from the cup of vitriolic recompense--a cup distributed to those who thirst after a spot of recognition for their expended time and energy. I've sung the song, participated in the dance and listened to the tiny violin playing the soundtrack to sorrows of my new life. This isn't about that.

This is about the utter lunacy of it all. Seriously. In the span of a week, I read hundreds of pages of educated people talking about the whole of humanity, a whole to which they pride themselves on having no direct connection. From their ivory towers of, truth, art and love they regurgitate discriminatory axioms coined by enlightened minds of old--hoping that this time, after going through (partial) (re)digestion, the incongruous "axiomatic" bile will, unlike the time before, come out as a well-ordered testament of progress.

I sit (on my room-mates couch) reading books (bought with borrowed money) that go from talking about the importance of "civilization" to pontificating on how arbitrary and meaningless life is. All the while, I become more and more pissed off at how I've let my (apparently meaningless and arbitrary) life revolve around questions and concepts that "say" both everything and nothing. Why is it so hard for people to see that the higher they are above the daily grind of existence, the easier it is for them to be sucked into the illusion of beating the system?

I am not, by any stretch of the imagination a Marxist, but why do we put a premium on an angle of vision that privileges the elevation of a select few individuals at the expense of a vast majority of others? This is an old, old, question, I know. But it seems that we gasp collectively every time something horrible happens as a consequence of us not fully coming to terms with what keeps the wheel of human history turning. Before I fall into the cycle of doom-saying and crazy-talk, I'll stop there.

Just know that now you have the reason for why I study science-fiction and fantasy. In the house of time where running from room to room, through this door and that, only leads you right back where you started, speculative fiction (at least for me) is a doorway in which you are afforded a view of what lies between; it is not a door that you go through, but one you stand in and observe how all of the rooms, at the end of the day, when the various decorations fall to ruin, and the illusion of distinctions disappears, are all the same.

At any rate, I guess I'll get back to reading...

And the Madness Continues...

It's starting back up again. After almost two months of break, of wasted time and pages of pleasure reading, I'm getting back to business.

I had a nightmare last night. How funny the brain works sometimes. The day before the official start of the semester, I have a dream in which I'm incapacitated, stuck, trapped, with only my eyes and mind left wondering free. Go figure.

On a lighter note, the more I read, the more I realize why I'm doing this, and why--possibly for shamefully misguided reasons--I feel as though I have something to contribute. We'll see how the dust settles after my first class.

I'm honestly not quite sure where I'm going to take this blog. I started it my freshman year of college, and am now in my "freshman" year of graduate school. I feel like it's changed, as anything meant to chart one's growth over time should. Still, whether or not its present feel adequately portrays where I am now as a person is still up for debate. After reading through old posts, I've been amazing to see how much my focus has shifted--how much my writing has shed the form of a loose fitting parka and taken on that of a well tailored jacket.

Despite all of this, my voice is still foreign to me. I need more practice, as I haven't written much. I don't know if the fine tuning will ever be finished; but I'm hoping that in its progress, it's at least structurally sound. We'll see where this goes. And maybe, for once, I can keep the blasted "books i'm reading" section up to date. I feel like anyone reading those same tombs for as long as this blog purports would probably be a very sad soul. Of course I have a short attention span, so I would most likely feel that way about anything. But I digress, and the madness continues...

Color me uncolored... and speechless...

I'm still in shock; I had no idea that this would happen so soon. It seems that America continues to be a land of surprises--for worse or, apparently, for better...

The world was watching, the nation was hoping, and I was sitting in my socks and boxers with my eyes glued to the television. It happened, and I couldn't help but check the calendar. I was almost positive it wasn't April. Did we enter some sort of backwards alternate-reality vortex? I looked that man in the face and couldn't help but view him as a walking, talking, living, breathing, anachronism, a man somehow misplaced in the grand scheme of things--a man who, despite perpetuated practices, managed to inspire a radical reconsideration of long-held ideals and beliefs. All I could do was stare. It wasn't April, I wasn't dreaming, and we seemed to be comfortably nestled in our normal, non-alternative, universe.

My father voted for the first time, and I can't help but think he represents his generation's final push to make something happen. It worked. I can't relay to you the pride and, deep, fundamental, joy I felt at my father's excitement to cast his vote. All of this is sobering, to say the least. This election has made Neil Armstrongs of us all; we are finally aware of our individual place in the ever-running continuum of time. I'm glad I've lived to witness what could possibly be one of the most significant regime changes in the small history of our adolescent nation and the larger, more considerable, history of our (human) race.

For all of those who have died; for the bodies at the bottom of the Atlantic ocean; for the bones buried deeply in the heart of our southern kin; for the sacrifice, heartache and hardship; for my mother and father, my grandmother and grandfather; for the homeless persons on the street, the lonely souls longingly lingering behind bars, and the dapper debutantes flaunting the fruits of their professional prowess; I look ahead and smile.

It seems that we, in our own small-stepping way, have made another giant leap toward a promising future. Still, I'm certain that we've yet to travel as far and as long as we must for things to be truly as they should. I'm looking forward to the journey.

What You Ask For...

This entry started off as a reflective assignment for my Composition Theory class. After finishing it, I realized that it was really meant for here. I turned it in anyway...

* * *

I’ve started to sleep with the light on again. I concluded a while ago that my fear of the dark is directly proportional to the amount of stress in my life. At this point, I’m apprehensive about getting up and going to the bathroom because of the five seconds of insufferable blackness that separates my room and the light switch. I’m not quite sure if that constitutes as some form of social commentary; I’m completely comfortable in my skin, but at times, I fee like it hinders other’s ability to be naturally comfortable with me. So, most of the time, I feel like a beached whale, surrounded by an ocean of well-intentioned individuals. The glaring differences make it hard to see much else, and I can’t help but feel sorry for them. I know that that’s an ironic concept; it both is and isn’t their fault that I grew up in a subdivision of their discursive existence. The similarities are atrociously intriguing, but the differences have a way of putting everything into perpetual perspective. Here I am, creating the beginnings of what might prove to be a ritualistic purging of the non-sequential, expressive, deceitfully telling writing that has marked the communicative growth I have experienced over the years, and all I can think about is the idea that this soul-letting will work to foster a base disconnectedness that will enable me to write more like an academic. I can’t think of anything more classically pathetic.

* * *

I miss the days when I was certain about things; the days when I was secure. Now I seem to exist in a continual state of intellectual disarray. I don’t trust the viability of my own thoughts, and I can’t help but think that this path is one big conspiracy to make me a functioning alcoholic. I never drank as much as I have since I’ve been here, and it’s only been about a month. Talk about your gateway drugs. I’m convinced that the desire to pursue a life in academia is the most significant social anathema in existence. I was already a recluse, and even I have my reservations. (As a side note, that was not initially meant to be a punny reference to the current state of Native-American sovereign territories.) All this leaves me wondering if my tangential, markedly interconnect trains of though will, at some point, come barreling toward each other in what is sure to be the final reckoning of my intellectual existential being. I mean, will I ever be able to avoid the cerebral overload that comes with the assimilation of massive amounts of (oft- disparaging) case studies on human exigency (know, more affectionately, as literature)? For—to hijack, resituate and ironize an oft quoted scripture—my cup runneth over as it is.

* * *

The other day, I genuinely wept while reading Harper Lee’s To Kill a Monkingbird, and I’ve not been alright sense. Looking the way I do, being the way I am, feeling the way I feel, I can’t help but hurt when humanity trades in its individually inspired brilliance for a work-bee like reliance on mob mentality. We possess tools that both damn and save us, and I am torn to pieces by the price we each have to pay for misguided, oft-violent, centralization of human intellectual capital. We chant, “I am legion” as we slaughter each other by the millions, all for a frustrated desire to connect with ourselves and, by extension, each other. It hurts, and the books only serve to concretize the inner turmoil that breeds such contemptible behavior. They give me hope; they leave me in despair. Still, I profess literature, and I must press on. I’m just at a loss for what I’m supposed to do with these feelings. “I could stand a little help.”

Another Day...

Today is Sunday and I, willfully, did not go to church. There. I said it. I'm a creature of habit that has lost any connection to the routine that has marked its life for so long. Where is life alert when you need it? I'm tired of pretending, of being the knight in gilded armor in little, unimportant, ways. Few know how draining it is to smile and nod and grin when everything within you wants to be frank and honest. Why must I be stuck with caring, picking up where others have dropped anything they could stand to gesticulate? I have so much stored inside that my dreams have become an inadequate release valve; they've given up, and apparently convinced sleep to follow suit. I wish to God they'd return.

For so long I've been the go to guy for things. My life has been made up perpetual layers of falsities; my personality has become malleable to the point that it always lacks any definite shape, and that disturbs me to no end. I can befriend anyone; make people smile; be attractive; be seductive; seem clueless; seem helpless. But, when it all comes down to it, I have a hard time being me, for I am all and none of these things.

Why can I not just be me anymore? I want to make love just as much as the next person does. Why is that so bad? It's gotten to the point where refraining from swearing is something that I do more so out of habit than reverence. I don't sleep with random people because I'm picky not because I'm fearful of some precipitous decent into the nether regions of post-humus existence.

Still, there are always people to worry about. I know when they're lying to me; I know when they're insecure. I can tell from the tone of their voice how their day has been, and I know when their hiding the screaming, raging, daemons inside. People never expect you to be perceptive, though they secretly wish you would be. It's taken me twenty-two years to realize that. Now, I know why I'm always so socially awkward: I get glimpses of emotions and can't shake them quick enough. I guess it's always been that way.

I need a vacation.

Silent Scream...

So, it seems that I've fallen back into old habits. I've been MIA, and I apologize to whoever cares. Things have been interesting for the last few weeks. As I hinted in the previous post, I've been on a path of self discovery, and it's led me to uncharted territory. I've met new people who may turn out to be just insane enough to carry me along with them. Somehow, it doesn't feel like the blind leading the blind.

Orientation started last week and ended Friday. It's amazing how much of a sense of camaraderie can develop between like minded individuals who just happen to be strangers. All in all, things have been going smoothly. I really missed writing here and I didn't realize how much it helps until my fingers started composing what you see now. My sleep has been fitful, and rest has been elusive. I think it has something to do with the change in locale--however cerebral. I'm hoping that I'll find some stability before classes start and I'm forced to operate with a helter-skelter sense of balance. It's bad enough that I'm already intellectually insecure; I really don't need to add emotional instability to the, already complicated, equation.

Maybe I need music to re-appear in my life, or maybe I need someone to come along and hold me and tell me that everything will be alright. Despite the crowd, I feel as lonely as I've ever felt, and I can't help but think that I'll learn to be numb to it before any relief will come. I'm so picky, so skeptical, so vulnerable that trust never enters the picture--neither for myself nor another. It's insanity; I know. Still I can't help but feel the silence and shiver at the thought of how cold it gets.

Music, why so soft? Hope, why so quiet? Time, why so still? Help, why so far? I read somewhere that "courage doesn't always roar", that "sometimes courage is the quiet voice a the end of the day saying 'I will try again tomorrow'"

...I apologize for being so personal...

Getting there...

"I'm in repair. I'm not together, but I'm getting there."

I was thinking today about where I'm headed, because, for some reason, it seems that the farther I travel down my personal road, the less I know about the destination. The journey is important. I know. Still, I'm wondering if the means are working toward any perceivable--let alone justifiable--end. I mean, I'm all for exercising my individuality. I understand the singular nature of my particular walk, and even agree with the ideology that a little travel and experience ultimately leads to a better and more fulfilled life; I'm just wondering if all this aimless wandering is completely necessary.

This question, though generally applicable to almost every aspect of my life, is particularly geared to where my head and heart is at spiritually. I know I rarely talk about this here (or anywhere, for that mater) but a conversation with a dear friend sparked what is growing to be a particularly unruly flame of discontent.

Have you ever sat trying to wrap your mind around or identify something that is perpetually out of reach--even if only just barely? What's amazing about such a predicament is that it sometimes takes only a few words from an extrinsic source to transform that cloudy, nebulous "something" into a clear, distinctly important, conception of an often deeply affecting part of your personal reality. Making this specific to my situation, I’ve known for a while now that a once barely comprehensible concept has been making itself more and more apparent. Narrowing this broad stroke even further, I'm coming to the point where my spiritual journey is, for the first time, being laid before me.

* * *

As the aforementioned friend intimated, the hand holding process has ended and the path to self-discovery and spiritual fulfillment is now mine to choose. With all of this before me, I'm wondering if the way that I've been led-- a way that has been anything but "less traveled"-- has hindered me from ever being able to make it on my own. If I'm walking the path that those before me have walked, how am I supposed to choose anything other than what those before me have chosen? I guess I'm wondering if my confusion lies in the fact that I'm expected to come up with an individual understanding of something that has hitherto relied on (and, presently, all but demands) communal construal.

* * *

I don't agree with half of what most people believe in this faith. This makes things all the more difficult considering that I can't seem to differentiate between the plural reality of "the" faith and the--more important--singular reality "my" faith. I'm stuck with walking the thin line between what is progressive and what is blasphemous, and it's completely clouding any vision of the future. I'm not quite following in the footsteps of those I have grown to respect and love, and I am nowhere near coming into my own. Instead of venturing down a discernible path, I'm pushing my way through the dense, inhibiting, brush that lies between the two, and I don't know how long I can keep it up. The foliage is stinging, blinding and disorienting, and I'm loosing sight of either way.

Do I play it safe, or boldly go where none has gone before? Seriously, either way I choose I'll be letting a part of me down. I don't want the religious answers, despite how comfortingly numbing they can sometimes be. I don't want a connection based on a historically perpetuated system that has become disconnected from its founding principles. I want a relationship. One that is not predicated on what I've done to atone for past occurrences I could not control. I want to be loved, and to love unconditionally. I want to feel needed and to need. I want to consistently practice what I preach and follow a God that does the same. I don't want the God that my mother, father or peers believe in. I want the God who truly loves me despite my (many) faults and who I can love in return; the one who is as ashamed of what "our" faith has become as I am; the one for whom I am enough and who is enough for me.

I am truly sorry if this offends anyone, for that isn't my intent. I'm merely verbalizing what has been stirring up so much internal dust as of late. Hopefully, this will be the first step toward some rehabilitating clarity.

Reading: The story of my life...

The day has finally come. I've decided that I'm going to start reading. I've been putting it off for so long because I know deep down that it's more than starting one book. In beginning the list, I'm also beginning a new way of thinking about and looking at what occurs in them all. I feel like I'm committing to a marriage that can never be annulled with a partner whom I barely know. From what I've heard, things change on the other side. Once passionate love affairs turn into embittered resentment... quaint familiarity becomes sardonic intimacy... basic exoteric gratification becomes acidic esoteric frustration.... Ah well...

To mark the occasion I bought three books to add to the already staggering list of ones I've yet to read. I should probably seek counseling, because it seems to be becoming an addiction. At any rate, I'm thinking I'm going to heed the advice of those who have come before me and start with the books that I'd normally use as paperweights.

I want to be ambitious, but the small amount of good sense that I do possess is telling me that starting too hot will burn me out before I get a good pace set. So, I'm thinking Middlemarch, Pride and Prejudice, Moby Dick (ugh) and Tristram Shandy are ones I'm going to have to build up to... sue me.

Family

So I Just got back "home" after a week long foray into the inner sanctum of familial relations. My parents renewed their vows after 25 years of (more or less) happy marriage, four kids, a host of semi-adopted auxiliaries and half a lifetime of dealing with large groups of Type A personalities. After having the privilege of participating in the ceremony (by far the worst "singing" I've done in recent and not so recent memory) I realize that I'm in no hurry to venture down that road.

Don't get me wrong. I love family. I love seeing the look of true pleasure in their eyes when they behold the reassuring sight of a lasting union between two individuals in whom they see a wellspring of promise and possibility. I love the almost palpable bond that connects even the most estranged members of the convivial collective. I love feeling a sense of safety amidst a world of danger and chaos. Still, too much of any good thing counteracts that thing's goodness, and--true to form--, the family that I hold so dearly is also the family that-- given the proper amount of time--drives me up a wall-- and/or out a door.

All in all, the week was enjoyable. I had the opportunity to see folk I hadn't in a very long time, and also got to hang out with friends whom I'd been sorely missing for what seemed to be even longer. It was a week I didn't know I needed. Here's to the times when surprises are doubly unexpected and, equally, enjoyed.

Random Confessional...

So, my friend Nate tagged me a little more than a month ago with a meme for which I'm supposed to divulge six widely unknown things about myself. Since I operate with a "better late than never" mentality (most of the time) I figured I'd give it a shot. Oh boy...

1. I'm deathly afraid of the dark. When I was little, I used to sleep with a plastic mini coat rack (the one that hangs on the back of a door or on a wall) in my hand to beat any ghost/person/unknown entity that might sneak up on me while I lay alone. To this day, I sleep with the TV on to simulate another person's presence in the room. Now I even go as far as to play downloaded movies and episodes of TV shows on my computer monitor when no TV is present. My sisters think it’s funny; I think it's debilitating.

2. Though most people never notice, I don't wear shorts in public. I developed a bad case of eczema right around the time I started going through puberty. At such a vulnerable time in my (mental) development, I was ashamed of any irregularities. The eczema got better, but my self-perception did not. Thus, my legs are made to suffer for my insecurity. (Sorry legs. I really do love you. I promise.)

3. I have full-blown conversations with other people both audibly and internally when those people aren't around. I say what I think they might say and react accordingly, often with added intonation and appropriate emotion. It's something I do to make up for the fact that I can't seem to grasp even the most rudimentary fundaments of social interaction. This is why I write better than I speak and why I plan to be a recluse for the remainder of my life... a plan that academia seems to view as ideal...here's to a successful future...

4. As my best friend Andrea admitted, I'm a pack rat. I can't bear to part with things even when I know that I have no use for them. I kept homework sheets from the first grade in my closet until my parents moved from the house in Philly. They threw them out, and I cringed from 100+ miles away. This fact becomes more interesting when one considers that I also have a mild case of OCD. Talk about being one's own worst enemy.

5. When I was little, I could not stand loud noises. They bothered me to the point where I would drop everything I was doing (or holding, apparently) and cover my ears. A couple days ago, my Godmother was telling my brother about how everyone knew not to give me any glass bottles or fragile things to hold when walking with me through the streets (I grew up in Philly). To this day, my eyes still twitch when fire trucks or motor cycles go by.

6. I sometimes buy books with no intentions to read them. I like how they smell and feel and would be perfectly content with having a library full of ones that I have never read. Just the idea of having a study with walls resplendently bedecked with bookshelves that are packed with books is almost exciting enough to be the sole reason for my desire to succeed. I love to read. Don't get me wrong. I just love the physical aspect of books a little more.

Alright then, that's it. I lay bare before you and hope the sight is an altogether endurable one.

A Change...

Hello World. It's me again, finally...

Since I've worked hard to establish a precedent of stating the obvious at the most ridiculous (read: glaringly unnecessary) moments, I'm going to take time out to say: "It's been a while."

Now, in defiance of my previous nod toward precedent, I'm going to admit in (relatively) plain English what has caused the hiatus and the--arguably long overdue-- face-lift that this humble repository of cerebral refuse has undergone. Things have changed.

This change in no way resembles that of the present variety. It isn't the fleeting, taciturn, easy-mac and speed dating type of change that we've come to know over the years. It's the type that calls into question every decision I've ever made. It's the kind that brings to bear every black fear I've ever faced about the contiguous actions (and resulting reactions) that have shaped what lies both between my ears and within my heart.

* * *

In order to save myself from a relapse into a imobilizing bout of self-scrutiny, Ill just say that there were times when I felt trapped in my own mind, both afraid and unable to leave from behind the self-erected bars of isolation. The bars were my bars, the fears were my fears, and the pains were my escape. I was (and, to an extent, still am) a masochist of the most secret variety.

Since then I've graduated in more ways than I care to admit, and, in so doing, have become someone to and with whom I'm still trying to (re) connect. It's been slow going. Still, I'm making progress. Despite the fact that there's a host of "no more's" in my life right now (Rutgers, Undergrad, "free" lodging, gratuitous slacking, reckless abandon...), I've yet to jump off of any bridges or into any oncoming traffic...a feat that I'm more than a little happy to have pulled off, if for no other reason than a naked desire for self preservation.

I'm even learning how not to bastardize parts of myself that seem to garner attention, no matter how ill deserved...yeah.

All this to say, you'll be hearing from me more often. Now that I've spruced up the place and have re-broken the ice, I think writing here will be more --what has come to be--me.

What you ask for...

It's been longer than usual, as I've bounced consistently between laziness, business, and general overwhelmedness (think King James pronunciation). I'm graduating in a couple months; I’m moving out of my parent’s house (completely) in a few more, and I'm making one of the most important decisions ever. I think it's hilarious that the last post revolved around feelings of inadequacy and fears of possible failure, when I now have a tremendous choice on my hands. I was given advice and encouragement which I, at the time, saw as overly confident in abilities I knew I did not posses. Tremendously grateful, I still remained a cynic. I felt out of my league, out of my depth, and out of my mind for even attempting something as presumptuous as applying for graduate study...

In the first couple months after that post my fears were validated. Rejections did abound, and there came, despite the pain, a twinge of underlying vindication. It seemed as though I was right after all. My pride began to glaze over, and I went on as if none of it was happening. But then there was February 25th...

After that day, three acceptances came in rapid succession, and now I'm standing here, yet undecided...

* * *

I can't shake the burden of incompetence that has consistently afflicted every area of my life. People try to encourage me, and I am heartened by, what I perceive to be, genuine praise. Still, the load does not let up. I see that they both mean and believe what they say; I just can't seem to receive it. I've been able to cope with this over the years. Blending into the crowd has provided a bubble of anonymity that has served to hide my glaring insufficiencies. But now I'm entering an arena of singular accomplishments, and that bubble is in the process of rabidly bursting. My cover is failing.

At this point, I've narrowed the decision down to two. Why can't they see me? A bubble isn't by any means the most effective method of concealment. It's transparent; it’s insubstantial; it’s tenuous. And still they perceive something; something that, at this point, is neither the bubble, nor the man that stands behind it, because neither is worth the effort they're putting forth. I wish to God I knew what it was....

On a wing and a prayer...

So, I just sent off my last application to grad school, and I'm completely terrified at the idea of possible failure. I guess I've always taken for granted the reassurance provided by an underlying faith in my abilities. I was calm because I didn't see failure as an actual possibility. But now, I'm on the wrong side of mediocrity, and I can't figure out how to cope with the fact that I'm just like everyone else.

PhD programs are no joke. That's a given. Still, I'm wondering whether I've started bugging out unnecessarily. I've always made things out to be harder than what they actually are. It's been my way of achieving what I have over the years. I get myself worked up over the (internally fictitious) prospect of failure and then over-perform. I know afterward that the idea of failure was never real; it was something that I fabricated in order to push myself over the edge of complacency and into the waters of productivity. Now though, I'm in those waters and am, for the first time, floundering.

I've always been a good swimmer. Backstrokes, breaststrokes, doggy paddles and treading were always easy for me, and I dominated the kid and teen swim with natural alacrity. I didn't need any flotation aids and could survive in the deep end, but it’s adult swim now, and the facility that separated me from my previous company is shared by all. Many have practiced their swimming technique so much that I seem to be the opposite of what I once was. I'm nowhere near as comfortable on the deep end as they are, and I've begun to realize my relative limits.

I'm applying to 11 schools with 11 different pools of applicants and I'm worried. The pools there are all adult swims, requiring everything I have and some things that I've yet to develop. No more swimming circles around other kids in the pool, no more treading lazily in the middle, and no more doing elementary tricks. Everyone else will have passed this stage and already developed unique techniques.

I wish so much sometimes that I'd used the time I had to hone my craft instead of remaining complacent in my abilities. Now I have to hope and pray that I, by some grace of God, am accepted into the fold, that I'm skilled enough for the adult world, that I perform well enough in the deep end to warrant inclusion into the "big boy" crowd. Oh God. I long for the days when I was confident. I wish for some sense of security. There are approximately 3 months until I know for sure if I'm good enough. I'm anxious and deathly afraid.

I applied to eleven schools and I don't feel especially confident about any one of them....Failure scares the crap out of me, but mediocrity enrages me, especially when its my own...

Busy...

It's been a while... The time flies by so quickly; hours, days, weeks, months enter and exit at the blink of an eye, and I am still standing in the same place, grabbing at air as I just miss every thing I attempt to reach for. I wish that life would slow down enough for me to at least see what's going on. It's like sitting in a car on the highway and watching the railings go by in one extended blur. Each individual spoke is discernible up until a certain point. Your eye can compensate for the speed until the pace of your surroundings begins to eclipse your physical ability to follow. They become an indefinite mass of things you once knew to be, individually, familiar.
* * *
This semester sucks...hard. I can't focus on anything completely, my prospective future looks, at best, bleak and I'm an adult in a world that only seems to care about those on either extremes of life. The young are to be protected and the old are to be pitied but those in between…well… I'm "studying" for the GRE's, taking classes, working two jobs, constructing a senior thesis, beginning my "statement of purpose", looking for letters of recommendation, researching grad schools and having a life. Is this some "rite of passage"? Am I really going to have to deal with this sort of ridiculousness for the rest of my life? If not, will there be new types of ridiculousness? If so, will I be able to justify the extent of these trials in the title that will eventually appear before my name? Are the (highly) possible 10+ years of a brutal, hyper-Darwinian, subsistence living, "apprenticeship" even worth it?
* * *
I wish I didn't have to ask myself questions to which I already know the answers, but it seems to be the only way I can be sure that I’m not crazy. I know that life isn't fair. Things that require the most work often receive the least (perceivable) payment. Still, seeing the punch coming doesn't make it hurt any less. If anything, it only serves to frustrate, because just as sure as I know it's coming, I also know that I can't move out of its way. In this decision to grow and learn, I’ve chosen my fate: to be a proverbial punching bag until I’ve grown strong enough to wield gloves of my own. This I understand. I'm just frustrated at those individuals and systems that constantly deal thinly veiled "low blows"/ unnecessary hits/ obstacles that only serve to further assuage their fear of internal inadequacy. My cross is heavy enough to bear without the guilt, anger and pain of theirs.
* * *
If the spokes are going to remain indistinguishable, if this is, like a rite of passage, unavoidable, if I must continue to take the punches, if this cup will not pass from me and I must bear this cross, if I am forced to be the scapegoat for other's insecurities, I will, through clenched teeth, frustrated gesticulations and ironic smiles, endure it all, because, in the end, I will be the better for it. I just pray that I have the strength to forgive after it's all said and done.

Reality...

I know that everyone has to come to terms with it at some point in their lives. I just can't help but think I've done something wrong. Are other people better actors , or have I just been markedly naive? I knew that it was dualistic in nature. Yet, I still neglected to brace myself against the abominable backhand it often gives after it sooths and comforts.

It's funny how things work. The fact that hell's fury and God's grace is all wrapped up in one, seemingly neutral, concept speaks silent volumes to the instability of life. At once grotesque and beautiful, simultaneously unfair and generous, concurrently simple and complex, it challenges forth, in each of us, the ability and will to tread on ground that is not only shaky, but (often times) barely existent.

Sometimes I am at a loss for words. I sit at the bottom of the barrel of my explanatory capacities and just cry, hoping and wishing that tears will communicate what words can not. But only fragments are received by those who aren't wholly receptive, and tears, in their purity, cannot reveal the truth to those who are not ready for it. So, my eyes dry and I get up.
Unless I've resigned myself to quitting, all I can do is continue to get up after I've (inevitably) been knocked down.

Shakespeare was right. All of life is a stage on which we are merely actors. As I said to a friend yesterday, I've decided to play my part until it is my turn to exit. Maybe others are better actors. Maybe I haven't been around long enough or lack the inherent skill to effectively and convincingly deliver my lines. But I will continue to hone this craft until I am comfortable in this reality/foreign skin.

Sometimes...

I really do wish that people could see how they treat others. I wonder what our lives would be like if we were all given a constant mirror of ourselves. Would knowing how our actions affect others cause us to change (even only superficially) how we interact with each other?

I guess the point of this vague inquiry is to see whether or not I’m alone in this world. Am I the only one who thinks this way? I’d like to believe that not all people quickly jump to internally postulated conclusions without looking at the picture in its entirety. Maybe people are just socialized into different mentalities, and in this socializing, gravitate toward a method of addressing individuals that assumes an identical view of the world. I don’t know if I’m rambling or if I’ve stumbled upon a legitimate connection here. Let’s just see where this ride takes me…

I think that there is a direct correlation between the field of study in which a person chooses to specialize and the way in which they communicate with others. This may be inaccurate in some specific circumstances (as all generalizations eventually are), but I feel that people in the sciences (read: “hard” sciences/math/engineering) and people in the humanities tend to look/address/deal with things much differently. I guess I’ll try to break this down as I attempt to synthesize a written representation of what I’m thinking for both types of people.

For the Sciences: Numbers, formulae and graphical information seem to translate into clear cut pictures of many things in the real world. The universality of concepts and the provable nature of the problems with which these individuals have to deal seem to tint the lens through which they view things in ways that only allow minimal shades of grey. The “if a then b” mentality that they, through their work, are accustomed to translates into a constant state of bewilderment when they are faced with issues that don’t necessarily fall directly into the set of experiences that are not definitively answerable. These people may include (but are not limited to) those who are highly frustrated with (and are usually intensely condescending/critical to) deviant problems (or people), those who assume that individuals are cognizant of a universal (also known as their) approach to specific occurrences, and those who, generally, look at one facet of something and assume all of the other facets based on the section of that something that they observed (which is transferred from their ability to do so in other (field related) problems). These individuals have a heightened sense of the possibility for complete "right" and "wrong" and may exhibit this in conversation and social interaction.

This is something that (almost) connects the science focused individuals with those who specialize in the humanities.

For the Humanities: Objectivity, interpretation and intellectual conjecture/hypothesization seem to make everything fluid and (if especially undefined) ultimately transitory. This often translates into a world view that is so highly intellectualized that it ceases to be practical. Whereas the science focused are hindered by categorization and formulaic approach in social situations, the humanities focused (can) lack the grounding in a shared reality that allows the social communication to be fruitful. They see the aforementioned shades of grey in such vivid detail that the definitive black and white becomes lost. These people may be those who throw around idealistic ideas without taking into account the practical impossibility of them, those who shun individuals who attempt to nail down concepts into universal understanding (even if only to make them at least generally perceptible) to more than one individual (or a select group of individuals) at a time, and those who have (mentioned earlier as the, almost, shared attribute) a hard time accepting things as "relevant" intellectual knowledge without an equally "relevant" intellectual backing (essentially a "world" of ideas contingent upon the separate/internal world in which these ideas originate/operate) .

All this to say, I can't get down with the extremes. Even if it makes me an, ultimately, contradictory person (as if we all aren't, in some ways, contradictory), I wish that people would try to play both ends of the field or at least visit the center a little more often. These mindsets are complimentary in their contradictions. "Why can't we all just get along" without constructing mutually exclusive barriers of socialization? Though the universe may be bigger than our minds could ever imagine, it still (in some way, shape, or form) resides within it. Why can't perceptions of other people's realities do so as well?

Keepin' it movin'...

I'm inspired by people who are themselves. Individuals who either don't care or can't help being exactly who they are, ignite a desire in me to be.

I love those who acknowledge the existence of imperfections within themselves and admire individuals who aren't afraid to admit that new answers are found everyday and no one person can keep track of them all.

I admit that I, at times, loose the will to continue this fight. Lying complacent in a self created sea of complaints, I sometimes let life's unfairness and the myriad of difficulties that constitute my individual burden weigh me down until I am submerged in this pool, unable (or unwilling) to reach the surface...

But seeing those who refuse to succumb to the tumultuous seas causes me to get up out of this submergence and trudge through the murky waters toward the future; toward progress; toward me.

I've learned to love life, even when I abhor it.

It Hurts Like Hell....

I'm sitting here thinking over the last few years astonished at how far I've come and how much I've grown. How I've exited my box of darkened solitude into the marvelous light of social interaction and deep rooted friendship. I've experienced things that I never would have if I were not indeed goaded into exiting those familiar confines and stepping out into "the world". For that, I am immensely grateful. I would not be as open to and cognizant of my surroundings as I am today if not for this. That said, I think it's time that I try to fix something that, in hasty extrication from my box of comfort, was left unattended to.

...... **** .....

After much deliberation over the constant messages my parents have instilled in my head over the years and the comments, occurrences, and eventually painful experiences that I have lived through, I've come to realized that I am a living breathing manifestation of what happens when idealism and realism collide.

I give to the point that it hurts. Unsatisfied until every one is happy, I take from myself until I am left in tears at the foot of the stairs, bed, or person who feels that I have not given enough, tears that will never cease to fall because the giving that they require only ends when they no longer take. They want, attention, consent, comfort, love,
and give complaints, frustration, indifference, and anger when these things are not supplied in the ways that they desire. Used as ammunition in arguments and as threats overhead, their giving is something that, though genuine (and sometimes often), can quickly turn into the very thing that takes the most.

...... **** .....

I was talking to a friend yesterday and was asked, (in apparent frustration) why I don't own up to my mistakes. I didn't say anything then because I couldn't form an intellectually coherent response. But if posed the question again, I would answer: I can't own up to my own mistakes until I learn to stop owning up to everyone else's. It amazes me how people scold you for behaving in ways that they through their actions make it perfectly clear they don't mind you acting in. It amazes me how they can't see the blaring inconsistencies in what they request. How can person A on one hand reprimand person B for being giving to a fault, and on the other complain that person B doesn't give enough? Therein lies the crux of the problem.

People want an idealistic world when they are (with active contentment) living in reality. They say that one should give and proceed to take from those who heed that advice. They maintain that one should not allow themselves to be taken advantage of and proceed to do just that to those who expend themselves in pleasing others. They ask for a messiah and crucify him for doing and being exactly what/who they desire.

All this to say, I'm tired of being the (even unintentional) scapegoat, and sick of being injured from following advise from the same sword that eventually cuts me for heeding its suggestions, because, as Aretha sang, it hurts like hell. I'll never cease to give, because I can't do otherwise ( despite multiple attempts on my behalf). I'll just make a concerted effort to leave some of me left when I'm done. Despite (and partially because of) what it means for/to others.

Finally growing....

"In the end, you're gonna find that strength that lies within, and in the end, all you need is the comfort of a friend, and in the end, you won't break cuz you're learning how to bend, and the hand of God will guide you always, in the end"- Eric Bene't

Truer words have (as far as I've known) never been spoken. The fact that I'm writing this on this day, the two year anniversary of this journal, is no coincidence. It's apropos of everything. I've essentially reached a place in my life where intentionally habituated hypocrisy has caused me to choose between the theory of who I profess to be and the reality of who I actually am. It's amazing how kindness and self sacrificing can be the ultimate form of selfishness. I've been holding on to something that has been itching to be free, and I (up until this point) couldn't bear to let it go. Inwardly philosophizing and outwardly satisfying to keep this in my life despite the fact that it was slowly killing me inside, I’ve nearly ruined myself. The taste of masochism is sometimes so sweet.

And now, on this day of all days, I have come full circle and am, in the acknowledgement and commitment to set free the mutual bonds/binds, reborn in a renewal of my dedication to the upkeep of my inner man. It is finished, and the life of undermining my own progress is over. “I vow, right now, to never be the same". I will no longer support the procession of continuously self inflicted decadence. I am stronger now.

I realize that I’ve been blocking the potential inherent in my maturity through my repudiation of growth past that stage in life. I was effectively retarding the progression of the manifestation of my destiny by refusing to possess land in my life that lay beyond the baby stage of perpetual self gratification. I had to reach a point in which I could be content with the idea of delayed satisfaction in order for me to grasp the totality of what was in store for me, and, today, I am here.

For all who have helped me on this journey, I thank you. For your months of unacknowledged support, for the endless nights of sleepless suffering, for the weeks of unrequited consideration, for the unspoken love in every sacrifice, I am eternally grateful. I couldn't have remained the person I am without your unacknowledged struggle. I appreciate and love you. I only pray I will live long enough to adequately return the favor. Have a wonderful Christmas....

Happy birthday journal.