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.

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.

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.