Le Pendu

This week's put me on the fucking edge, and I'd like to thank my friend Brendan for having the foresight to be born on May 26th in order to make things remotely bearable.

I had a job offer for a retail chain that peddles in wares for which I have a great passion. So, in order to become a blip on the radar, I had to fill out an online application for this company. I filled out all of the pertinent information, and then came the "personality profile" stuff. Now, the questions within were things that I wouldn't fucking ask anyone I didn't share a major life experience with. Most of them I wish I had an extra option for "none of your fucking business; this has nothing to do with my job performance." Nevertheless, I answered as honestly as I could, with a little embellishment where I felt I could wiggle. So, I pop in to check on the update, and I had a red flag. Is it that I want to spend my free time alone, most of the time? Is it that I take pride in my work? What, in that godforsaken quiz, makes me seem like I'm going to set the store on fire while stealing the register? Shouldn't these questions be reserved for a face-to-face interview? In order for the company to view me as a viable candidate, I have to compromise my integrity.

In between this, I had bought a ton of cleaning products for a big Memorial Day/Birthday clean with my roommate while at work. While walking home, I passed a large group of people at Broad and Bainbridge. I thought little of it, until I heard a pop and the groupd of people began running wildly. Figuring "Oh, that was probably a gunshot" I began running as well. A boy probably not much older than 17 started running next to me, and as I turned to ask him what the fuck was going on, he clocked me. While I was dazed, he and others took the cleaning products from my hands, as well as my shoulder bag which contained a tarot deck, a pair of sunglasses, a journal and my work uniform. The crowd pulled away, and I found my uniform and journal lying on the sidewalk. It was such a freak event, but I've been shaken up by it for a bit, now. I think about the circumstances of why I got out of work late enough to experience this, why I got targeted for mugging, and the absurdity of what was stolen, and I find I have a hard time loving mankind in the same way.

Well, this same job has also given me no hours to work next week, and I'd like to figure out whether or not I've been downsized, or if this presages a spotty, obnoxious work schedule. I fought for this job, I battled with myself to maintain my integrity in that preposterous workplace, and I'm returned to the conditions I was in that put me in the position where I needed this job in the first place.

I've been a mental and spiritual train wreck this year, and I just hoped for a little stability, just one fewer things over which to fret. It's getting really hard to keep it together. I have tried relating my feelings to people, and the feelings are understandably deflected and trivialized. I feel very strongly and very intensely, and that's not going to change just to make the people around me comfortable. I often wish my conscience could allow me one of those big, selfish meltdowns that leaves a massive scar of physical and psychic turmoil behind. As much as I regret it sometimes, I'm very glad that I was given the heart that I have. The breadth of experience it allows seems so rare, as painful as it is sometimes. I've withstood what seems like an eternity of heartache. I've accepted roles both chivalrous and contemptible. I've upheld my core beliefs, even when I didn't even know it.

I have no clue how I will handle all of this, but I trust myself. I trust that ineffable Void to offer forth the elements required of me to keep me around to fulfill my purpose for being here. If not, I trust that it will at least allow me to peacably close my affairs before it ejects me from all that I know.

Binah

I keep on getting onto the internet, with the notion that somehow I'll find meaning for utilizing it. That said, it devolves into Facebook picks and quizzes, with the occasional excursion onto Hulu or whatever will serve that same purpose of passive entertainment.

I had terrible problems with internet addiction growing up. I used to spend hours doing what teenage boys do with unsupervised access, and drown myself in the mess of introversion and delusion of the AOL chatroom. It took a maddening, damaging relationship to get over it, thus swapping one series of hangups for another instead of resolving either of them.

As I've dealt with enough of the relationship's issues to grow from them and resolve most of the internal conflicts, I find myself falling into patterns that preceded its inception, as if returning to the paradigm of my adolescence. I miss my epic RPGs, my jaunts to the forest and losing myself into the media of the time. It took ten years, but I have finally afforded myself the opportunity to feel my mother's death. I finally feel the anger and the imbalance of it, the "injustice" if you dare. Why couldn't I have a traditional mother figure? Why did I escape from the world instead of embrace it during her illness? Who could I have been if she had the capability to be more involved in my life? Why wasn't I one of those strong, stoic children we see on TV who immediately becomes responsible and comes through it admirably, instead of the dissociative, escapist man-child sitting here right now?

It took a while for me to figure out that our expectations of strength remain disproportionate in comparison to the challenge of the psychological trauma. Here's the story.

I watched my mother's physical capability slowly drag her down and smash her spirit, to the point that I just wished she'd die, some days. I wished that she and I could have arranged her death; something merciful so that we could get all of her affairs in order and so that we could spend some time finishing her business of life so that she could depart feeling complete, using some gentle, painless method. Our society and legal system frown on that, and so I was stuck, watching her body grow weaker and weaker, each day more and more painful for her, changing her adult diapers and patching up bedsores on a woman who, by rights, should have had at least 40 more years before those subjects even would come to mind. So, on May 5, 1999 I woke up to hear my dad making a frantic 911 call (in his measured, unfailingly logical way. You want my family in your corner when shit hits the fan). I watched from the balcony as my mom tried to mumble out some words and went limp. I think at that point I went into shock. I remember the EMTs coming in and trying to resuscitate her on our living room floor, and one of them indirectly telling someone to tell me to put on a shirt. I put on my black Clockwork Orange shirt and still watched in shock, wondering when she was going to spring back to life from the defib pads. They took her out on a stretcher and I got dressed so that my dad and I could get to the hospital. We were both very quiet and solemn, if despondent. I remember my dad saying "Well... looks like you're not going to school today." as a form of gallows humor. That was typical of my family. We're still Scotsmen, underneath it all.

We were paged into a waiting room. We... kind of knew, at that point. I don't know what we felt at that time. I think my emotions just left. A doctor who looked like the Bizarro version of Newt Gingrich (being that he appeared friendly and compassionate) came into the waiting room to tell us that they did all that they could, and that by the time she was at the hospital, she had already passed. He told us that they couldn't do an autopsy, since her MS was so progressed that they couldn't get any accurate data. I would obsess over that for years, but it'd be like trying to figure out who shot whom in a charge on a trench in WWI. My dad and I sat for a while, and we eventually went to see my mother's body. Rigor mortis had set in, so her lips peeled back to bare her teeth. Thankfully, the hospital folks had closed her eyes at this point. I touched her hand: the drop in her temperature had caused condensation to form, and I'll never forget that sensation. I watched my dad try to close her mouth and push down her lips to no avail, until he placed a single kiss on her forehead. We went for coffee in Hockessin after we left. I don't remember the rest of the day.

Trying to be that stoic kid, I went to school the next day. The guidance counselor made a big fuss, which was the last thing I wanted. So, all day teachers were asking me if I was okay, when in truth, I was in shock and just trying to make sense of things. I went on a date and we held the funeral on Mother's Day, which I didn't realize fucked me up until much later (I put a Mother's Day card in her coffin). I mean... I know why we do viewings and all, but I found the makeup and dressing her up so gaudy and needless. It became a stupid carnival instead of recognizing death. The painted corpse wasn't my dead mom, just some tarted up carcass people could look at. I saw my dead mom, with her rictus and pale, cold skin. I hid in my room and viciously necked with the poor, pretty, vapid girl that my friend had the best intentions of setting me up with during the wake. This wouldn't be the only relationship begun at a funeral for me. It fizzled out after a season after I found that I just could not talk to this girl. We were on two totally different planets most of the time, and I don't think I even really liked her, and she thought I was the bee's freakin' knees. That just... sucked.

We spread her ashed at Lum's Pond that summer. I felt the bits of bone as I doled out her ashes into the lake. My dad told me that I didn't have to reach in, but in a way, I kind of did. After all the ashes were dispensed, a rainstorm rolled in like a curtain, drenching us in our canoe. Ever since, I have loved the rain and the overcast sky. It wasn't the sun beaming down like the Polyphonic Spree, but the crack of thunder and the onslaught of water that reminded me what it was to live.

Later I had dead neighbors who "... smell sssso bad," and meeting a girlfriend's family at her father's funeral. I've had death tied tightly with other things. I can't hold it so closely any more. It isn't helping me exist. I won't get any more answers by holding onto it so tightly. I won't be okay for a while, and I sure as fuck won't be average, but I can at least see that "okay" will happen.

Hemorrhage of Black Fire

I have an overwhelming urge to try to sort things out in a public forum right now.

Emotionally, things have been difficult. I've been doing my junk food medication thing that I do when I'm depressed, and I'm not sure it actually helps. I just end up realizing that I've blown a shitload of money on food that offers neither nourishment nor satisfaction. I haven't slept well at all the past few weeks. Most of the social gatherings I've gone to have left me feeling even more alienated than when I went in. I haven't gotten laid in six months and I'm sure feeling it this spring, yet I want only to be acquaintances with the prospective women I meet, friends at best, and not even "with benefits."

These new theme party trends everyone's jumping on have also left me cold. I don't want to indulge in the trappings of childhood or play dress-up at 26; supposedly, the sequential art and animation interests do that enough for me. I don't want to cut off my balls and drink the special Kool-Aid to be a part of these damned cliques of cuteness. I feel like this city's in costume all the damned time, hiding behind social networking sites, "grown up" get-together activities, snarky blogs (of which I currently accept guilt) and whatever it can to stay impervious to feeling something genuine, from the deep down scary places where the scars and cavities that have ripped hearts to pieces lie, where that implacable terror of life eventually gives way to exhilaration. Unfortunately, the imperfections fall under the pixelated veils of Photoshop and airbrushing in the heart as much as in image. Personally, I'm getting really tired of my costume and what I'm doing to stay in it.

I wish I cared enough to create something that expressed what I feel. I wish I could open up to someone instead of dancing around with vapid small talk. I'm tired of misery and contempt; I want to feel joy.

The Scarred Trunk

I have caffeinated almost non-stop since I arrived in Chapterhouse. I trust myself enough to harness this, but I'm still a little nervous that I'm just guzzling the stuff down without heed. Reeh reeh reeh.

Anyhow, Dollhouse has been incredible. As much as I love Whedon's previous works, I feel like this one's my favorite. It's all of the great emotional tension from the previous Whedon shows without being too supernatural/sci-fi. The fight coordinator does beautiful work (see the Muay Thai boxing in the pilot and just about every fight afterwards). I haven't been disappointed yet.

I seem to perceive changes and augmentations in consciousness as necessary parts of a personal directive. I mean, there's changing your mind and changing your mind. To get corny for a moment, it's like in Kingdom Hearts 2. The main character would have certain costume changes that would augment his play style to certain extremes, and exploring these extremes would allow him, in his non-augmented state, to gain certain traits based on the themes expressed through those extremes. By harnessing and exploring the traits of an altered state, one can bring clarity to the baseline state, in effect broadening and refining the zero-point energy of a personality.

I have no reason to panic. The present remains eternal, and the future does not prognosticate inevitable doom. Certain elements will repeat, regardless of one's preference or will. The acceptance of the place in these greater events that cannot be helped, and the choice to utilize our time around it to adhere to our human roots respectively provide the support and the fuel for our growth. As much as we seem to create our circumstances, our own will merely acts as the means through which we manifest a larger pattern and process, purely feeding into our perceptions through which we make these decisions. The predilections and preferences that compose out personalities and consciousness act as simple points of intersections that bring about larger patterns.

Each mistake made, each lapse in awareness and unwilling ignorance acts as an imprint from the greater consciousness upon our reality. What seems a failing on our part merely points to a new venue for that part of consciousness to explore. We hold ourselves and others too accountable for our shortcomings, sometimes. However, much as a person might see it as their duty to inform the world of these unconscious ventures, these intersections come about in their own time, regardless of individual intent. Certain elements must continue on a path deemed hazardous or toxic until a point of realization comes of its own accord. Once desire greater than one's individual being drives a process, the process plays out as it must. If reserve leaves one ennervated, then that reserve denies the greater process.

Woo! That's enough of that.

Canned Madness

I took it upon myself to sample two different sorts of a new marketing chemical phenomenon, the "chill out" drink.

The first is called Mavala Novocaine, with the active ingredient of Kava extract. As with any fad drink, the taste is meaningless, in that it's universally awful. This one left me somewhat drowsy, and loosened up my muscles mostly. It carried over into the following morning, leaving me groggy for a while. All in all, not too shabby. I'd drink this one again.

The next is called Drank. It has the overkill of valerian, rose hips, and- get this- melotonin. I already have a severe melotonin imbalance, and yet my urge for experimentation remains undaunted. I felt drowsy, stupid and giddy as it metabolized, and immediately crashed into a four-hour nap afterwards. The problem with using a chemical that regulates circadian rhythm, is that the brain compensates with its own juices. So... It's 4 am and I'm still awake. No, not feeling active, but just... awake. I don't think I'll be picking this one up again any time soon. Once again, we see the wonders of our legal system's views toward mind-altering substances.

"Kids, nothing good ever happens after 2 a.m. Just do yourselves a favor and go to bed." -Old Ted, How I Met Your Mother

Santos L. Halper

I dunno about the whole thing that fantasy authors and the like seem to enjoy harping on about how "we've abandoned the elves" and so on and so forth, as if these concepts remain unchanging.

Now, let's take the idea of the elf. A major pop culture image of the elf is the image of Orlando Bloom prancing around and looking very worried about the prostheses glued to his ears, or Cate Blanchett in a tight closeup at the end of Return of the King when most everyone in the theater had to take a leak after three hours and endless cut-backs to golden light cutting across water. Then, maybe the idea of Will Ferrel in a ridiculous green getup.

Now, if we were to start backpedaling for a while, the roots of "elf" come from the concepts of the "alfar," spirits encountered by shamans in the tribes of northern Europe during their trances. Somewhere a polarization of the "alfar" concept occured, between the elves and the black elves, cognate with the folkloric dwarf. Mythologically, dwarves tended to be present in the creation of sacred objects of the gods, most often requiring some sort of sacrifice either as payment or for a component in the creation of the piece.

Going back to that "loss of the elves," a common thread tends to be that children, madmen and mystics can see elves, and most people have either grown out of it, or aren't fucking bonkers. With fingers in the pies of both mysticism and mental illness, I noticed that in states of receptivity as an adult and during play as a child, the mind tends to free-associate with facial recognition, perceiving not only human-like faces in random objects, but attributing traits to these faces. This phenomenon might indicate an "elf" experience, as our cultural schematic tends to brush these off as "oh, I'm just imagining things" rather than wondering "why am I seeing these faces right now?"

Some of this phenomenon seems to run along with the "voices in the head" scenarios, as impersonal voices inform activity of a person whose mental stability has been compromised. I have the opinion that the Dualistic qualification of these phenomena (Angels or Demons) has brought more harm than good in this scenario. The subject perceives actions informed by these voices as either the word of God or the word of the Devil, leading to mental images of perceived catastrophe or rapture upon the execution of these tasks. By permitting a mental schematic with these voices taken as simply numinous and reserving qualification on a case-by-case basis, the scenario permits dialogue into the subjective phenomena without compromising the rational decision-making process.

I feel like this phenomenon has been utilized to great effect in marketing and cultural demands. The "liberal-run media," the "evil secret society in charge of the entire world," the "perfect mate," and other memes capitalize on our anthropomorphization and collective-defining instincts, presenting associations and facts that create these constructs that seem to act independently of the intent of the people involved. As Don Draper said, "There is no system. The universe is indifferent." That said, the subjective concerns created by these phenomena have been given faces, and these faces interact with the psyche on levels of which we remain unaware on a day-to-day basis.

Although imaginary and intangible, these "entities" still affect our processes of thought and emotion, and thus these entities have a "reality" to their activity, despite slipping through rational consideration, to the point that a person will rationalize actions based around these conceptualizations. I ask this: when a battle of ideologies breaks out, would it be more effective to go after the "ground troops" following the orders of the ideology, or to go after the ideology itself, using its own tools?

If humanity had greater education on the effects of subjective processes to complement the objective processes, the species as a whole could find greater forms of understanding and communication to overcome aesthetic and cultural hurdles. Often times, one mindset seems to preach in its own subjective language, bestowing a concept of "non-belief=lesser" that can create resentment between parties. If we were to understand the irrational functions of not only ourselves but those whom we sought to inform, we could assuage the presumptions between parties and create a dialogue on more than just the linguistic/dialect level.

Then again, I could just be bonkers.

Sputtering Toward Do Long Bridge

Back on the drugs, but it's a little more functional this time. I think I needed some time to remember that I could have religious experiences sober.

Every so often I have an occurrence where a bunch of things that relate to a singular concept go haywire. Lately, it's communication. I can't make outgoing calls, my typing's been wretched (some of the typos have been flabbergasting), and I've been really really outspoken over the stupidest things, while dead silent over what matters.

I find communication bores me, when studied for too long without some subjective feeling thrown in. Still, we receive signals and pick up cues from the environment, and language and communication methods, as shitty and slapdash as they are, are the closest we have to sharing how each of us interpret those signals. Vocabulary fascinates me, and in truth, I would really like to brush up on Latin, and try, in some slappy way, to learn Farsi, Sanskrit, or just about any other weird old root language. I pick up tonality and pronunciation quickly (not perfectly). It's like swimming: you don't really think you want to get in the water, but once you're in, it's freakin' great.

But.. who fucking cares? Who needs to know that I want to study dead languages, just so they can bug me about it later, in the "uncomfortable" silence? I muse about doing a million things, but I never have the resources for them, and as long as I can handle the basics, I don't give a fuck. I would rather know about what's moved someone, or blown their preconceptions of reality to pieces, or moments when the environment, in its weird way, spoke to them. I really don't jibe with a person if they're trying to impress me. I don't jibe with myself when I try to impress people. We aren't that fantastic on a whole. In fact, most of us end up fascinating wholly by mistake. In the end, I guess I'd prefer to understand than adore. There's this one cartoon where the conniving dick of a villain said the following: "Admiration is the furthest thing from understanding." The quote has, so far, held pretty correlative.

Hey, remember when these weren't quite as autocentric? No? It's a goal of mine to make this blog as impersonal and universal as possible, using life only to reference greater themes in the entry. Still, only way out is through.