Finally, a reason to go to the theater and pay exhorbitant prices to major Hollywood studios again…
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Fragile
The good things in life are so easily breakable, while the bad things in life take so much effort to get better. Ever notice that?
Must be that entropy thing they keep tossing around in physics labs.
I don’t know that I ever want to see a world completely at peace, because the moment that you accept that yeah — maybe this is it, what we’ve waited all our lives on? That’s the moment that a moron opens his mouth, says the wrong thing, and the world collapses back into what we all know and love so much.
Is one year of love better than a lifetime alone? Is it better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all? Is it preferable to reach the top of the fame and fortune ladder for a few years only to have to return to normal life, or to struggle in clubs for a lifetime and never know the top?
Everyone has their own answer, I guess.
Sunday Afternoon
See also: An Amber Worth Seeking
Things between myself and Red have been moving slowly. Over the past few weeks, since intentions and motives have been discussed and made clearer, we’ve been taking things one day at a time, progressing and moving forward, but at what would seem from the outside as a deliberate pace. To my eyes, at times, I would use the word glacial to describe it; but then, I’m a runner, not a walker.
Tonight, though, it became so very clear to me that there is a magic — not a parlor trick or an illusion, but a real, live, honest-to-goodness magic (spell it with a k if you wish, or even a j) — in taking a different approach than what feels natural.
I move quickly not out of a need for instant gratification per se. I’m certainly not opposed to things coming to me quickly, but I’m willing to work as much as I have to for them, to earn the good things in life. I am, however, scared of dying in the middle of something. I can’t stand the thought that I will die regretting having not done something, or completed a given project, or having not taken that chance when I had it. It’s my own version of seizing the day.
And Red has her reasons for moving slowly (perfectly valid, and flattering, down the line), and she’s wonderful about reassuring me when the unusual pacing brings up those little demon voices in my head that have such disdain for rational thought. It’s against the grain of what I’m used to, what I’ve experienced, what I am, at the core, but I have no problems finding the patience, because we’re moving forward, at whatever rate. That’s the key thing in this to me.
Tonight, driving around and listening to music, she took my hand in hers. A small moment, perhaps meaningless in any other context, something that you might glaze over with a passing glance, at best. But it took my breath away, gave me that roller coaster gut-in-my-throat feeling: her hand on mine, her skin against mine, her choice. There is a world of difference between passive acceptance and active initiation.
And in that moment, that small moment, meaningless in any other context, I saw time from the outside, as it would have been in any other context. Every other context. All the small moments sweeping past in an unmistakeable arc, rushing headlong toward the natural conclusion, unappreciated and lost to the highway behind me. But in this world, in this time: a simple gesture, tiny, something that will one day become commonplace, but in the here and now holding every bit as much awe and power as that first kiss, the first I love you, the first anything.
The moment, the small moment, trapped in amber, and in no way meaningless or lost.
When you tell yourself that you won’t be distracted by external stimuli, that you want to see and remember and capture in your mind’s eye every detail of a movie that you’ve seen before, you begin to notice so much detail, and you find it sticking this time. If you go into a movie with no special attenion, but the projector is running at one quarter speed, you being to notice little things outside the center of the frame, hidden details put there for the most intent watcher.
Combine those two, and you have the time and the attention to drink in every last drop, every subtle nuance. It’s like watching a film filtered through a perfect amber, stretching time to maximize the moment.
I still have issues with impatience, and wanting to know that if something happens to me tomorrow, I won’t regret having taken things as far as I could with Red. But I have a new point of reference now, and I can so much better appreciate that no matter what, I will always treasure the woman that taught me how to slow and stretch time in the important moments.
Watching the universe unfold as it will in hindsight makes you appreciate that Southern tradition of sitting on the front porch at sundown, no matter how hard your ADD might fight you.
If you ever fear
Someday we might lose this
Come back here
To this moment that will last
And time can go so fast
When everything’s exactly where it’s at its very best
– k’s choice, Favorite Adventure
The Ink in the Well
Brand new as of three weeks ago — thanks to Stacy Traffanstedt for the quick work:
True Love in the Galaxy
LOVE… is a way of feeling
LOVE is a way of feeling less alone
So what’s all the fuss about?!?
-Strapping Young Lad, Love?
I thought briefly about calling my old friend Sammy Hagar for a little help with this. He is, after all, responsible for that challenging and provocative set of lyrics for When It’s Love. But Sam’s on the road right now, and his cell phone is dead, so it looks like I’m on my own with this one.
Today’s show, kids, is sponsored by the ages-ancient puzzle and mystery of love. It’s a riddle wrapped in an enigma packaged in black velvet lining and smothered in secret sauce. What is love? How do we know when we’re there? Why is it we don’t always recognize the moment when love begins, but we always know when it ends? (With respect to Harris K. Telemacher, of course)
There’s love, in a generic sense. It’s the love you feel for friends, the ones that you would do anything for, even sacrificing the things most important to you.
There’s familial love, which is (to my mind) not really love, as it’s something we’re conditioned to feel, a responsibility more than an emotion. [NOTE: I love my family very much. Not because I have to, but because I have chosen to. There are more than a few just-outside-of-immediate family members that I’m not terribly fond of; it makes family reunions a little prickly, but hey, who needs love in the name of obligation, anyway?]
There’s being in love, and here’s where things start to get a little sticky. I’m going to say that being in love with someone is way different than loving them, but not. Being in love is infatuation, a crush that you can’t ignore, obsessive thoughts, wildly romantic dreams, fantasies, temporary insanity. It’s the part where you can get hurt, but realize later that it’s just a scrape. It’s wanting to know everything and then more about the object of your desire.
Romantic love, I think, is a combination of the love of a friend and being in love. For many, being in love fades over time — I think it’s those couples that find romantic love (sexual chemistry, if we want to be blunt) but discover that there is no friendship underlying their connection are the ones that you hear about most often. For a lucky few, being in love never fades. For most, being in love becomes a very small part of a very intense love of friend.
There is an important difference, though, between the love of friends and romantic love, the ideal. One is a promise of fidelity, the vow you make to your interest that he or she is the only one toward whom you feel this way; you can have all the friends you want, and none of them are going to be pissed off that you have other friends (unless they have some very real issues). The other is sexual chemistry — and you may share this with some of your friends (also known as friends with benefits, fuckbuddies, and tragedies waiting to happen).
When is too soon to be in love? Who is to say? There’s no right or wrong answer here; that totally depends on your definition of love. If it requires knowing everything about someone, then yeah, you’ve probably never been in love and never will. If it’s a gut feeling, then that first dance could be it for you. But just because you’re not in touch with your emotions, or because someone feels differently than you, there’s no real good reason to criticize them or call them immature; really, isn’t there enough negative shit in the world that we should encourage all the love we can?
Those who are in love can be real assholes, demonstrating no deeper love behind the infatuation. But does that lessen what they feel? Even though they’re willing to fight to get their girl all to themselves, even if they are neglectful or manipulative, does that invalidate what they feel? I don’t think so. It’s not a strong love, I posit, but it’s there, and valid and real.
Ideally, though, you’ll search for and find the best combination of romantic and friendly love. There is truly nothing better than the feeling of the headlong rush of a crush, the early stages of romance, falling and drifting into the heart and soul of another person — until you find that you can have all of that, and a longer, deeper, more intense kind of love that some of you might claim only for a god. Add that to the falling head over heels, and you find that everything else fades into the background.
Am I in love? I don’t know. I want to be, I told Neely when she asked. But it’s not so important to me — what I am is what I am, and what we are is… what…
Fucking Edie Brickell. I don’t know about too many things, but I know I want to kill when she sings.
What I have with Red is what it is. And that’s fine; labels and pigeonholes won’t change a thing. But I’m not afraid to be in love with her, one day if not today. It’s a good feeling, that mixed with the friendly love I have for her.
I think the truest love, though, the one that we should all strive for, is the one that hopes for happiness, success, and ease, one that hopes for the best for the other person. It’s not an easy thing to do — to let go of what you think might be the best you’ll ever find. But wouldn’t you be happiest if you knew that your dream chose you because she wanted to, not because you guilted or manipulated or tricked her into it?
If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, set it on fire.
I need a little help
Okay, I need a lot. I won’t fight you on that.
But I have a question — maybe one of you can answer.
Why would you decide in a bar, as an adult, drunk or not, to start throwing bottles across the room? And why would you be even remotely surprised when I toss you out for doing so?
I’ve talked to some hideous women when drunk. I think I might have sung Pearl Jam at karaoke, even. But there are some things at which even drunk me would stop, look you clear-eyed dead in the face, and say, “What the fuck?”
Seriously. Bottles. Did you parents just pretend they didn’t have you, and leave you to be raised by young puppies from abusive homes?
Oh, and don’t bow up, either. At 2 AM, I’m already really cranky and moving into the worst part of my night; anything you start is just going to make my night better. Oh, and Garth and Jason and Tyler are so much more vicious than anything you’ve ever imagined people could get paid for.
Yeah. It’s their job. They’re good at it, and they really seem to like it.
The moral of this story, folks, is don’t throw bottles in our bar. Or glasses. Or anything, unless it’s green and spendable.
Mr. Blue Sky
Life is wonderful when someone calls you theirs.
I’m not a big fan of the possessive aspects of romance; that’s one of the parts that can get so ugly. But there is, too, something wonderful about being claimed.
Even better when you slip and call someone your girl, and she smiles.
That’s the stuff that beautiful days are made of.
The worst kept secret anywhere
Postsecret, easily one of the best “blogs” online anywhere.
Breakdown of a breakdown
It’s not fun to have serious depressive episodes.
Those of you that know me personally know that I have the ridiculously unpredictable and unpredictably ridiculous ability to have what medical professionals refer to cryptically, in their snooty voices that speak down to all of us without medical degrees, as “the blues”. The joys of biploar disorder. My highs are a little higher, my lows are a little lower, and the cycle is a little more frequent than what most people experience. Kinda like my Strapping Young Lad to your Guns ‘N’ Roses.
Pussies.
That’s not the worst part of being bipolar, though, and I had managed to forget that. I’ve learned to deal with my mood swings, wild as they can sometimes be; I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve, I try not to complain too much unless its valid, and I try to keep the negativity under control. It’s not exactly easy, but it works; most people aren’t aware that I’m bipolar unless I say something, and over the years I’ve managed to prevent my black cloud from spreading too far past my own borders. And it’s been so long since I’ve dealt with the other parts that I had forgetten about the really bad part, and let myself fall under the impression that I had beaten this disorder.
Silly rabbit. Tricks are for hungry Bengal tigers.
I won’t go so far as to call last night a nervous breakdown, at least not in the traditional sense — I don’t know that I’ve ever had one of those. I’ve never been hospitalized, nor feared for my own well-being. But whatever you want to call it, it’s characterized by uncontrolled crying, periods of really intense rage, and holes in the walls of my apartments and car interiors. Oh, and loud music. Lots of that.
But what makes those episodes worth their occasional while — keep in mind that it’s been almost exactly three years since I dealt with one, and thus the thoughts of being ‘cured’ — is the cleansing effect. In the days after the breakdowns (which are usually meaningless, triggered by something that is, on any other day, utterly unmentionable), the entire world feels brighter. Not in a manic way — no, that would make perfect sense. This is more like the world after a summer rain storm; everything seems bright and clear, exactly the way that you imagine that things are supposed to be.
Supposed to be. That’s a loaded phrase, yeah?
So after today, once the headache has faded and I’ve patched the walls, things return to normal. I hope for my sake — and that of others, to whom I feel like I can’t apologize enough — it’ll be at least another three years before I have to deal with that again.
But I’m also reminded how bad things can get when my disorder really decides to come out from hiding. And I guess it’s good to get that reminder every now and then, if only so the delusions don’t set into concrete.
Heroes, they take my breath away
Zero the dials
See how a breakdown breaks ground
And zeros the miles
-Devin Townsend, Nobody Here
Nothing’s quite so funny as ageless ultimate evil
Yes: Tales of Plush Cthulu.