“Your friends will know you better in the first minute you meet than your acquaintances will know you in a thousand years.” ‒ Richard Bach.
Random but connected (at least in my head) thoughts:
There’s something odd about being an introvert — that weird paradox in which most people are exhausting after a short conversation, but occasionally you find that rare bird that you can spend infinite amounts of time with and never notice that days or weeks have passed.
Connection is incredibly odd and seemingly difficult for someone like me, but the converse side of that is that it’s immediately recognizable when it manifests.
Some connections are strong enough to overcome seemingly anything, even if those connections change their definitions over the years.
One person’s moving too fast is another person’s letting nature take its course. And while I can see see the outside perspective, the only points-of-view that really matter are the internal. At least, if both parties are honest and self-examined.
Balance is the key to success. The proper mix of complimentary and challenging, common ground and exposure to new and different. And if I could define “proper mix”, I feel like I could make a living writing shitty self-help books. Maybe I should give that a shot anyway…
There are reasons — some good, some bad, some utterly incomprehensible — why there are age and/or experience limits on a lot of things in life. You’re more likely able to appreciate the consequences of smoking that pack of cigarettes you just bought, or the potential perils of firing that gun that you own. Whatever industry or career you’ve chosen to spend time pursuing, experience makes you a more efficient and smarter performer. The more time you spend behind the wheel of a car, the more you learn to react to any situation quickly and smartly.
I’m not a believer in fate, or pre-destination. I think finding out that that idea was rooted in a universal truth would probably be the end of me — why bother and all, if it’s already written in stone? Not to mention that I see too much injustice and unfairness in the world to even begin to accept that narrative.
I do, however, subscribe quite strongly to the ideas of good and bad timing, of being in the right place at the right moment, of recognizing opportunity when it is presented. I think said recognition comes with age and experience.
I think also that the ability to take advantage properly of such opportunities is dependent on age and experience, as well. Had I been handed the chance to earn millions of dollars coming out of college, I would have likely screwed it up or (worse) become jaded and entitled. I simply wasn’t in the right mindset to handle such responsibility or such reward.
There’s a certain naivete that I carried through a lot of my young adulthood — likely a result of my (overly) romanticized view of life and it’s larger arcs. Things like jobs and property and creative pursuits and relationships were supposed to happen a certain way if you did x, y, and z — that’s the way it is in movies, and TV shows, and books. And when things didn’t happen how I expected (spoiler alert: pretty much all the time), it was a huge shock to the system. Disappointing, sure — of course it was. But also stunning, inexplicable.
Fortunately — and looking around, believe me when I say that I recognize my fortune here — I never expected answers to be spoon-fed, nor did I expect the same actions to generate new and different results. I questioned others about the perceived failures. I questioned myself. I had conversations — some easy, some incredibly painful and self-image puncturing, always educational — and did reading and thought and pondered and probably overthought and over-pondered and then finally learned. Sometimes in a burst of inspiration, sometimes so slowly that I didn’t recognize the lesson for years, but always — and I continue to do so — learning, so that the next opportunity wouldn’t fall prey to a mistake.
Or at least, not the same mistakes I had already tripped over. Always make new mistakes.
My first real relationship ended not only poorly, but in such a way (due to the particulars of my understanding of the world, and myself, and the way relationships are “supposed to work”) that I was left with little to no sense of identity. This, in many ways, was probably the best thing that ever happened to me, because it not only forced me to evaluate and rethink almost everything that is important to and about me, but also slapped me in the face with the realization that the world isn’t as simple as parts of me had always imagined (or at least hoped).
And so the years passed, and I made many, many more bad decisions and unforced errors and questionable (at best) calls. And I continued to examine the history, and the factors external and internal, and to glean what I could from mine and other perspectives — where I had chosen poorly or behaved inappropriately, where others had, where scenarios were simply untenable and how to better recognize them.
I realize that I am not perfect — or to avoid using that loaded term, not where I would like to be in terms of my insecurities, my abilities to react to and manage certain events, my presuppositions and presumptions and prejudices. I still have a ways to go with those things and more, and I spend at least a small chunk of every day working through those issues and trying to be more my own ideal. But I do have a much bigger toolbox, and a much more expansive guidebook, and enough experience that I can handle the smaller things without devoting any energy to them, conserving my efforts for the bigger, more difficult ones.
There’s this idea that certain endings are predestined — because all previous attempts at a given outcome ended a certain way. Beyond rejecting the idea of a predetermined outcome, I refuse this thought — perhaps as a result of my desire (need?) to believe in some part of my younger romanticized comic-book version of the world, no matter how small, but also because while my past is littered with examples of failure, those examples grow less bitter and painful with each passing year.
I have never been a physically graceful or gifted person. It took me ten years of playing soccer before I felt remotely comfortable on the field (never great, but passable). In 35 years, I’ve never become more than a slightly-better-than-average guitarist or pianist. To this day, learning new skills involving my body — dancing, playing drums, yoga — are embarrassing and horrifically frustrating for me, because apparently I sacrificed most of my physical IQ in favor of other attributes (and if anyone can help me figure out what those are, I’d appreciate it). But I wanted to play soccer, and so I kept trying to be better in different ways. I wanted to be able to play guitar, so I kept trying different practice styles and techniques. And one day, I stopped failing at both enough to be happy with the results.
If I had met Natalie a decade ago, I would not have been ready. Five years ago, one year ago (though that last one is technically incorrect, as we met about two years ago, IIRC) — the time (and my head) weren’t right. I had more to learn — about relationships, about myself, about the way I react and relate to others, about what I control and don’t. It’s not an age thing, but an experience thing.
And my experience tells me I’ve never felt more loved or cared for, nor happier or more whole, and capable of generating a different outcome than expected or predicted — one more in line with the better version of the world that I refuse to give up on. If there’s anything that is worth fighting for with everything I have and then some — well, like Vonnegut encourages: “And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.'”
It seems like it should be simple, to look. Just to look, to shift your eyes inside your head, aiming your gaze.
But then at some point the fear kicks in, an absolute gut-wrenching terror that comes from out of nowhere, no warning, no slow build that rises from your heart and courses through your arteries, following the path of the adrenaline swell. Your eyes come up from the ground and you think that maybe you’ve finally conquered it and you’re almost there and your knees go limp your gut a knotted mass of flesh and blood and bile your brain screaming and pulsing…
As a child, you stared at the sun, directly into the blazing inferno, only for a second but long enough to make out the body beneath the corona. Blue spots for weeks and even now you are haunted by the dreams of a world ablaze, your corneas melting and the beauty of the fire blurring through waxy vision; but that one moment was worth it, because you saw a truth, an underlying foundation of the universe that has left you questioning. In that moment of clarity, wheels turned and tumblers clicked and the key seemed a little closer to your young grasp.
And the wisdom that comes with age carries fear and hesitation with it. Never since have you dared another glance, because that would mean the chance of something bad, something horrible, something with embarassing questions and answers.
What if, at the exact moment of your death, you are granted the truth, the meaning behind life and living and the universe? You are presented with the underlying patterns and their meaning, the tapestry of the mysteries and an instant and utterly distinct understanding of it all. And perhaps this answer is the gift of death, the reward for accepting and letting go, releasing your spirit to whatever comes next.
And what if the answer to the ultimate mystery and death are inexorably intertwined? What if you can have the answers you want, but that’s it, the end, no more for you you been here too long time to go now?
What if looking at her face means the same thing? What if nothing ever seems the same, what if your eyes are burned beyond use, what if beauty loses all meaning? What if hope dies?
And you wish you could travel back in time, become a child again, only for five minutes, long enough to look into her eyes and see the truth.
I’m staring at your face your beautiful green eyes the smile that rarely disappears the soft billowy dirty blonde hair your freckled cheeks your smile lines your perfect lips that inspire a million kisses
an old picture from across the country across the years that captured you at your best
I’m hearing you snoring gently a room away post-coital nap coiled so loosely in my bed on my pillows
your hawaiian tattoo stark against your porcelain skin so peaceful and relaxed cat curled at your spine
(I love the suddenness of your curves and the softness of your edges)
I want to share everything with you I want to experience everything with you I want to feel everything with you I want to travel with you discover new places and music get drunk and gluttonous learn to cook and to dance laugh and be astounded and awe-struck
see the northern lights be struck speechless by the grand canyon experience the wonders of ancient cultures hear our favorite music in foreign theatres
dream big or dream home or dream of both at once because you feel like both
I’m staring at your face your beautiful sleeping eyes a smile hidden for the moment replaced with what I will imagine is contentment soft billowy dirty blonde hair splayed across a pillow your freckled cheeks aglow in the soft light your smile lines at rest your perfect lips that inspire a million kisses
and I am whole soft keyboards shifting effortlessly cello beds laying a foundation an echo of effortless but impossible guitar lines
and I am whole streaming poetry that saved my life lyrics that speak my thoughts better than I could ever hope to Palahniuk repetitions and King campfire storytelling
different poetry satisfies fulfills enthralls for different reasons many or most inexplicable
some paintings are best viewed from a distance some up close some are hideous viewed too near some unviewable from afar
movies books sculpture all the same
(there’s no such thing as a guilty pleasure)
musically I’m all over the place certain there’s commonality but also vast chasms of difference
ask me why a certain piece enraptures mesmerizes fascinates and I can give you answers but they rarely add up
the whys are not individual but additive summations of a totality
movies books sculpture all the same
the power of words of descriptive device is too simplistic where perhaps mathematical formulae are needed
some ideas though rooted in logic are undone and betrayed by the geometry of a simple question: “Why?”
I can make lists write words until I am drained and logy catalog my thoughts but still never aptly or fully provide an accurate answer
and so sometimes my answer simply silence translating to all the reasons and none because sometimes le raison d’etre est moins important que d’être simplement.
it’s not hard to imagine a forgotten space a basement, an attic, a sealed-off room filled with mystery memories treasure bygone emotions
if I put myself to the task I can smell the musty air hear the dust as it drifts in the breeze of my passing feel the cobwebs brushing against my face like a rare antiquarian bookstore or a post-apocalypse museum dim light casting few shadows on unremembered beauty
crack the window fresh air rushes in to explore with me a lone beam of sunshine accompanies reflecting off a shard of partially covered mirror and strikes an old prism pendant rainbow dots dancing across memories treasure bygone emotions and everything becomes a little clearer more radiant more joyous more alive
open the frame further further further until the window meets sill from lone beam to flood hell, shatter the frame let loose the floodgates let sun inundate the forgotten shadow gives way to luminescence
memories and treasure and emotions more alive than ever imagined more color than ever thought possible and the warmth on my skin and the pure outside air invigorating reminding me not all things are lost forever
funny thing fear signifies that one has something worth losing but distracts from the enjoyment the appreciation immersion
do words help pacify the worries? never enough no full solution no cure perhaps only band-aids massages kisses to the boo-boo
there’s a photo (one of the first, I think) of our hands focused on the painted nails a symbol of our shared identity assertion of us as the rockstar creatives we are but it’s more symbolic to me of my hand being there for you of your hand being there for me of our being there for each other I look at it often and find solace in the thought comfort in your presence
(I get scared, too, so you know)
frustrating as it is to me I know that I can’t cure the ills of your world I can’t fix everything (anything, really) but there’s a part of me that will always keep trying no longer to be the hero of the story but instead, now to put your dynamic heart at ease to leave more room in your world for your beautiful smile
I will spend forever echoing my words with actions to enhance your world to multiply your joy to share your sense of discovery and laughter and wanderlust and wonder
I will silence my words replacing them entirely with deeds gestures endeavors if you ask (though my words are sometimes my greatest gift)
I will spend my dying breath aiding you with whatever burdens I can soothing your anxieties reminding you that I am here always for you for whatever you need or want from me
unimportant to me: rings papers status in the eyes of the law or the gods the opinions of others these are all just words
important to me: your happiness your comfort and health you
I hope I never fail to show you all of this no matter how much I might tell
I will burn us to life Until my only flame is a burning fuse
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about similarities and differences (among all the other thoughts that skitter through my headmeat like a monstrous pack of rabid and probably insane baby opossums through the course of days). What makes a good combination of personalities? Is there a perfect (or perhaps ideal is the better word) mix? Clearly you need similarities, or there’s no touchpoint for connection; on the other hand, too much commonality would seem to rather quickly build some sort of contempt (you ever spend enough time hanging out with your honest self, you’ll see this really fucking quickly).
My relationships — as much as I despise forced-binary groupings, here I go — can be divided into two camps: long-term, where that mix of personalities was reasonably close, and short-term (like, a couple of weeks, if they were really unlucky), where I immediately found and fixated on — well, if not flaws, the differences that I saw that I didn’t like.
Ah, fuck it — let’s call a spade a hoe: they were flaws.
In my head, at least, my current situation falls into the former of the two categories, only moreso. As I was telling someone the other day, for maybe the first time in my life, I’m not finding the differences irritating or hard to cope with, but beautiful pieces of the bigger whole, necessary parts of her that make her the person that I love so much.
I think to some degree those differences are necessary, to create a sort of tension. Not the kind that creates wedges and arguments and fights, but rather the tension (I was about to write “if I may”, but fuck you, it’s my page and I’ll write what I waaaaaaahnt) of the literary variety, required to propel the storyline forward, to instill growth in the protagonists, to make the goddamn thing readable.
There’s nothing sadder than a talented writer with no tension. Oh, wait — aren’t those poets?
But I digress…
Take the relationship between yin and yang. Stealing from Wikipedia (which is likely stolen from elsewhere, so it’s okay, citation nazis):
In Ancient Chinese philosophy, yin and yang (/jɪn/ and /jɑːŋ, jæŋ/; Chinese: 陰陽yīnyáng pronounced[ín jǎŋ], lit. “dark-light”, “negative-positive”) is a Chinese philosophical concept that describes how obviously opposite or contrary forces may actually be complementary, interconnected, and interdependent in the natural world, and how they may give rise to each other as they interrelate to one another.
Is this one of my 31 tattoos? Yes, Karen. Yes it is.
One the one hand, they are opposites — in meaning and visually. Twilight zone images, dualities in motion. On the other, though, they have so many similarities — same color schemes, same shapes, both moving in the same inferred direction. And they complement and connect to each other seamlessly. The two don’t cancel each other out as much as they drive the other forward, spotlighting the beauty and individuality of the other.
So what’s the perfect or ideal mix of personalities to create the laboratory-perfect conditions from which a lasting relationship can grow and flourish? Jesus, Karen — if I knew that, you think I’d publish it here, for free? Get the fuck outta here. I’d be on the road making fucking bank with that knowledge. Go watch another Brené Brown video.
But combined with my experience of the past — and all the things my idiot self better have picked up and embedded in my half-chewed brain — I really think that I might have stumbled across it.
Now, we just have to have a conversation about which of us is which universal force… Look for that soon on a pay-per-view near you.
