Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Letter 8
Bill,
The end of my relationship with the lovely Ms. K has led me to take a hopefully larger-than-usual view of my life a bit. I realized this very evening that one of the elements of my relationship with Ms. K, the element that was perhaps the primary cause for the dissolution, was something that was also an element of the relationship between you and I. Namely, that you always kept the light on so you could knit while we watched movies.
I jest, of course. I know that your dedication to your sense of masculinity is such that you would feel driven to do something foolhardy to prove yourself free of the accusation of knitting; consider the fact that you joined the high school varsity football team, became the captain, and impregnated the head cheerleader all at the age of 31 because someone noted that you drank a lot of flavored beers.
No, what I"m talking about is an aversion to change. It drove me mad throughout my relationship with Ms. K. She hated her job passionately yet refused to do anything about it. Her relationship with her mother made her miserable and yet she refused to change it. After I spent over a year trying to help her overcome these problems, motivated not only by a good heart but by the fact that misery in a close relationship is contagious, they finally drove a permanent wedge between she and I.
As I've mulled over the general state of my failed relationship with Ms. K, I realized that I'd long been infected with the same distemperment and that the symptoms of that sickness had spilled over into many of our interactions in recent years. I'm remembering all those emails you and I exchanged about me going to grad school or me getting a different job. That idea thread went on between us for a long, long while. But each time the conversation actually became a realistic discussion, I backed away and refused to discuss it further. I can't remember how I explained this refusal to change, either to you or to myself, but I know that it happened.
I don't say any of this by way of an apology, by the way. Every human animal has flaws, he or she inflicts those flaws on friends and family. It is the building block of human relationships. I guess I'm just writing to say that I get it now.
Sincerely,
Leonard
P.S. - I'm not on any sort of hallucinogenic drug, nor have I been at any point recently.
****************************************************
Leo,
I won't deny that I saw your refusal to change as a big weaknesses, and I won't deny that it frustrated me. But outside of that, I find myself hesitant to comment. For one thing, I can't really say how I felt or what I thought at the time. And frankly, I sometimes feel like these discussions are somewhat selfish in that you're asking for validation about your latest theory. That's not a bad thing by itself. It's just that it's happened a lot over the years.
There is also the fact that a lot has happened since we had those discussions and, I beg you not to feel offended, it obviously wasn't as important for me as it was for you. I had my own life and my own challenges and, as you say, my own flaws.
I find your post script very apt - I was in fact wondering if you'd broken your vow of sobriety. Some of our past exchanges that I still remember vividly were those where you were taking drugs and then pouring your heart out. I would never, of course, encourage drug use, but I must say that I got a kind of contact high from seeing your normal walls of reserve and inhibition fall by the wayside. I was excited for you then, but I admit that I was disappointed that everything went back to the status quo afterwords.
In reading back over what I've written, I see that I haven't really addressed your observation or answered any implicit question. And I suppose that's the right thing to do. I am interested in what you have to say, but I don't always have a response to it. As long as what you're thinking and writing represents a forward momentum in your life, I say, 'Godspeed.'
Godspeed,
William
The end of my relationship with the lovely Ms. K has led me to take a hopefully larger-than-usual view of my life a bit. I realized this very evening that one of the elements of my relationship with Ms. K, the element that was perhaps the primary cause for the dissolution, was something that was also an element of the relationship between you and I. Namely, that you always kept the light on so you could knit while we watched movies.
I jest, of course. I know that your dedication to your sense of masculinity is such that you would feel driven to do something foolhardy to prove yourself free of the accusation of knitting; consider the fact that you joined the high school varsity football team, became the captain, and impregnated the head cheerleader all at the age of 31 because someone noted that you drank a lot of flavored beers.
No, what I"m talking about is an aversion to change. It drove me mad throughout my relationship with Ms. K. She hated her job passionately yet refused to do anything about it. Her relationship with her mother made her miserable and yet she refused to change it. After I spent over a year trying to help her overcome these problems, motivated not only by a good heart but by the fact that misery in a close relationship is contagious, they finally drove a permanent wedge between she and I.
As I've mulled over the general state of my failed relationship with Ms. K, I realized that I'd long been infected with the same distemperment and that the symptoms of that sickness had spilled over into many of our interactions in recent years. I'm remembering all those emails you and I exchanged about me going to grad school or me getting a different job. That idea thread went on between us for a long, long while. But each time the conversation actually became a realistic discussion, I backed away and refused to discuss it further. I can't remember how I explained this refusal to change, either to you or to myself, but I know that it happened.
I don't say any of this by way of an apology, by the way. Every human animal has flaws, he or she inflicts those flaws on friends and family. It is the building block of human relationships. I guess I'm just writing to say that I get it now.
Sincerely,
Leonard
P.S. - I'm not on any sort of hallucinogenic drug, nor have I been at any point recently.
****************************************************
Leo,
I won't deny that I saw your refusal to change as a big weaknesses, and I won't deny that it frustrated me. But outside of that, I find myself hesitant to comment. For one thing, I can't really say how I felt or what I thought at the time. And frankly, I sometimes feel like these discussions are somewhat selfish in that you're asking for validation about your latest theory. That's not a bad thing by itself. It's just that it's happened a lot over the years.
There is also the fact that a lot has happened since we had those discussions and, I beg you not to feel offended, it obviously wasn't as important for me as it was for you. I had my own life and my own challenges and, as you say, my own flaws.
I find your post script very apt - I was in fact wondering if you'd broken your vow of sobriety. Some of our past exchanges that I still remember vividly were those where you were taking drugs and then pouring your heart out. I would never, of course, encourage drug use, but I must say that I got a kind of contact high from seeing your normal walls of reserve and inhibition fall by the wayside. I was excited for you then, but I admit that I was disappointed that everything went back to the status quo afterwords.
In reading back over what I've written, I see that I haven't really addressed your observation or answered any implicit question. And I suppose that's the right thing to do. I am interested in what you have to say, but I don't always have a response to it. As long as what you're thinking and writing represents a forward momentum in your life, I say, 'Godspeed.'
Godspeed,
William
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Letter 7
Bill,
I must admit that I have been disappointed to not receive further correspondence from you. I have spent many a precious candle writing my own correspondence to you. I will not mention the further difficulty of writing while fighting the cold of this night, mountain air by clapping my hands together, wrapping myself from head to toe in sweaters, and sticking both of my hands entirely up my rectum.
I had felt, briefly, invigorated by our exchanges and had hoped for more, based on your references to your own writing Renaissance. And I'd also been looking forward to more feedback from you on my own creative endeavors. I fear that I shall have to submit myself to the various online writing communities to get criticism, and I've developed a rather severe allergy to "LOL," making such an endeavor hazardous. On a more serious note, though, writing has become increasingly important to me and I value your opinion, both as a writer and a friend.
Yet I know that you have many issues on your hand, including diphtheria (I apologize for not telling you earlier how I was warming my hands), your attempts to relocate your clan, and the daily hubub and roundabout whatnot that comes with having young ones. So please do not take this as a criticism.
Things here are more stable. The French have now set up an outpost. We'd been expected to be overrun with snooty cultural criticisms, stinky cheese, and pink slips, but it appears that our new friends are just as disorganized as we are and that no major changes are expected on the close horizon. That is not to say that the dangers of passed of course; just that my previous visions of Napoleon storming the ramparts with HR spreadsheets in hand has turned out to be somewhat overly dramatic.
And, to be honest, I'm not sure if I were to care too much if I were to fall on the battlefield. As you know, I've recently broken things off with the lovely Ms. K and as such I find myself feeling tremendously rootless. I am no longer seeking treatment for psychosis brought on by the Vermont tapeworm, so my ties to this land under my feet are perhaps the weakest they've ever been. If I should find it necessary to relocate to find work or even just for the sake of change, then there would be absolutely no hesitation on my part.
In any case, I hope things are well. Write back soon, you sheep molester.
Lionel
***********************************************************
Leo,
I'd wondered why your letters were scented so. I thought perhaps it was because my local postal chap was sharing his opinion of the ex-colonies by letting your letters fall to the ground in the piles of excrement that dot the local horse track.
Well, you are right, I am busy. But it's not just business that leads to a lack of communication. It's a shift in perspective. You have no idea how things pass and the days shape and wan around my little walking, talking, babbling bundle of joy. Though on that note, I must say that I'm very glad to have spent my son's first years here in the land of Shakespeare and chavs. My own feelings for my son have helped me understand that rabid consumerism that grips so many American parents like malaria in that so consumed are they by madness that they would sell their own blood in order to get the latest and greatest baby stroller. If I really believed that such things were necessary, I too would fall to the madness. However, here on the white cliffs, people just drop their babies on the ground in huge queues that stretch for miles around the hospital, knowing that an Indian immigrant will pick him or her up and move him or her along the days-long wait for access to a doctor in our socialized medical paradise in exchange for a thimble full of curry and assurances that one day they will be as white as the reset of us. The adults, in turn, hop down to the local pub for a pint or ten and of course the ritualized puking into an ancient Roman well while laughing at some BBC comedy that nobody really understands.
The point being of course that it's hard for me to focus on your perspective or wants and how that translates into correspondence. It's just a world apart from my own point of view. I believe I understand exactly what your perspective is, but then again, can I ever really understand it again? Or have I lost the ability to truly understand much in the way that adults lose the ability to understand the young - I understand the circumstances, yes, but the perspective may well be beamed in from an alien planet, a place so different than my own that they actually understand the BBC comedies there.
Well, no sense in dwelling on it. But whatever life changes you are experiencing, remember there are plenty on my own horizon. For the first time as an adult, I'm preparing for a return to the land of my birth. Vermont and Boston are tied into my conscience well, but England has been home for such a long time that I confess some anxiety about moving back. What if my memories are disconnected from the reality of it all? What if my wife isn't able to find her comfort zone, much as she struggled with in Boston? These are things not to be taken lightly. And here, I would posit that as perhaps I cannot understand you much as a rootless bachelor, you cannot understand me much as a rooted father.
We are both struggling with the unknown, my friend. Please do not take it harshly that I am not writing as much as you'd prefer.
Sincerely,
William
I must admit that I have been disappointed to not receive further correspondence from you. I have spent many a precious candle writing my own correspondence to you. I will not mention the further difficulty of writing while fighting the cold of this night, mountain air by clapping my hands together, wrapping myself from head to toe in sweaters, and sticking both of my hands entirely up my rectum.
I had felt, briefly, invigorated by our exchanges and had hoped for more, based on your references to your own writing Renaissance. And I'd also been looking forward to more feedback from you on my own creative endeavors. I fear that I shall have to submit myself to the various online writing communities to get criticism, and I've developed a rather severe allergy to "LOL," making such an endeavor hazardous. On a more serious note, though, writing has become increasingly important to me and I value your opinion, both as a writer and a friend.
Yet I know that you have many issues on your hand, including diphtheria (I apologize for not telling you earlier how I was warming my hands), your attempts to relocate your clan, and the daily hubub and roundabout whatnot that comes with having young ones. So please do not take this as a criticism.
Things here are more stable. The French have now set up an outpost. We'd been expected to be overrun with snooty cultural criticisms, stinky cheese, and pink slips, but it appears that our new friends are just as disorganized as we are and that no major changes are expected on the close horizon. That is not to say that the dangers of passed of course; just that my previous visions of Napoleon storming the ramparts with HR spreadsheets in hand has turned out to be somewhat overly dramatic.
And, to be honest, I'm not sure if I were to care too much if I were to fall on the battlefield. As you know, I've recently broken things off with the lovely Ms. K and as such I find myself feeling tremendously rootless. I am no longer seeking treatment for psychosis brought on by the Vermont tapeworm, so my ties to this land under my feet are perhaps the weakest they've ever been. If I should find it necessary to relocate to find work or even just for the sake of change, then there would be absolutely no hesitation on my part.
In any case, I hope things are well. Write back soon, you sheep molester.
Lionel
***********************************************************
Leo,
I'd wondered why your letters were scented so. I thought perhaps it was because my local postal chap was sharing his opinion of the ex-colonies by letting your letters fall to the ground in the piles of excrement that dot the local horse track.
Well, you are right, I am busy. But it's not just business that leads to a lack of communication. It's a shift in perspective. You have no idea how things pass and the days shape and wan around my little walking, talking, babbling bundle of joy. Though on that note, I must say that I'm very glad to have spent my son's first years here in the land of Shakespeare and chavs. My own feelings for my son have helped me understand that rabid consumerism that grips so many American parents like malaria in that so consumed are they by madness that they would sell their own blood in order to get the latest and greatest baby stroller. If I really believed that such things were necessary, I too would fall to the madness. However, here on the white cliffs, people just drop their babies on the ground in huge queues that stretch for miles around the hospital, knowing that an Indian immigrant will pick him or her up and move him or her along the days-long wait for access to a doctor in our socialized medical paradise in exchange for a thimble full of curry and assurances that one day they will be as white as the reset of us. The adults, in turn, hop down to the local pub for a pint or ten and of course the ritualized puking into an ancient Roman well while laughing at some BBC comedy that nobody really understands.
The point being of course that it's hard for me to focus on your perspective or wants and how that translates into correspondence. It's just a world apart from my own point of view. I believe I understand exactly what your perspective is, but then again, can I ever really understand it again? Or have I lost the ability to truly understand much in the way that adults lose the ability to understand the young - I understand the circumstances, yes, but the perspective may well be beamed in from an alien planet, a place so different than my own that they actually understand the BBC comedies there.
Well, no sense in dwelling on it. But whatever life changes you are experiencing, remember there are plenty on my own horizon. For the first time as an adult, I'm preparing for a return to the land of my birth. Vermont and Boston are tied into my conscience well, but England has been home for such a long time that I confess some anxiety about moving back. What if my memories are disconnected from the reality of it all? What if my wife isn't able to find her comfort zone, much as she struggled with in Boston? These are things not to be taken lightly. And here, I would posit that as perhaps I cannot understand you much as a rootless bachelor, you cannot understand me much as a rooted father.
We are both struggling with the unknown, my friend. Please do not take it harshly that I am not writing as much as you'd prefer.
Sincerely,
William
Friday, February 18, 2011
I love my job, I love my job
The world today is built on tasks and ideas that cannot be captured or solved by individual pieces of software. Or if it can be captured/solved, people still have to accept that the software also does a thousand other things they don't understand or like. It's all a big goddamn mess and I feel like I'm nothing more than a janitor who pushes pieces of garbage around so that people will see a clean space amongst all the trash and think that something is fixed. But nothing is ever "fixed." Nothing is ever clean. There will always be problem and we, people in IT as well as people at the software companies, we just move the problems around so the customers can get this one thing at this one time. Everything else is pretty much up for grabs. The idea of spending the rest of my life doing this or something like this is revolting in a very deep and powerful way.
I realize that another thing that I don't like about my job is how, because my job involves collaboration and because I drive a lot of troubleshooting work, I'm always having to a) ask people for their help and b) be told what to do by other people and c) have to serve as the contact point for customers and therefore bear the brunt of their irritation. But it's b) that really bothers me; any time there's a collaborative effort going on, it seems like I'm the one who has to run around trying to do everything that people suggest. I feel intense resentment on a regular basis because I'm supposed to be an expert (my position is literally "Subject Matter Expert") but I'm not. I rely on the developers, both in-house and at the software companies, as well as our in-house server people or Blackberry people or whatever to actually know what's going on and how to fix it. The majority of problems that I "fix" are actually fixed by other people; I just coordinate it.
I feel like I'm trafficking in my own sense of helplessness by having to constantly rely on other people. And if those people are busy or not replying to me because the leave work early for the day or just suck at their job, I'm the one who has to hold their feet to the fire to get things done and I fucking hate doing that. I'm an introvert, yet somehow I ended up in a job where I'm the main point of contact for customers and the person who has to deal with their anxiety and frustration and need, need, need. And I'm also trying to coax answers out of people and act as a translator between the business and the REAL subject matter experts, people who often don't speak the same language. I feel like my brain is being torn into small chunks every day because I get pulled into so many different directions. And I feel like people are always grabbing at me and hassling me because I'm at a central junction of a lot of different threads that connect the people who have the answers with the people with the questions, and it makes me angry and resentful almost every day.
I realize that another thing that I don't like about my job is how, because my job involves collaboration and because I drive a lot of troubleshooting work, I'm always having to a) ask people for their help and b) be told what to do by other people and c) have to serve as the contact point for customers and therefore bear the brunt of their irritation. But it's b) that really bothers me; any time there's a collaborative effort going on, it seems like I'm the one who has to run around trying to do everything that people suggest. I feel intense resentment on a regular basis because I'm supposed to be an expert (my position is literally "Subject Matter Expert") but I'm not. I rely on the developers, both in-house and at the software companies, as well as our in-house server people or Blackberry people or whatever to actually know what's going on and how to fix it. The majority of problems that I "fix" are actually fixed by other people; I just coordinate it.
I feel like I'm trafficking in my own sense of helplessness by having to constantly rely on other people. And if those people are busy or not replying to me because the leave work early for the day or just suck at their job, I'm the one who has to hold their feet to the fire to get things done and I fucking hate doing that. I'm an introvert, yet somehow I ended up in a job where I'm the main point of contact for customers and the person who has to deal with their anxiety and frustration and need, need, need. And I'm also trying to coax answers out of people and act as a translator between the business and the REAL subject matter experts, people who often don't speak the same language. I feel like my brain is being torn into small chunks every day because I get pulled into so many different directions. And I feel like people are always grabbing at me and hassling me because I'm at a central junction of a lot of different threads that connect the people who have the answers with the people with the questions, and it makes me angry and resentful almost every day.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Letter 6
Wednesday, February 09, 2011
Letter 5
Bill,
Have you ever read "The Delta of Venus?" It's a book of erotica written in the early 20th century by Anais Nin, a muse/lover of Henry Miller and an author in her own right. I want to say that you have read it because my roommate in my first semester of college had a copy and we may have discussed it at the time because I was so enthralled with it as it was the first 'real' erotica I'd read, everything up to that being something on the level of Penthouse letters. I bought a copy at some point last year, though it has sat mostly unread in the bookshelf near my bed.
I picked it up again last week and started reading. I was struck by one story in particular, a tale of a man who adopts a boy and a girl from an orphanage. I say 'a man' because the man's wife, a sickly woman, doesn't really figure into the story as she spends most of her time being sick in bed. Ah, the setup of old-school erotica. The sickly wife, not interested in sex, closed up in her room all day. These days, we'd look at the scenario and right about the healthcare problem in America. Fah, I say!*
As the boy and the girl in the story (they are not brother and sister) grow older, the girl falls in love with the boy but he is not interested in her. As they go through adolescence, he becomes cold and distant from her, thinking her a silly, sensual animal as he focuses on his studies and makes himself rigid (above the waist) with the self-righteous discipline of one who is gravely certain of the importance of his tasks. The girl ends up in the arms of her adoptive father and they become very familiar with each others' pubic regions. The boy finds out about all of this and as such comes (as it were) to realize his own conflicted feelings for the girl
This boy has a moment of self-realization, of understanding of the schism between his two halves - the scholarly, purposeful, self-righteous, and ultimately naive versus the sensual, emotional, and ultimately loving half. It's not a transcendent bit of writing per se, but it is genuine. More importantly, it resonates with me. I feel like there is a powerful split in me between such similar halves, and it's a problem that I feel is reflected in my current relationship. I think it's because I feel so frustrated with certain elements of my life right now (my job, the place where I live, etc.) that I subconsciously try to keep my emotional self at an arm's length. My instinctive fear, I think, is that if I bring the emotional into conjunction with the real, I will be overwhelmed by the frustration and the sadness of the things that are not going right in my life.
But I'm also frustrated with my relationship with my girlfriend. I find myself seesawing back and forth between whether or not I want to continue with the relationship or break up. I feel tripped up in my emotions in that I feel myself leaning towards breaking up, yet I am also aware of being mostly ignorant about my feelings for this woman (the schism described above). The longer the relationship lasts, the more it will hurt both of us to end it. I had a long talk with her yesterday, one that stretched on for several hours and many tears on her part. I veered between cool detachment and utter panic, with little time spent between those two poles. I don't want to describe the problems too much because I don't think it's appropriate for correspondence, but these issues aren't based on dramatic situations. It's more about a growing sense of our emotional incompatibility. I think that I will have to break off the relationship, but I just don't know if that's the right thing to do. And my girlfriend is no help - she has a long history of not acknowledging or dealing with the things in her life that are making her unhappy, and she reacted to my statements yesterday by just hugging me harder and harder. It was heartbreaking.
Lionel
* Any time a politician on TV starts talk about reproductive rights, they should have to intercut the speech with porn clips. Or if they're going to talk about the aging population and the impact of that on the economy, they should have to show geriatric sex. I mean, it happens. Let's not deny it as a society.
*************************
Leo,
As hard as it is to do when you're caught up in such a way, just try to take a step back and see what you're experiencing through the lens of the larger human experience, namely that this is the kind of thing that lots of people go through. I know that you don't want to make a mistake, and I know that you don't want to cause anyone emotional pain, but you have to accept that there is a very real chance that both things could happen regardless of what you do, or even whether or not you choose to do anything at all. What you are talking about is a relationship, a romantic relationship that is expected to end either in a breakup/dissolution, or marriage and/or children. This is one of the few genuinely black and white situations that you'll find in the day-to-day world of the adult. Anything you do or don't do is going to dictate the future of your relationship with this person. You can't avoid it. You can't get someone else to make the decision for you. You can delay, but as you know, that will only make it more painful for both of you.
You are, I think, addicted to the idea of having other people tell you what to do or feel. It's a bit of odd desire for an authoritarian relationship from a scruffy little liberal like you. The sooner you let go of your dependence on other people, or even your desire for their opinion, the better. Of course, you may also just not know what to do. If that's the case, just focus on it. Every time you're with the girl, don't just roll with it day by day - really think about whether or not you love her and whether or not you think a relationship with her is the best thing for you. And it's all about you, really. You have to do what's right for you. As much as I dislike the navel-gazing and selfishness that I think is inherent in the long-term psychotherapy that you've undergone, I think it is an appropriate way to approach this situation, if only because you'll make her miserable if you're miserable.
Plus, in the end, it's not a life or death decision. You're not in the military, issuing order that could potentially send men to their death. You're a yuppie with girlfriend problems. Embrace it.
Bill
Have you ever read "The Delta of Venus?" It's a book of erotica written in the early 20th century by Anais Nin, a muse/lover of Henry Miller and an author in her own right. I want to say that you have read it because my roommate in my first semester of college had a copy and we may have discussed it at the time because I was so enthralled with it as it was the first 'real' erotica I'd read, everything up to that being something on the level of Penthouse letters. I bought a copy at some point last year, though it has sat mostly unread in the bookshelf near my bed.
I picked it up again last week and started reading. I was struck by one story in particular, a tale of a man who adopts a boy and a girl from an orphanage. I say 'a man' because the man's wife, a sickly woman, doesn't really figure into the story as she spends most of her time being sick in bed. Ah, the setup of old-school erotica. The sickly wife, not interested in sex, closed up in her room all day. These days, we'd look at the scenario and right about the healthcare problem in America. Fah, I say!*
As the boy and the girl in the story (they are not brother and sister) grow older, the girl falls in love with the boy but he is not interested in her. As they go through adolescence, he becomes cold and distant from her, thinking her a silly, sensual animal as he focuses on his studies and makes himself rigid (above the waist) with the self-righteous discipline of one who is gravely certain of the importance of his tasks. The girl ends up in the arms of her adoptive father and they become very familiar with each others' pubic regions. The boy finds out about all of this and as such comes (as it were) to realize his own conflicted feelings for the girl
This boy has a moment of self-realization, of understanding of the schism between his two halves - the scholarly, purposeful, self-righteous, and ultimately naive versus the sensual, emotional, and ultimately loving half. It's not a transcendent bit of writing per se, but it is genuine. More importantly, it resonates with me. I feel like there is a powerful split in me between such similar halves, and it's a problem that I feel is reflected in my current relationship. I think it's because I feel so frustrated with certain elements of my life right now (my job, the place where I live, etc.) that I subconsciously try to keep my emotional self at an arm's length. My instinctive fear, I think, is that if I bring the emotional into conjunction with the real, I will be overwhelmed by the frustration and the sadness of the things that are not going right in my life.
But I'm also frustrated with my relationship with my girlfriend. I find myself seesawing back and forth between whether or not I want to continue with the relationship or break up. I feel tripped up in my emotions in that I feel myself leaning towards breaking up, yet I am also aware of being mostly ignorant about my feelings for this woman (the schism described above). The longer the relationship lasts, the more it will hurt both of us to end it. I had a long talk with her yesterday, one that stretched on for several hours and many tears on her part. I veered between cool detachment and utter panic, with little time spent between those two poles. I don't want to describe the problems too much because I don't think it's appropriate for correspondence, but these issues aren't based on dramatic situations. It's more about a growing sense of our emotional incompatibility. I think that I will have to break off the relationship, but I just don't know if that's the right thing to do. And my girlfriend is no help - she has a long history of not acknowledging or dealing with the things in her life that are making her unhappy, and she reacted to my statements yesterday by just hugging me harder and harder. It was heartbreaking.
Lionel
* Any time a politician on TV starts talk about reproductive rights, they should have to intercut the speech with porn clips. Or if they're going to talk about the aging population and the impact of that on the economy, they should have to show geriatric sex. I mean, it happens. Let's not deny it as a society.
*************************
Leo,
As hard as it is to do when you're caught up in such a way, just try to take a step back and see what you're experiencing through the lens of the larger human experience, namely that this is the kind of thing that lots of people go through. I know that you don't want to make a mistake, and I know that you don't want to cause anyone emotional pain, but you have to accept that there is a very real chance that both things could happen regardless of what you do, or even whether or not you choose to do anything at all. What you are talking about is a relationship, a romantic relationship that is expected to end either in a breakup/dissolution, or marriage and/or children. This is one of the few genuinely black and white situations that you'll find in the day-to-day world of the adult. Anything you do or don't do is going to dictate the future of your relationship with this person. You can't avoid it. You can't get someone else to make the decision for you. You can delay, but as you know, that will only make it more painful for both of you.
You are, I think, addicted to the idea of having other people tell you what to do or feel. It's a bit of odd desire for an authoritarian relationship from a scruffy little liberal like you. The sooner you let go of your dependence on other people, or even your desire for their opinion, the better. Of course, you may also just not know what to do. If that's the case, just focus on it. Every time you're with the girl, don't just roll with it day by day - really think about whether or not you love her and whether or not you think a relationship with her is the best thing for you. And it's all about you, really. You have to do what's right for you. As much as I dislike the navel-gazing and selfishness that I think is inherent in the long-term psychotherapy that you've undergone, I think it is an appropriate way to approach this situation, if only because you'll make her miserable if you're miserable.
Plus, in the end, it's not a life or death decision. You're not in the military, issuing order that could potentially send men to their death. You're a yuppie with girlfriend problems. Embrace it.
Bill
Tuesday, February 01, 2011
Letter 4
Bill,
I am glad that my letters find you in good spirits and that you do not find the back-and-forth off-putting. Writing is a funny thing. You can never anticipate the impact on the reader or the writer. For my own self, I find it both liberating and embarrassing*. I think I've found that one of the primary reasons behind my constant writer's block is that I'm too afraid to embarrass myself, either in the view of myself or in the view of others. I suppose that, at it's root, this problem has a positive side in that it shows me that I've always considered writing to be an act of honesty. Indeed, when I've been unable to be honest with myself and others is when I've struggled the most. Of course, it's not purely by foolishness that I unlearned honesty; after all, it would be poor form (I'm assuming) if I were to answer most of the technical questions put to me during the course of the workday with "I don't give a shit."
In fact, and I apologize for the digression, it seems to me that there are many areas on life in which we are discouraged from being honest. In school, up through AP courses in high school, we are expected to keep our answers in line with what we have been taught is the teachers' and schools' expectations. In courting and relationships, in both high school and through adult life, success is often marked by how well one is able to blend fiction and non-fiction, all in the name of shaping one's conversation in a way that does not accidentally or deliberately cause pain to the woman you love (this is especially true if you are only trying to love in a physical way).
To return to the flow of the previous paragraph - perhaps it is because of the fact that I've not been honest with myself or others for a long time about what I want in my career... no, that's window dressing, or perhaps salad dressing. It really goes back to my family, I think, in that the members of my family are rarely open with each other, at least as far as the big, heavy matters that pass between us over the long course of mind, calling into mind cargo ships that pass heavy freight between them as they sail around the world, following the sun, until one by one they sail into the horizon, ultimately alone but hopefully remembered and integrated into the spirits of the others.
In any case, while a lark, these letters are freighted with the need for honesty. Oh, damn, I'm doing it again. Emotions! Oh dear, dear, dear.
I'm nearing the end of the Faulkner biography, by the way. It's truly been a fantastic learning and reading experience. I highly recommend that you read it - I remember you often mentioning your love of Faulkner. Something which, now that I think about it, I can see in the memories I have of your creative writing going back through college. In that context, I think you'd enjoy the book even more than I. I'm rather sad to report that Faulkner's death wasn't very spectacular. Given his prodigious appetites for whiskey and young women, I'd rather hoped that he would die from a fall from a horse upon which Faulkner was committing carnal acts upon a young student from the University of Virginia. But, alas, he died in a hospital bed after a sickness, the effect of alcohol more like a creek (or a roaring river, in Faulkner's case) wearing down a rock rather than something more explosive like Dylan Thomas' death.
All the best,
Lionel
* Though not as embarrassing as how many spelling mistakes I make and that this blogging software catches; I spelled "writer" as "rider," for God's sake! I should be drawn and quartered by tractors in the fields of Vermont.
**********
Leo,
As far as the poor spelling goes, perhaps you are a victim of the auto-correct in the blog's software, wherein a slight misspelling is recast into a horrid misspelling because the software decides it is closer to one word rather than another. It's not as apocalyptic as most horrors visited upon humanity by technology, but neither one of us is living a particularly apocalyptic or vivid life.
For example, my big goal over the past weekend was figuring out how to remove rather embedded poop stains in my son's jeans. It was my own fault - he shat himself a number of times several weeks ago and each time I put the jeans in the wash pile so that they could be properly cleaned. However, for reasons I still can't fathom, I was putting them in the wrong place. I don't know why. My wife and I have a single place in the house where we put things that need to be washed - oftentimes there's a hamper to hold the clothes, but sometimes if a load of laundry is already being run,the hamper won't be there. So it didn't occur to me that there was a problem when, over the course of the week, these shitty clothes were piling up and there was no hamper anywhere. Finally, notified by the stench of unwashed poop, Mary (heatedly, to the point where I still feel a slow burn) pointed out to me that I'd been putting the shitted jeans in a completely random place, far away from the usual place. I still don't know why or how I made such a mistake. I was putting the jeans in not only the wrong corner of the room, but also the wrong room. And now I've been spending my time doing online research about how to get these shit stains out without bleaching. The worst thing about it, now that the stench has been washed away (I ran the clothes through the machines once which got rid of the smell, but not the stains), is that these are new jeans. Childrens' clothes are incredibly expensive. It is the downfall of Western civilization, I swear to you. Either you spend all your discretionary income on clothes your child will grow out of in two or three months, or all the parents at the daycare center look at you like you're an abuser because your child is wearing cheap and/or secondhand clothes. It's horrid. Never have children. Run away, run far away. Join a monastery. Specifically, a monastery where they allow internet porn. I mean, the bastards are having a horrible time recruiting - they must be lowering their standards.
Have you ever considered when you might want to settle down and have children? I know you're rather averse to the concept. And the experience isn't great for everyone. I've been very lucky. But I really think that it would be good for you, especially given that you perceive many of your problems as stemming from your family, specifically how your family makes you feel about yourself. So why not start up a new family? That's simplified, but it's true as well. You can redefine yourself this way, you really can. Words can't describe how different it is. It's like waking up one day and realizing that the sun (pun intended) is a living, breathing entity. It's still the same sun that you've always known, but there's a whole new dimension that you've never seen before and now the world as you know it is completely redefined. You don't truly understand the power of life and family until you have children. Or maybe I'm proselytizing. I am happy, very happy, with my own situation, and I think that children would make you happy as well, but I realize that you're probably feeling enough pressure as is, being a bachelor at the age of 35. I can't decide if you're impervious to societal pressure or if you're highly sensitive but also highly contrary and stubborn. Probably the latter.
As far as writing goes, yes, having children (or even just one child) makes it much, much harder to dedicate any real time to writing, and I know how important writing is to you. And in that context, your growth as a writer will slow. But in the context of becoming more honest, and growing as a writer in that manner, I think that starting a family would be a welcome new stage in your life.
In regards to your implied-but-not-articulated concerns about being too open and honest in these letters, don't worry about it. I may not always like it but, ultimately, it's up to you. You obviously have a sense for how I feel about these things so I trust you to not go too far. And ultimately, you are going to have to be more open if you want to grow as a writer. Don't be afraid to face up to it.
Yours in a most Victorian way,
Bill
I am glad that my letters find you in good spirits and that you do not find the back-and-forth off-putting. Writing is a funny thing. You can never anticipate the impact on the reader or the writer. For my own self, I find it both liberating and embarrassing*. I think I've found that one of the primary reasons behind my constant writer's block is that I'm too afraid to embarrass myself, either in the view of myself or in the view of others. I suppose that, at it's root, this problem has a positive side in that it shows me that I've always considered writing to be an act of honesty. Indeed, when I've been unable to be honest with myself and others is when I've struggled the most. Of course, it's not purely by foolishness that I unlearned honesty; after all, it would be poor form (I'm assuming) if I were to answer most of the technical questions put to me during the course of the workday with "I don't give a shit."
In fact, and I apologize for the digression, it seems to me that there are many areas on life in which we are discouraged from being honest. In school, up through AP courses in high school, we are expected to keep our answers in line with what we have been taught is the teachers' and schools' expectations. In courting and relationships, in both high school and through adult life, success is often marked by how well one is able to blend fiction and non-fiction, all in the name of shaping one's conversation in a way that does not accidentally or deliberately cause pain to the woman you love (this is especially true if you are only trying to love in a physical way).
To return to the flow of the previous paragraph - perhaps it is because of the fact that I've not been honest with myself or others for a long time about what I want in my career... no, that's window dressing, or perhaps salad dressing. It really goes back to my family, I think, in that the members of my family are rarely open with each other, at least as far as the big, heavy matters that pass between us over the long course of mind, calling into mind cargo ships that pass heavy freight between them as they sail around the world, following the sun, until one by one they sail into the horizon, ultimately alone but hopefully remembered and integrated into the spirits of the others.
In any case, while a lark, these letters are freighted with the need for honesty. Oh, damn, I'm doing it again. Emotions! Oh dear, dear, dear.
I'm nearing the end of the Faulkner biography, by the way. It's truly been a fantastic learning and reading experience. I highly recommend that you read it - I remember you often mentioning your love of Faulkner. Something which, now that I think about it, I can see in the memories I have of your creative writing going back through college. In that context, I think you'd enjoy the book even more than I. I'm rather sad to report that Faulkner's death wasn't very spectacular. Given his prodigious appetites for whiskey and young women, I'd rather hoped that he would die from a fall from a horse upon which Faulkner was committing carnal acts upon a young student from the University of Virginia. But, alas, he died in a hospital bed after a sickness, the effect of alcohol more like a creek (or a roaring river, in Faulkner's case) wearing down a rock rather than something more explosive like Dylan Thomas' death.
All the best,
Lionel
* Though not as embarrassing as how many spelling mistakes I make and that this blogging software catches; I spelled "writer" as "rider," for God's sake! I should be drawn and quartered by tractors in the fields of Vermont.
**********
Leo,
As far as the poor spelling goes, perhaps you are a victim of the auto-correct in the blog's software, wherein a slight misspelling is recast into a horrid misspelling because the software decides it is closer to one word rather than another. It's not as apocalyptic as most horrors visited upon humanity by technology, but neither one of us is living a particularly apocalyptic or vivid life.
For example, my big goal over the past weekend was figuring out how to remove rather embedded poop stains in my son's jeans. It was my own fault - he shat himself a number of times several weeks ago and each time I put the jeans in the wash pile so that they could be properly cleaned. However, for reasons I still can't fathom, I was putting them in the wrong place. I don't know why. My wife and I have a single place in the house where we put things that need to be washed - oftentimes there's a hamper to hold the clothes, but sometimes if a load of laundry is already being run,the hamper won't be there. So it didn't occur to me that there was a problem when, over the course of the week, these shitty clothes were piling up and there was no hamper anywhere. Finally, notified by the stench of unwashed poop, Mary (heatedly, to the point where I still feel a slow burn) pointed out to me that I'd been putting the shitted jeans in a completely random place, far away from the usual place. I still don't know why or how I made such a mistake. I was putting the jeans in not only the wrong corner of the room, but also the wrong room. And now I've been spending my time doing online research about how to get these shit stains out without bleaching. The worst thing about it, now that the stench has been washed away (I ran the clothes through the machines once which got rid of the smell, but not the stains), is that these are new jeans. Childrens' clothes are incredibly expensive. It is the downfall of Western civilization, I swear to you. Either you spend all your discretionary income on clothes your child will grow out of in two or three months, or all the parents at the daycare center look at you like you're an abuser because your child is wearing cheap and/or secondhand clothes. It's horrid. Never have children. Run away, run far away. Join a monastery. Specifically, a monastery where they allow internet porn. I mean, the bastards are having a horrible time recruiting - they must be lowering their standards.
Have you ever considered when you might want to settle down and have children? I know you're rather averse to the concept. And the experience isn't great for everyone. I've been very lucky. But I really think that it would be good for you, especially given that you perceive many of your problems as stemming from your family, specifically how your family makes you feel about yourself. So why not start up a new family? That's simplified, but it's true as well. You can redefine yourself this way, you really can. Words can't describe how different it is. It's like waking up one day and realizing that the sun (pun intended) is a living, breathing entity. It's still the same sun that you've always known, but there's a whole new dimension that you've never seen before and now the world as you know it is completely redefined. You don't truly understand the power of life and family until you have children. Or maybe I'm proselytizing. I am happy, very happy, with my own situation, and I think that children would make you happy as well, but I realize that you're probably feeling enough pressure as is, being a bachelor at the age of 35. I can't decide if you're impervious to societal pressure or if you're highly sensitive but also highly contrary and stubborn. Probably the latter.
As far as writing goes, yes, having children (or even just one child) makes it much, much harder to dedicate any real time to writing, and I know how important writing is to you. And in that context, your growth as a writer will slow. But in the context of becoming more honest, and growing as a writer in that manner, I think that starting a family would be a welcome new stage in your life.
In regards to your implied-but-not-articulated concerns about being too open and honest in these letters, don't worry about it. I may not always like it but, ultimately, it's up to you. You obviously have a sense for how I feel about these things so I trust you to not go too far. And ultimately, you are going to have to be more open if you want to grow as a writer. Don't be afraid to face up to it.
Yours in a most Victorian way,
Bill
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Letter 3
Bill,
The Faulkner book is going quite well, thanks. You do know which one I'm talking about, right? The author is a former professor of ours, and I recognize some of the names in the acknowledgment section.
In any case, reading about Faulkner is quite stunning. For one thing, I had no idea that he was such a massive alcoholic. I knew that he was an alcoholic, yes, but not on this kind of scale. One of the sections I read yesterday described a time when, after he was already considered one of the leading American authors, he went on a series of binges in which, according to his daughter, he would drink until he passed out and then wake up and drink 'til the point of passing out again. He was becoming violent and the family had to hire men to be at the house to keep Faulkner from attacking his wife and children (well, that's an assumption on my part; when I read of a drunk being violent, I don't imagine him beating himself up or attacking passersby).
It's been quite interesting to read about Faulkner at a time when I've been re-focusing on my own writing, a process that I've been working on for the past year or so and something that I'm accelerating with better practice and, more significantly, the cessation of psychotherapy sessions each morning, something that will give me at least an additional hour each morning to write. To read of Faulkner's own focus is amazing. He wrote books so quickly and was so dedicated to his craft that I'm beyond intimidation and just feel nothing but admiration. Of course, Faulkner never had any real jobs. He was supported by his family and just farted around for a few years after dropping out of college to do his own thing. So in that respect, I don't have quite the same freedom that he had. In any case, reading about his incredible focus and dedication has made me aware of my own lack in those areas. Even when I set aside an hour for writing, I'm often not 100% mentally there; part of me is daydreaming or thinking about other stuff. That statement could be applied to most things in my life, of course, including the act of sex. But I feel like I can change it in regards to writing, or at least improve it.
I feel regret now that I didn't provide you better feedback and encouragement five years ago or whenever it was that you were doing more of your own writing. I feel sadness. I was so caught up in my little world of drinking and... well, that's pretty much it. I was all about drinking and consuming. I wasn't paying attention to my life, to the idea of school, to figuring out what to do with my career or anything like that. All I cared about was going home to the bar after getting back from work. Oh, that little Irish pub that I wrapped around myself like a blanket... I used to walk out in front of traffic after drinking, did I ever tell you that? It wasn't blatently suicidal but cars had to either slam on their brakes or speed up to avoid hitting me. On at least one occasion, a bystander shouted something like "What the hell are you doing?" I don't know why I mention that now.
But ah, do you see what just happened there? I was talking about your writing and then quickly slid into navel-gazing. That's such a bad habit. In any case, I think part of the reason that I kept dropping the ball as we tried to get each other focused on writing and being productive was that I was having such a hard time writing and was so very self-critical. I always thought that your writing was good, that your writing was real writing, while my own writing was just useless shit spewed from an alcohol-dazed mind. And that jealousy made it hard for me to keep reading your stuff and giving you encouragement. And now I feel regret about that because now that I'm doing my own writing, I wish that I had more back and forth with you but you're too busy with your family to provide any real input. Having a sister and now two friends with children, I understand how much of a game-changer a kid is. And believe you me, that's something that makes me hesitate when it comes to me thinking about my own family. But, for the record, I do feel frustrated when I send you a story and you just give me some one-off praise. It's not the same thing as criticism. It's not helpful. I know you know that and I know you don't mean anything bad by it. I just wanted to get that off my chest.
Sincerely,
Lionel
********
Leo,
And get things off your chest you truly well. Old friend, how shall I speak... it is hard for me to read the words of a kindred spirit and not feel more sympathy or kindness or a desire for change than I do. I wish you could just understand that not everyone wants to keep going on an emotional quest like Ulysses on a Freudian's couch. When you look out a window and see the land, the trees and the water tower against the sky, the cancerous metal bugs driving to every possible destination on the asphalt capillaries, do you envision everyone being like you? Every driver, every person in an office building, every man, woman, and child always thinking, "What am I feeling? Why do I feel this way? What are the implications of this?" Nothing in this world would ever get done! We would be a nation of navel-gazers. We wouldn't even a nation. We'd be nothing. I shouldn't use the word "nothing" in this context because you're obviously reaching out and I want you to understand that I will always care about you.
But yes, you can be maddening. And yes, I am to busy with my wife and my kid and my life to read through every story you send me and workshop it like we're still in college. Because we're not. I loved college just as much as you and it will always remain one of the favorite eras in my life, but it was a little four year slice that is long gone. We are men, now, responsible for families (especially me) and jobs and bills and taxes. If I didn't have to worry about working or worry about picking my kid up from daycare, yes, I would read your stories. I'd be so happy if I had that kind of time in my life. And from reading what you say, you understand that.
And yet you bring it up. You want to tell me how you feel even though you know the answer already. It's not enough for you to think to yourself, 'Well, I wish Bill would spend more time reading my stories but hey, he's got a kid and I know his schedule is crazy. C'est la vie!' No, you don't leave it at that. Or maybe you leave most things at that, but not others. So now you have to write to me and tell me how you feel, even though you already understand both sides of the equation. What's the point? That is the thing that is so damn maddening about you! You already understand why things are the way the are*. Why must you insist on pushing, on telling people how you feel? Don't you understand that doing so is an act of selfishness? I'm assuming you're doing it because your shrink told you to, because it's something that will make you feel better. Well, what about me, goddamn it? What about the rest of us who are trying to go on with our lives and not make sure that everyone who upsets us knows why they upset us, knows what we feel?
That's not fair to you. I'm sorry. I know that you say this because I'm a close friend and that, if you did not care for me or for our friendship, you wouldn't bother mentioning it. What I do know, though, is that now I have this thing in my head, this little bug that you slipped in my ear, that's buzzing around in my head. Now I know that you're upset that I don't read your stories more closely, even if you understand why that happens and that it's got nothing to do with how I feel about you or your stories. So what am I supposed to do? If I do decide to read your stories and give you closer criticism, I'm bowing to pressure from you and I don't like that feeling. If I just have to shrug my shoulders and say, 'That's the way it is,' then you're forcing me to make a conscious decision to... if not ignore you, then de-prioritize you. You're forcing my hand. You're making me feel things that I don't want to feel. All so you can get something off your chest so you feel better. Is that fair?
Friends until we get old and our balls look like blackened walnuts,
Bill
*in this particular instance; you are obviously not omnipotent; though if you ever do become God down the line, I would very much like to have a full head of hair
The Faulkner book is going quite well, thanks. You do know which one I'm talking about, right? The author is a former professor of ours, and I recognize some of the names in the acknowledgment section.
In any case, reading about Faulkner is quite stunning. For one thing, I had no idea that he was such a massive alcoholic. I knew that he was an alcoholic, yes, but not on this kind of scale. One of the sections I read yesterday described a time when, after he was already considered one of the leading American authors, he went on a series of binges in which, according to his daughter, he would drink until he passed out and then wake up and drink 'til the point of passing out again. He was becoming violent and the family had to hire men to be at the house to keep Faulkner from attacking his wife and children (well, that's an assumption on my part; when I read of a drunk being violent, I don't imagine him beating himself up or attacking passersby).
It's been quite interesting to read about Faulkner at a time when I've been re-focusing on my own writing, a process that I've been working on for the past year or so and something that I'm accelerating with better practice and, more significantly, the cessation of psychotherapy sessions each morning, something that will give me at least an additional hour each morning to write. To read of Faulkner's own focus is amazing. He wrote books so quickly and was so dedicated to his craft that I'm beyond intimidation and just feel nothing but admiration. Of course, Faulkner never had any real jobs. He was supported by his family and just farted around for a few years after dropping out of college to do his own thing. So in that respect, I don't have quite the same freedom that he had. In any case, reading about his incredible focus and dedication has made me aware of my own lack in those areas. Even when I set aside an hour for writing, I'm often not 100% mentally there; part of me is daydreaming or thinking about other stuff. That statement could be applied to most things in my life, of course, including the act of sex. But I feel like I can change it in regards to writing, or at least improve it.
I feel regret now that I didn't provide you better feedback and encouragement five years ago or whenever it was that you were doing more of your own writing. I feel sadness. I was so caught up in my little world of drinking and... well, that's pretty much it. I was all about drinking and consuming. I wasn't paying attention to my life, to the idea of school, to figuring out what to do with my career or anything like that. All I cared about was going home to the bar after getting back from work. Oh, that little Irish pub that I wrapped around myself like a blanket... I used to walk out in front of traffic after drinking, did I ever tell you that? It wasn't blatently suicidal but cars had to either slam on their brakes or speed up to avoid hitting me. On at least one occasion, a bystander shouted something like "What the hell are you doing?" I don't know why I mention that now.
But ah, do you see what just happened there? I was talking about your writing and then quickly slid into navel-gazing. That's such a bad habit. In any case, I think part of the reason that I kept dropping the ball as we tried to get each other focused on writing and being productive was that I was having such a hard time writing and was so very self-critical. I always thought that your writing was good, that your writing was real writing, while my own writing was just useless shit spewed from an alcohol-dazed mind. And that jealousy made it hard for me to keep reading your stuff and giving you encouragement. And now I feel regret about that because now that I'm doing my own writing, I wish that I had more back and forth with you but you're too busy with your family to provide any real input. Having a sister and now two friends with children, I understand how much of a game-changer a kid is. And believe you me, that's something that makes me hesitate when it comes to me thinking about my own family. But, for the record, I do feel frustrated when I send you a story and you just give me some one-off praise. It's not the same thing as criticism. It's not helpful. I know you know that and I know you don't mean anything bad by it. I just wanted to get that off my chest.
Sincerely,
Lionel
********
Leo,
And get things off your chest you truly well. Old friend, how shall I speak... it is hard for me to read the words of a kindred spirit and not feel more sympathy or kindness or a desire for change than I do. I wish you could just understand that not everyone wants to keep going on an emotional quest like Ulysses on a Freudian's couch. When you look out a window and see the land, the trees and the water tower against the sky, the cancerous metal bugs driving to every possible destination on the asphalt capillaries, do you envision everyone being like you? Every driver, every person in an office building, every man, woman, and child always thinking, "What am I feeling? Why do I feel this way? What are the implications of this?" Nothing in this world would ever get done! We would be a nation of navel-gazers. We wouldn't even a nation. We'd be nothing. I shouldn't use the word "nothing" in this context because you're obviously reaching out and I want you to understand that I will always care about you.
But yes, you can be maddening. And yes, I am to busy with my wife and my kid and my life to read through every story you send me and workshop it like we're still in college. Because we're not. I loved college just as much as you and it will always remain one of the favorite eras in my life, but it was a little four year slice that is long gone. We are men, now, responsible for families (especially me) and jobs and bills and taxes. If I didn't have to worry about working or worry about picking my kid up from daycare, yes, I would read your stories. I'd be so happy if I had that kind of time in my life. And from reading what you say, you understand that.
And yet you bring it up. You want to tell me how you feel even though you know the answer already. It's not enough for you to think to yourself, 'Well, I wish Bill would spend more time reading my stories but hey, he's got a kid and I know his schedule is crazy. C'est la vie!' No, you don't leave it at that. Or maybe you leave most things at that, but not others. So now you have to write to me and tell me how you feel, even though you already understand both sides of the equation. What's the point? That is the thing that is so damn maddening about you! You already understand why things are the way the are*. Why must you insist on pushing, on telling people how you feel? Don't you understand that doing so is an act of selfishness? I'm assuming you're doing it because your shrink told you to, because it's something that will make you feel better. Well, what about me, goddamn it? What about the rest of us who are trying to go on with our lives and not make sure that everyone who upsets us knows why they upset us, knows what we feel?
That's not fair to you. I'm sorry. I know that you say this because I'm a close friend and that, if you did not care for me or for our friendship, you wouldn't bother mentioning it. What I do know, though, is that now I have this thing in my head, this little bug that you slipped in my ear, that's buzzing around in my head. Now I know that you're upset that I don't read your stories more closely, even if you understand why that happens and that it's got nothing to do with how I feel about you or your stories. So what am I supposed to do? If I do decide to read your stories and give you closer criticism, I'm bowing to pressure from you and I don't like that feeling. If I just have to shrug my shoulders and say, 'That's the way it is,' then you're forcing me to make a conscious decision to... if not ignore you, then de-prioritize you. You're forcing my hand. You're making me feel things that I don't want to feel. All so you can get something off your chest so you feel better. Is that fair?
Friends until we get old and our balls look like blackened walnuts,
Bill
*in this particular instance; you are obviously not omnipotent; though if you ever do become God down the line, I would very much like to have a full head of hair
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Letter 2
Bill,
I've thought up several letters to write but haven't done so. I remember feeling the cold as I walked into my apartment last night, that bitter, clear, heavy cold that you only feel when the temperature is in the single digits... the kind of cold that makes you think that this is the REAL cold whereas the other cold was just a dream... I remember feeling that and then feeling sad for people that are homeless, and how foolish I am to be so angry about my lot in life when I have never been homeless.
I got ridiculously angry at traffic last night on the drive home from work. I've become the Boston driver that I've always hated, though I'm not totally psycho and reckless. I rage at people who drive below the speed limit, I curse at them, I ride their tail... all because I will, at worst, arrive home or at work 5 minutes later than I would if the objects of my derision were not in front of me. And I can hear your voice in my head, chastising or dismissing me because my feelings are more dwellings on negativity than anything else... and I know they are neurotic, but they are my thoughts and feelings, they are the window through which I view things, and I am defensive of them.
Lionel
*******************
Leo,
You are right, old chum; I am chastising you, though I am not dismissive of your concerns. It can be chilling to feel powerful and irrational negative feelings like that, especially when one looks at the news every day and wonders if our society has not gone mad. But why dwell on it? Everyone feels these things, or some approximation of them. You are not alone or even unusual in feeling these things. That is why I tend to dismiss these things when you bring them up, because it is all part of the background noise that we all have in our lives.
I think that, if you were to tell these things to your shrink, he would tell you that it's a matter of your anger being displaced. Or maybe it's a matter of something Freudian, like you want to fuck your second cousin and kill your step-aunt. Who knows?
Things are cold down here in the South, but obviously nowhere as near as what you're feeling now. We've had snow, as I'm sure you know, twice this month, which is roaringly unusual for our little neck of the back woods. People here don't know how to handle snow, so even just an inch shuts down the city. It's amazing. And perhaps that's a metaphor for your fears of your own anger. You don't know how to handle it, or you tell yourself you don't know how to handle it, and so you overreact.
How's the Faulkner book?
Sincerely,
Bill
I've thought up several letters to write but haven't done so. I remember feeling the cold as I walked into my apartment last night, that bitter, clear, heavy cold that you only feel when the temperature is in the single digits... the kind of cold that makes you think that this is the REAL cold whereas the other cold was just a dream... I remember feeling that and then feeling sad for people that are homeless, and how foolish I am to be so angry about my lot in life when I have never been homeless.
I got ridiculously angry at traffic last night on the drive home from work. I've become the Boston driver that I've always hated, though I'm not totally psycho and reckless. I rage at people who drive below the speed limit, I curse at them, I ride their tail... all because I will, at worst, arrive home or at work 5 minutes later than I would if the objects of my derision were not in front of me. And I can hear your voice in my head, chastising or dismissing me because my feelings are more dwellings on negativity than anything else... and I know they are neurotic, but they are my thoughts and feelings, they are the window through which I view things, and I am defensive of them.
Lionel
*******************
Leo,
You are right, old chum; I am chastising you, though I am not dismissive of your concerns. It can be chilling to feel powerful and irrational negative feelings like that, especially when one looks at the news every day and wonders if our society has not gone mad. But why dwell on it? Everyone feels these things, or some approximation of them. You are not alone or even unusual in feeling these things. That is why I tend to dismiss these things when you bring them up, because it is all part of the background noise that we all have in our lives.
I think that, if you were to tell these things to your shrink, he would tell you that it's a matter of your anger being displaced. Or maybe it's a matter of something Freudian, like you want to fuck your second cousin and kill your step-aunt. Who knows?
Things are cold down here in the South, but obviously nowhere as near as what you're feeling now. We've had snow, as I'm sure you know, twice this month, which is roaringly unusual for our little neck of the back woods. People here don't know how to handle snow, so even just an inch shuts down the city. It's amazing. And perhaps that's a metaphor for your fears of your own anger. You don't know how to handle it, or you tell yourself you don't know how to handle it, and so you overreact.
How's the Faulkner book?
Sincerely,
Bill
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Letter 1
Bill,
How are you? Well, I hope.
I've been reading a biography of William Faulkner, which includes a good deal of correspondence between Faulkner and his mother, his mentor(s), etc. Reading well-written correspondence, especially correspondence from the early part of the 20th century when writing was modern enough to still read smoothly now yet also much more formal than now, always makes me feel guilty. It makes me feel like I should be writing long emails to family and friends that capture my life in the most beautiful ways, involving minutiae of the physical world as well as the spiritual world. Yet most of my correspondence these days is some version of "Dude, I'm stressed."
In reading this more complex prose of 100 years ago that was in essence one man's casual, day-to-day writing, I feel like I have a small penis. As such, I will now be writing to you in a way that hopefully helps me engage my own correspondence skills without requiring me to spend a lot of time editing. I've also been doing a lot of creative writing, and if I spend too much time writing like this, I will have less time to do creative writing. Which is simply unacceptable. I don't know that I will ever feel good about my creative writing because of the fact that I did no writing after college for such a long time and as such I feel that time can best be summed up as "The Lost Years." No matter how much time I spend on writing now, it will never be good enough.
But enough of that. You've heard all of that before. How is Mary? How is the little one?
Sincerely,
Lionel
************
Leo,
A, yet another letter from you filled with self-doubt about writing and some form of self-flagellation. You do realize that you were engaged in such doubting masochism back before you even graduated from college, don't you? Haven't you ever considered that, by worrying as you do, you're doing nothing more than continuing the pattern of behavior that led to the crippling doubt which paralyzed you creatively for so long?
Or perhaps I swing too hard, too soon. I know that you struggled for a long time with alcohol. I think I've always had a hard time accepting that you actually had a problem because I drank along with you for part of the time. I drank too much, I gained weight like you, and so on. So I felt like I understood what you were going through. Yet I always had Mary, and then of course I moved and didn't see how you spent your daily life for many of the years you struggled. Plus, my own father struggled with alcohol addiction when I was younger, and I think it's quite possible that I don't put much thought into the depth of your struggles because that would mean revisiting emotional terrain that I would much rather leave to the darkening mists of memory.
All in all, I feel your idea of said correspondence is folly, but it may be an enjoyable folly as well. Just be sure to take the time to actually enjoy it, and not treat it as a form of penance for your sins.
Mary says hi.
All the best,
Bill
How are you? Well, I hope.
I've been reading a biography of William Faulkner, which includes a good deal of correspondence between Faulkner and his mother, his mentor(s), etc. Reading well-written correspondence, especially correspondence from the early part of the 20th century when writing was modern enough to still read smoothly now yet also much more formal than now, always makes me feel guilty. It makes me feel like I should be writing long emails to family and friends that capture my life in the most beautiful ways, involving minutiae of the physical world as well as the spiritual world. Yet most of my correspondence these days is some version of "Dude, I'm stressed."
In reading this more complex prose of 100 years ago that was in essence one man's casual, day-to-day writing, I feel like I have a small penis. As such, I will now be writing to you in a way that hopefully helps me engage my own correspondence skills without requiring me to spend a lot of time editing. I've also been doing a lot of creative writing, and if I spend too much time writing like this, I will have less time to do creative writing. Which is simply unacceptable. I don't know that I will ever feel good about my creative writing because of the fact that I did no writing after college for such a long time and as such I feel that time can best be summed up as "The Lost Years." No matter how much time I spend on writing now, it will never be good enough.
But enough of that. You've heard all of that before. How is Mary? How is the little one?
Sincerely,
Lionel
************
Leo,
A, yet another letter from you filled with self-doubt about writing and some form of self-flagellation. You do realize that you were engaged in such doubting masochism back before you even graduated from college, don't you? Haven't you ever considered that, by worrying as you do, you're doing nothing more than continuing the pattern of behavior that led to the crippling doubt which paralyzed you creatively for so long?
Or perhaps I swing too hard, too soon. I know that you struggled for a long time with alcohol. I think I've always had a hard time accepting that you actually had a problem because I drank along with you for part of the time. I drank too much, I gained weight like you, and so on. So I felt like I understood what you were going through. Yet I always had Mary, and then of course I moved and didn't see how you spent your daily life for many of the years you struggled. Plus, my own father struggled with alcohol addiction when I was younger, and I think it's quite possible that I don't put much thought into the depth of your struggles because that would mean revisiting emotional terrain that I would much rather leave to the darkening mists of memory.
All in all, I feel your idea of said correspondence is folly, but it may be an enjoyable folly as well. Just be sure to take the time to actually enjoy it, and not treat it as a form of penance for your sins.
Mary says hi.
All the best,
Bill
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Always Looking Back
I think one of the problems that has plagued me for a long while is that I still look at college as the high point in my life (which it was, in some times) and that I am always subconsciously seeking to return to that place. I think that's one of the reasons that I had a drinking problem - I was introduced to alcohol in college and, like a lot of people, it played a big role in my life. So I think that by continually getting intoxicated, I was trying to return back to that time when I was continually intoxicated.
Now that alcohol is no longer a problem since I quit drinking, I have to deal with the fact that I'm still looking back at college as the high point in my life. Let's be honest - there's no way to recapture that time because I have to pay bills, and I have to worry about my job. So in that sense, idealizing the college years makes sense. It was a heady combination of adult freedom with no adult responsibility, and thinking and learning with no purpose other than the sake of thinking and learning.
As I confront a general sense of malaise and anxiety about the future of my career (though I loath the phrase because it gives the false impression that my working life has had any sense of cohesion or planning other than just moving forward), I keep returning to the idea of grad school. And grad school would be grand, no doubt about it. But I have to really think clearly on the topic because I have to make sure that I'm not just trying to recapture my past happiness.
Now that alcohol is no longer a problem since I quit drinking, I have to deal with the fact that I'm still looking back at college as the high point in my life. Let's be honest - there's no way to recapture that time because I have to pay bills, and I have to worry about my job. So in that sense, idealizing the college years makes sense. It was a heady combination of adult freedom with no adult responsibility, and thinking and learning with no purpose other than the sake of thinking and learning.
As I confront a general sense of malaise and anxiety about the future of my career (though I loath the phrase because it gives the false impression that my working life has had any sense of cohesion or planning other than just moving forward), I keep returning to the idea of grad school. And grad school would be grand, no doubt about it. But I have to really think clearly on the topic because I have to make sure that I'm not just trying to recapture my past happiness.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Odd Thought #2,381
I wonder if the reason I'm so uptight about everything (well, most things) is that I realize on some level that if I weren't so uptight, if I relaxed a bit, I would realize that most of the things that I worry about are things that aren't worth worrying about in the large scheme of things. This realization, at least if it was something I realized on a regular basis until it became a foundational truth in my day-to-day life, would be problematic because I use anxiety and worry to help structure the way I look at the world.
I think this started back when I was an adolescent. When I was around 12 or 13 years old, I came to an intellectual conclusion about the nature of the world that I was not emotionally prepared to handle. It was an atheistic point of view in which I saw the world that I knew as nothing more than a molecule on a big rock spheroid that circled around a sun in a black void. While I don't consider myself an atheist right now, I'd say that I came to a lot of strong conclusions about life and death at a time when I was not emotionally developed. The way I lived my life, shaped by my family dynamic, was as a child. To deal with certain elements of my life, I wasn't pushing boundaries like a normal adolescent. I retreated from those boundaries, seeking solace in a simplistic view of dynamics that were making my family life unpleasant.
So, in the face of this powerful and bleak vision of life and death, I sought artificial structure, a way to keep myself from thinking about Big Topics. These day, that artificial structure manifests itself in me getting angry about little things. That's not to say that I don't have big things to worry about. I may soon be out of a job as my company is in the midst of an attempted hostile takeover by another company. But this situation is not as dangerous for me as it is for some people, given the fact that I don't have children, a mortgage, a serious medical condition, or heavy debt. What I DO have is a good skill set and parents who could help me financially if things didn't work out.
Yet I continue to worry instead of tackling Big Issues. And I do this because I'm afraid of what will happen if I think about these issues. What if I realize that the way I've been living my life is total BS and I need to be out there pushing boundaries? What if I realize that, all things considered, the best thing I could do not only for myself but for everyone else is devote myself to the political and social causes that I feel must move in a certain general direction if our civilization is to survive (i.e. environmental concerns, etc.)?
I don't know if I'm ready to handle any of that stuff yet. So, instead, I worry about the little things.
I think this started back when I was an adolescent. When I was around 12 or 13 years old, I came to an intellectual conclusion about the nature of the world that I was not emotionally prepared to handle. It was an atheistic point of view in which I saw the world that I knew as nothing more than a molecule on a big rock spheroid that circled around a sun in a black void. While I don't consider myself an atheist right now, I'd say that I came to a lot of strong conclusions about life and death at a time when I was not emotionally developed. The way I lived my life, shaped by my family dynamic, was as a child. To deal with certain elements of my life, I wasn't pushing boundaries like a normal adolescent. I retreated from those boundaries, seeking solace in a simplistic view of dynamics that were making my family life unpleasant.
So, in the face of this powerful and bleak vision of life and death, I sought artificial structure, a way to keep myself from thinking about Big Topics. These day, that artificial structure manifests itself in me getting angry about little things. That's not to say that I don't have big things to worry about. I may soon be out of a job as my company is in the midst of an attempted hostile takeover by another company. But this situation is not as dangerous for me as it is for some people, given the fact that I don't have children, a mortgage, a serious medical condition, or heavy debt. What I DO have is a good skill set and parents who could help me financially if things didn't work out.
Yet I continue to worry instead of tackling Big Issues. And I do this because I'm afraid of what will happen if I think about these issues. What if I realize that the way I've been living my life is total BS and I need to be out there pushing boundaries? What if I realize that, all things considered, the best thing I could do not only for myself but for everyone else is devote myself to the political and social causes that I feel must move in a certain general direction if our civilization is to survive (i.e. environmental concerns, etc.)?
I don't know if I'm ready to handle any of that stuff yet. So, instead, I worry about the little things.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Little Slices of Neighborhood
While I'm looking forward to moving to a different apartment next year, mostly to get away from the noise and mild sluminess of my current location, I saw something today that reminded me of the charms of my current location.
I live in a town that has, to put it mildly, seen better days. Situated about 20 miles outside of Boston, it used to be a mill town and a railway hub. Now, it's a husk of its former self. The downtown area is dominated by a homeless shelter and long string of small shops that survive but don't thrive. Most of the houses in the area, including mine, are ramshackle triple-deckers (for you non-New Englanders, 'triple-deckers' refers to three-storied houses that were built in the 40's or 50's as multi-family apartments).
One chunk of downtown close to where I live is mostly vacant. It has a shopping center that's completely shuttered except for a Dunkin' Donuts and a charity thrift store, as well as several old factory buildings along the trail line that aren't quite abandoned but have been sectioned off into small, low-overhead businesses.
It's a grim place. It's not a slum, but it's ugly and struggling.
I was returning from a long walk when I looked across the road at a house I'd passed dozens of times without really noticing. The hedges around the house are large, probably 10-12 feet high. Tall hedges are common on my street because it's a state route and heavily trafficked. But these hedges were double the normal size and I was surprised I'd never noticed that before.
As I walked past, I saw an older couple in the driveway. The man looked like he was in his late 60's and the woman was a little younger. The man had a large fleshy face and dark skin and was dressed in suit pants, suspenders, and a dress shirt. Those suspenders were very, very necessary as the man had the large, overhanging stomach of someone who had spent many years enjoying rich food. He was looking down at a little green sports car, something like an Aston Martin. The car, like the man, was old and had seen better days. The hood was popped open and the man was looking vaguely at the innards.
The woman was holding and cooing at a small child. I couldn't see much of her but I assumed she was the baby's grandmother. She had thick black hair that was falling across her face. I think that both she and the man were of Mediterranean descent, which is not surprising given that this area used to be composed of mostly Italian and Portuguese immigrants.
I imagined them as a couple who had lived in that house for decades. I imagined that they raised their family there back when the neighborhood was, well, a neighborhood, where people knew each other and raised their families, as opposed to a collection of houses rented out to strangers who tried to find some way of blocking out the traffic and the declining town that surrounded them. I imagined that the child was their grandchild and that, with the woman looking at the child and the man at the old sports car, that they were a couple looking at the past and the future. I wish them the best.
I live in a town that has, to put it mildly, seen better days. Situated about 20 miles outside of Boston, it used to be a mill town and a railway hub. Now, it's a husk of its former self. The downtown area is dominated by a homeless shelter and long string of small shops that survive but don't thrive. Most of the houses in the area, including mine, are ramshackle triple-deckers (for you non-New Englanders, 'triple-deckers' refers to three-storied houses that were built in the 40's or 50's as multi-family apartments).
One chunk of downtown close to where I live is mostly vacant. It has a shopping center that's completely shuttered except for a Dunkin' Donuts and a charity thrift store, as well as several old factory buildings along the trail line that aren't quite abandoned but have been sectioned off into small, low-overhead businesses.
It's a grim place. It's not a slum, but it's ugly and struggling.
I was returning from a long walk when I looked across the road at a house I'd passed dozens of times without really noticing. The hedges around the house are large, probably 10-12 feet high. Tall hedges are common on my street because it's a state route and heavily trafficked. But these hedges were double the normal size and I was surprised I'd never noticed that before.
As I walked past, I saw an older couple in the driveway. The man looked like he was in his late 60's and the woman was a little younger. The man had a large fleshy face and dark skin and was dressed in suit pants, suspenders, and a dress shirt. Those suspenders were very, very necessary as the man had the large, overhanging stomach of someone who had spent many years enjoying rich food. He was looking down at a little green sports car, something like an Aston Martin. The car, like the man, was old and had seen better days. The hood was popped open and the man was looking vaguely at the innards.
The woman was holding and cooing at a small child. I couldn't see much of her but I assumed she was the baby's grandmother. She had thick black hair that was falling across her face. I think that both she and the man were of Mediterranean descent, which is not surprising given that this area used to be composed of mostly Italian and Portuguese immigrants.
I imagined them as a couple who had lived in that house for decades. I imagined that they raised their family there back when the neighborhood was, well, a neighborhood, where people knew each other and raised their families, as opposed to a collection of houses rented out to strangers who tried to find some way of blocking out the traffic and the declining town that surrounded them. I imagined that the child was their grandchild and that, with the woman looking at the child and the man at the old sports car, that they were a couple looking at the past and the future. I wish them the best.
Saturday, October 02, 2010
the harrassment of kindness
An odd thing has happened at work. Someone in my group has been sending me... subtle? passive aggressive? messages to be happy. There are six of us in my group, and we sit in a saltine tray of cubes, two stacks of three cubes in one section of a large room in an anonymous office. Actually, I guess that's more of a cookie tray arrangement than a saltine tray. But I like crackers better than cookies. And it's apropos of this post to note as such, that I lean towards the salty instead of the sweet.
I must confess to an inaccuracy - there are actually 8 people in my group, but two of them are in New Jersey so I think I can rule them out. Those two I've worked with, or in some proximity to (in a non-geographic way) for 8 years. The people that actually sit in my section make up an amalgamation of acquaintance, one being a co-worker for 7 years and another for less than 7 months.
The first such message wasn't clearly a message, though I suspected it was at the time. A generic foam squeeze ball was in my cube when I came in one morning. The ball is yellow and has a happy face on it. Given the complete lack of other occurrences of foam spheroids randomly appearing in my cube, I theorized that it had been put there deliberately by somebody. Having the self-awareness to recognize that I prefer saltines to cookies, that I prefer eating lunch alone to socializing, I picked the ball up off the floor and set it on my desk as a sort of symbolic acceptance though I don't necessarily trust someone who puts smiley-face squeeze balls in cubicles as a method of communication to grasp any level of symbolism. Mmm... crackers!
The second message was much more explicit. When I returned to the office from vacation, I found a fortune from a fortune cookie on my computer keyboard, with a piece of junk mail (that I'd left in my mailbox for weeks) used as a paperweight to keep it there. The fortune was that old favorite inspirational saying, "Dance like nobody's watching."
Truth be told, I'm a bit ambivalent about the messages. Their passive nature bothers me and the idea that it's probably representative of a group effort/thought process (as opposed to solely the work of an individual) bothers me; it makes me feel ganged up on, persecuted. However, given that I've had a persecution complex in the past, I don't put too much emotional stock in this interpretation.
I am, to a certain extent, flattered by the notes. I've always done my best to keep my co-workers at arm's length, either because they irritated the shit out of me and I didn't want my frustration to boil over or because humanity as a whole irritated the shit out of me and I could only find peace through distance. These attitudes have mellowed a bit over the past year, I think, due to a number of factors: 1) my relationship with my girlfriend, which is within approximately a week or so of its first anniversary, 2) my decision to quit drinking and focus on mental and physical health, and 3) psychotherapy (though it should be noted that the psychotherapy has been going for close to 10 years so it's not like it suddenly became effective on its own).
The problem is that as much as I, as a whole, want to be more friendly with people and see the benefit in socializing more with my workmates, I have little in common with them. I find casual conversation to be painful, or at the very least dull. I'm a bit of a snob, I'll admit that up front. I'm more intellectually engaged than my workmates. Not intellectually superior to them, necessarily, but more engaged with current events, with reading, etc.
I'm also afraid to let the distance between us decrease. I have a hard time balancing this fact with the fact that my post-college life, all 10+ years of it, has been defined (more subconsciously than consciously) by a feeling of tremendous loneliness.
An aside: I've recently come to understand one of the problems I have with writing blog posts consistently, even though I often feel the instinct to do so when something new or interesting happens in my life. The problem with blog posts is that, in my mind, they should have a clear beginning, middle, and ending. And if I haven't arrived at a conclusion about something, I don't want to write about it. Or perhaps the urge to avoid writing about something is especially strong when, in fact, I know what the conclusion would be if I followed through my thought process.
The conclusion in this case is that I feel very strongly that at least one person, more likely multiple people, in my group are reaching out to me. They're seeing that I'm more positive and friendly recently than I've been in a long time, perhaps ever, and this is their way of saying, "Keep going." But I'm afraid of losing control. I'm afraid of what happens when I allow myself to get close to people. I see the same thing in my relationship with my parents and my girlfriend. I don't want to confront my mixed feelings about people or, worse yet, express myself emotionally towards them. So instead I maintain emotional distance. The ideal, as I've told myself for a long time, is to have friends, to feel close to people. But now that I have that chance, in all areas of my life (work, family, friends, tae kwon do), there's a part of me that doesn't want to let go of the isolation. It's what I know. It makes me feel safe.
I must confess to an inaccuracy - there are actually 8 people in my group, but two of them are in New Jersey so I think I can rule them out. Those two I've worked with, or in some proximity to (in a non-geographic way) for 8 years. The people that actually sit in my section make up an amalgamation of acquaintance, one being a co-worker for 7 years and another for less than 7 months.
The first such message wasn't clearly a message, though I suspected it was at the time. A generic foam squeeze ball was in my cube when I came in one morning. The ball is yellow and has a happy face on it. Given the complete lack of other occurrences of foam spheroids randomly appearing in my cube, I theorized that it had been put there deliberately by somebody. Having the self-awareness to recognize that I prefer saltines to cookies, that I prefer eating lunch alone to socializing, I picked the ball up off the floor and set it on my desk as a sort of symbolic acceptance though I don't necessarily trust someone who puts smiley-face squeeze balls in cubicles as a method of communication to grasp any level of symbolism. Mmm... crackers!
The second message was much more explicit. When I returned to the office from vacation, I found a fortune from a fortune cookie on my computer keyboard, with a piece of junk mail (that I'd left in my mailbox for weeks) used as a paperweight to keep it there. The fortune was that old favorite inspirational saying, "Dance like nobody's watching."
Truth be told, I'm a bit ambivalent about the messages. Their passive nature bothers me and the idea that it's probably representative of a group effort/thought process (as opposed to solely the work of an individual) bothers me; it makes me feel ganged up on, persecuted. However, given that I've had a persecution complex in the past, I don't put too much emotional stock in this interpretation.
I am, to a certain extent, flattered by the notes. I've always done my best to keep my co-workers at arm's length, either because they irritated the shit out of me and I didn't want my frustration to boil over or because humanity as a whole irritated the shit out of me and I could only find peace through distance. These attitudes have mellowed a bit over the past year, I think, due to a number of factors: 1) my relationship with my girlfriend, which is within approximately a week or so of its first anniversary, 2) my decision to quit drinking and focus on mental and physical health, and 3) psychotherapy (though it should be noted that the psychotherapy has been going for close to 10 years so it's not like it suddenly became effective on its own).
The problem is that as much as I, as a whole, want to be more friendly with people and see the benefit in socializing more with my workmates, I have little in common with them. I find casual conversation to be painful, or at the very least dull. I'm a bit of a snob, I'll admit that up front. I'm more intellectually engaged than my workmates. Not intellectually superior to them, necessarily, but more engaged with current events, with reading, etc.
I'm also afraid to let the distance between us decrease. I have a hard time balancing this fact with the fact that my post-college life, all 10+ years of it, has been defined (more subconsciously than consciously) by a feeling of tremendous loneliness.
An aside: I've recently come to understand one of the problems I have with writing blog posts consistently, even though I often feel the instinct to do so when something new or interesting happens in my life. The problem with blog posts is that, in my mind, they should have a clear beginning, middle, and ending. And if I haven't arrived at a conclusion about something, I don't want to write about it. Or perhaps the urge to avoid writing about something is especially strong when, in fact, I know what the conclusion would be if I followed through my thought process.
The conclusion in this case is that I feel very strongly that at least one person, more likely multiple people, in my group are reaching out to me. They're seeing that I'm more positive and friendly recently than I've been in a long time, perhaps ever, and this is their way of saying, "Keep going." But I'm afraid of losing control. I'm afraid of what happens when I allow myself to get close to people. I see the same thing in my relationship with my parents and my girlfriend. I don't want to confront my mixed feelings about people or, worse yet, express myself emotionally towards them. So instead I maintain emotional distance. The ideal, as I've told myself for a long time, is to have friends, to feel close to people. But now that I have that chance, in all areas of my life (work, family, friends, tae kwon do), there's a part of me that doesn't want to let go of the isolation. It's what I know. It makes me feel safe.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Excellent take on freedom of speech
"There's altogether too much harping on respect and banning these days. If you can't respect something, you should ban it. If it's not banned, you should respect it. Bullshit. There is a huge gulf of toleration between respect and banning. In a free society, people should be allowed to do what they want wherever possible. The loss of liberty incurred by any alternative principle is too high a price to pay to stop people making dicks of themselves. But, if people are using their freedoms to make dicks of themselves, other people should be able to say so."
- David Mitchell in the Guardian
- David Mitchell in the Guardian
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
The Life you Own May Be Your Own
I get angry a lot. I get angry way too much, at people and circumstances that don't call for such white-hot rage. And due to a confluence of events that I'm not sure I want to go into (not because they're mystical or illegal but because they're low-key, daily, and possibly non-causal), I find myself considering the fact that this anger is because I am angry at myself for living my life in a way that is not representative of who I am.
To take a step back: the title of this post, an oh-so clever reference to a fine piece of American literature, came to my mind after something that happened to me today. Long story short, I feel like I have no control over my own life, like I'm constantly doing the bidding of others. I was sticking to a rigid schedule for my day to get everything done before a 3 hour meeting and then another night of working on a project (I'm at work right now). Then, a colleague asked me to fix something for him.
It was a small, piddling thing, but unfortunately I'm the only one around today who could've fixed it. And it didn't have to be fixed today. But instead of saying, "I can't get to it today; I or someone else will fix it tomorrow," I immediately left my desk and went down and tried to fix the problem. I couldn't concentrate on the problem at hand because I was so mad about it and finally the guy said, "You don't have to do it now," and I took my leave.
This guy wasn't being an ogre at all. The problem is that I feel on a very basic level like I don't have ownership of how I live my life. So instead, I had to sit there and get angry and stressed about it until the guy released me of my obligation. This shit happens to me all the time. Today was just one of those days where such an event gets me thinking about larger themes in my life, not just the day-to-day work stuff but the big picture stuff. And yes, I did just go into the things that I said in the first paragraph that I wouldn't get into. Fuck you.
I've had variations on this basic thought process before, and have likely even recorded said thoughts on this here blog. But I never go back and read my older entries, so that gives me license to repeat myself. Hooray for convenient amnesia.
It's scary to think about because there is ultimately no recourse other than making major changes in my life. And honestly, I'm getting tired from all this goddamn work of changing my life. I move away from a bad living situation, I quit drinking, I get into martial arts and vegetables and get really healthy, I get more focused on my job, I pay off all my credit card debt, I get a real girlfriend, and so on.
And yet it never stops.
I keep thinking to myself, "There's got to be a way to make this job/career work." But at the end of the day, I just don't think it will do. I don't think that I will every be truly happy in this situation, or any office work situation that I can imagine. The bullshit is just too much. Or rather, no, the point of what I'm saying is that the bullshit is not too much, but the fact that it always seems like too much means that something is wrong.
I think I have to make a change, a big change. Shit, shit, shit. I don't want to think like this. But it all adds up. The fact that I'm constantly angry, constantly defensive... well, in theory, I could be a shithead, but I'm pretty sure that's not the case (a jerk maybe, but a shithead I doubt). The fact that my head is constantly filled with vile thoughts (racist, misogynistic, homophobic, violent) makes me think that I just have a lot of suppressed frustration and fear about the state of my life and I'm not allowing myself to see this.
People I trust have dropped hints that maybe I'm accepting a life that's not really good for me because I'm just so anxious for peace.
I'm not saying that I'm not irresponsible or not immature or not a jerk, but I think there's a good reason why I haven't put down firm roots, and why I find it so difficult to focus on my job, and that's because there's some powerful yet quiet voice in my head that's yelling "NO! NO! NO!"
It's just painful, you know, painful to keep questioning, painful to keep changing. Maybe it would be easier if I had the right girlfriend/wife... part of what I'm thinking now is that my current girlfriend is not the right one for me. She's great and supportive and funny and I love her but I'm realizing that I'm not really engaged on a soul level; she's not the kind of person who's going to make me be a better person or achieve new levels of maturity and thought. With her, I have to always play the role of the adult: no watching TV all the time, no eating pizza late at night, no this, no that. I love her, but she's not going to take me to a higher level. And I don't know if there is somebody who will, and I'm afraid of the loneliness.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Does it ever stop? Does the questioning, the anger, the fear, does it ever stop? Am I suffering from Peter Pan syndrome by not wanting to settle down and get serious about the job?
No, it's not Peter Pan syndrome. I genuinely do loathe the idea of doing this work long-term. The paycheck is not worth the stress and unhappiness. The concept is just too damn flawed.
But I can't imagine anything else. Applying for grad school at the age of 35, especially for something as useless as an MFA? I wish I could outright reject it, given what a risky scheme it is. And I have rejected the idea time and time again. Yet it keeps coming back. And no matter how many times I try to embrace the idea of my current career, and the thought of committing to it further, I keep rejecting it.
And I should also point out that it's not necessary, not necessary at all, for this questioning/changing process to be fearful and angry. I've had moments of understanding, of transcendence, that were pure intellectual and spiritual bliss, like getting a handjob from a goddess. But bliss, unfortunately, is not a good vehicle for change. Bliss does not grab you and throttle you hard enough to shake you out of a voluntary coma of day to day life. Only anger and anxiety can do that.
So maybe, in that sense, being angry is actually a good thing. Huh. How blissful. Now where's my handjob?
To take a step back: the title of this post, an oh-so clever reference to a fine piece of American literature, came to my mind after something that happened to me today. Long story short, I feel like I have no control over my own life, like I'm constantly doing the bidding of others. I was sticking to a rigid schedule for my day to get everything done before a 3 hour meeting and then another night of working on a project (I'm at work right now). Then, a colleague asked me to fix something for him.
It was a small, piddling thing, but unfortunately I'm the only one around today who could've fixed it. And it didn't have to be fixed today. But instead of saying, "I can't get to it today; I or someone else will fix it tomorrow," I immediately left my desk and went down and tried to fix the problem. I couldn't concentrate on the problem at hand because I was so mad about it and finally the guy said, "You don't have to do it now," and I took my leave.
This guy wasn't being an ogre at all. The problem is that I feel on a very basic level like I don't have ownership of how I live my life. So instead, I had to sit there and get angry and stressed about it until the guy released me of my obligation. This shit happens to me all the time. Today was just one of those days where such an event gets me thinking about larger themes in my life, not just the day-to-day work stuff but the big picture stuff. And yes, I did just go into the things that I said in the first paragraph that I wouldn't get into. Fuck you.
I've had variations on this basic thought process before, and have likely even recorded said thoughts on this here blog. But I never go back and read my older entries, so that gives me license to repeat myself. Hooray for convenient amnesia.
It's scary to think about because there is ultimately no recourse other than making major changes in my life. And honestly, I'm getting tired from all this goddamn work of changing my life. I move away from a bad living situation, I quit drinking, I get into martial arts and vegetables and get really healthy, I get more focused on my job, I pay off all my credit card debt, I get a real girlfriend, and so on.
And yet it never stops.
I keep thinking to myself, "There's got to be a way to make this job/career work." But at the end of the day, I just don't think it will do. I don't think that I will every be truly happy in this situation, or any office work situation that I can imagine. The bullshit is just too much. Or rather, no, the point of what I'm saying is that the bullshit is not too much, but the fact that it always seems like too much means that something is wrong.
I think I have to make a change, a big change. Shit, shit, shit. I don't want to think like this. But it all adds up. The fact that I'm constantly angry, constantly defensive... well, in theory, I could be a shithead, but I'm pretty sure that's not the case (a jerk maybe, but a shithead I doubt). The fact that my head is constantly filled with vile thoughts (racist, misogynistic, homophobic, violent) makes me think that I just have a lot of suppressed frustration and fear about the state of my life and I'm not allowing myself to see this.
People I trust have dropped hints that maybe I'm accepting a life that's not really good for me because I'm just so anxious for peace.
I'm not saying that I'm not irresponsible or not immature or not a jerk, but I think there's a good reason why I haven't put down firm roots, and why I find it so difficult to focus on my job, and that's because there's some powerful yet quiet voice in my head that's yelling "NO! NO! NO!"
It's just painful, you know, painful to keep questioning, painful to keep changing. Maybe it would be easier if I had the right girlfriend/wife... part of what I'm thinking now is that my current girlfriend is not the right one for me. She's great and supportive and funny and I love her but I'm realizing that I'm not really engaged on a soul level; she's not the kind of person who's going to make me be a better person or achieve new levels of maturity and thought. With her, I have to always play the role of the adult: no watching TV all the time, no eating pizza late at night, no this, no that. I love her, but she's not going to take me to a higher level. And I don't know if there is somebody who will, and I'm afraid of the loneliness.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Does it ever stop? Does the questioning, the anger, the fear, does it ever stop? Am I suffering from Peter Pan syndrome by not wanting to settle down and get serious about the job?
No, it's not Peter Pan syndrome. I genuinely do loathe the idea of doing this work long-term. The paycheck is not worth the stress and unhappiness. The concept is just too damn flawed.
But I can't imagine anything else. Applying for grad school at the age of 35, especially for something as useless as an MFA? I wish I could outright reject it, given what a risky scheme it is. And I have rejected the idea time and time again. Yet it keeps coming back. And no matter how many times I try to embrace the idea of my current career, and the thought of committing to it further, I keep rejecting it.
And I should also point out that it's not necessary, not necessary at all, for this questioning/changing process to be fearful and angry. I've had moments of understanding, of transcendence, that were pure intellectual and spiritual bliss, like getting a handjob from a goddess. But bliss, unfortunately, is not a good vehicle for change. Bliss does not grab you and throttle you hard enough to shake you out of a voluntary coma of day to day life. Only anger and anxiety can do that.
So maybe, in that sense, being angry is actually a good thing. Huh. How blissful. Now where's my handjob?
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]
