Archive for the ‘ Observations ’ Category

(un)Condition(al)

“Suspicion is my new religion and you’re all too sketch to breathe.”

– found that little gem in an old notebook

Soundboards. I need more of them in my life. They are so much more necessary than I’d ever have believed.

For me, almost always (even if it’s only in the sense that I tend to talk to myself) trying to explain an idea makes that idea so much easier to understand.

I rather enjoy that.

The basics of conceptual construction are elegant in their simplicity: grasping a concept; making an idea take root in your subconscious so it will grow into something real and tangible in your everyday, waking life.

And of course by the process of explanation that idea takes a firmer hold: it’s basic operant conditioning. The repetition and the positive reinforcement (from taking pleasure in [perhaps explaining, perhaps merely in understanding] a concept).

*Yes, I just bracketed inside parentheses. I’m kind of a badass like that.*

Now on to odd(er) thoughts and even odder theories.

The chronicles progress; I can channel every ounce of pain into my protagonist, he becomes something tangible, something surreal.

He is a paradox because he is both me and nothing. No. Thing. And yet it seems he can feel far more than I sometimes.

It makes a believable (anti-?)hero.

It makes my life feel unreal.

And I am of two minds on my gifts:

Occasionally I wonder if I’d prefer a less tortured (and less talented) existence. I sometimes believe that intelligence is a curse-cum-blessing.

It’s a responsibility. I know that I should use my gifts for the betterment of everyone around me, which thanks to our global communications system is a rather large responsibility. Don’t ask how I know, if you have to ask you won’t get the explanation.

I hope I am worthy of it, I hope that I prove capable.

Secretly, I believe that I am more than capable, pride is ever my constant companion; no matter how hard I struggle for humility. I am always too full of my ability. I pray for modesty, I hope that I can learn it.

I find that oftentimes I don’t want to be right about people.

It’s always difficult to write (ironic phrasing I know) someone off, to move them from column to column; a spreadsheet of those who are and those who are not: I hate that I’ve become so good at it.

I…

I am not sleeping well anymore. I am barely sleeping at all, truth be told. My dreams are almost always nightmares, vivid and intense, so very real. I find myself ruminating on the nature of reality, for what is reality but our perception of it?

Physics does not help me here, not even philotics or quantum coupling. There is no rational explanation for what it is that I know to be true. And how sad it is that it is so. I would almost call it karmic but I know that debt has been paid and over-paid. I do find some dark humor in it though, I must admit.

I wish that I were more able to keep my perception(s) to myself, to unshare my view. Not always, just when I need to.

It is impossible for me to describe the feeling icing my veins tonight:

Alternately, I have to keep moving, keep running forward because I have to believe that something amazing is waiting just around the corner and then I am frozen in place by a sense of loss so bottomless that I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to breathe again.

It’s nights like these that try my soul. These are the times I have to stand solidly alone, as I always do.

It’s hard sometimes to be strong, because to be strong you must first be weak.

I wish He didn’t trust that I can handle all that I can.

Sometimes anyway. Most times I am simply grateful; for every smile, every pained grimace. I am grateful for the absolute blessing that is every single simple joy and every jolt of pain to be experienced on this plane.

I am blessed by this gift, life. It is, as always, what you make of it.

Exhale

Writing. I rather enjoy the craft.

It moves forward, sometimes at breakneck speed, sometimes pacing a snail; ever forward it moves, much like time, the tale cannot be halted.

I find that I do it instinctively, I don’t stop and think, oh here I need a semi-colon or oh dear a gerund cannot start a sentence.

I just write. And as I write the story of a man that never was, I write a bit of my own. I take risks, I reveal truths, I find myself a little more with each word.

I cannot believe I ever considered doing anything else with my life.

I write. I write words. I write words that become something greater than themselves alone on a page. They become something from nothing. It’s my gift back to the original creator; my humble attempts to be like unto he that created me.

In the beginning there was nothing.

Inhale

I see darkness, almost thick enough to taste. I could walk on it.

Then it shatters, becomes images, pictures and sound, rolling around; swirls like a kaleidoscope.

Fractures and rough edges crash and break like waves, only each wave is really pain and every break rubs raw like sand pelting windburned skin. The waves creep higher with every crash and they swirl with images of past and present hurts; sea foam bubbling with the possibilities of future betrayal.

There are things to be found here, in this allegory; lessons to be learned if one can pick through all of the messy memories.

I find that it’s easiest to imagine it as I’ve described. It makes sense to swim through them, diving down deep to the sea floor of the subconscious to find the real bottom of things.

It is odd to swim through one’s own memories, perhaps I am simply a creature of the visual; so much so that I equate everything with imagery. Perhaps it is my memory, I wish I could forget things, but anything charged with the least bit of emotion or sentimentality becomes locked away forever within me.

And although I’d like to forget how sometimes; I can never stop being me.

At the edge of the future, my dreams all fade away, I always wonder what it is I will come to remember as today.

Funsies

“You were right, you just weren’t right about me.”

– 500 Days of Summer

Great movie.

In other news I had a great weekend, far too short of course, but no less great for it’s less-than-desirable duration.

I spent most of Sunday teaching my youngest brother to use a scoped rifle.

Pure fun.

I also got to hang with my dad and my eldest bro, he still grills the best steaks anywhere, ever. Dude can cook. And can shoot: he’s got one of the slickest .22 mag sniper rifles I’ve ever lain eyes on.

I have nothing much more to report: except perhaps the rather small conceptual shift I’ve experienced. I have accepted that there are some things that cannot be changed, and there are some things that can, and I’m finally learning the difference and how to spot it.

Life rolls on and I have finally fallen into the rhythm, so much so that I can barrel-race across it with balance enough to accomplish some specifics before I fall.

Dreams

The dream is back.

It’s a not-quite nightmare. It’s so realistic, so sensory. I have a nagging feeling, a sneaking suspicion even, that it is real.

I wish I could explain how this dream affects me, how much it stays with me, how I hate my eidetic memory at times like these. The starkness of the sheer terror it imparts, I see continually, with crystal clarity, long after the actual imagery leaves me.

It makes me feel like a small boy again, when the dark is so frightening and monsters lurk in every shadow.

There is no one to run to, no one that can make the fear disappear with whispered words and smiles.

Ominous.

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(The) Social Construct(s)

I tend to begin all if my posts the same way. I’ve noticed that I seem to need to place myself squarely inside a timeframe or position myself firmly in a place.

I wonder if that’s learned behavior or if that is something that comes from within. Most likely it’s an amalgamate of nature and nurture. I will say this though; thoughts like this make me miss my anthropology classes like crazy. Discussing the idea of the social construct and it’s effects on the collective psyche of human beings, of deconstructing the mystery that is abstract thought. The ability to think symbolically is thought to be uniquely human…

I want to believe that it is universally possible, given the right circumstance.

Ah well, back to numbing my mind at work.

Creep-o-mat

Life is.

Yep, that’s the whole thought; hence the whole sentence.

I am currently drying my work gear at the creepomat. There is a woman about ten feet from me drinking a bud heavy out of the can, with a coozie that says “wishin’ I wuz fishin’.”

Legit. I know.

In other news I got a solid hour or so of unrestful sleep, I’m tired but not angry tired, more of an accepting, ‘today can suck it for all I care” kinda tired.

This post was built around the idea that I wanted to report the legit lady avec la biere. The rest is basically fluff.