25 December 2010
12 December 2010
tension
I've been thinking a lot about tension, about allowing it to exist and being ok with it. As I've been thinking, I've started to see tension applying to a lot of categories in my life. In fact, it seems to exist in every category.
For instance (briefly), politics: my upbringing plus my understanding of history plus my beliefs concerning people's inherent fallenness make me lean conservative, but my bleeding heart (which I don't consider naïve) makes me lean big government/lots of programs; psychology: how much must I "believe in myself" creatively, etc. in order to come into my own, so to speak, and how much has pop psychology bullshit seeped into and twisted what should be the praise and love of God, familiarity with my position in his family, and total trust in his sovereignty as the ultimate answer to mental health, specifically but not limited to depression and anxiety, which together are the bane of my creativity; music, généralement: tension is the reason I am still more moved by "classical" music, the composers of which were more acquainted and comfortable with tension than most modern artists (other than Radiohead), their music still speaking what words can't about this life of tension.
I could go on and on.
I see tension everywhere - which I only just realized thanks to a conversation with a dear brother - so that I'm rarely capable of getting across what's going on in my head because I run back and forth from this side of the argument to that, never completely spelling out either because, as my mind runs ahead of my mouth, I'm thinking of an apology against the capitulation I'm speaking.
Questions questions questions, which I'm starting to see as tension tension tension, which I'm finally starting to be ok with, because really, back to the psychology bit, this whole train of thought serves to make me even more aware just how utterly necessary it is to be leaning on and trusting in God - how could I not go insane otherwise? - these mysteries being his, for which I'm so thankful, because I need mystery.
You're tired of being in your head? You want to see something new? Following Christ - really trusting and loving him and losing my life to gain it - is proving to be a more exciting life than I imagined existed. Please, I beg you, consider him. Leave for a moment your problems with christendom and consider him. O, the man acquainted with sorrows knows your pain! He knows about the big insatiably thirsty hole in your being and he stands up and cries, "If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink!"
Go to him. Drink.
For instance (briefly), politics: my upbringing plus my understanding of history plus my beliefs concerning people's inherent fallenness make me lean conservative, but my bleeding heart (which I don't consider naïve) makes me lean big government/lots of programs; psychology: how much must I "believe in myself" creatively, etc. in order to come into my own, so to speak, and how much has pop psychology bullshit seeped into and twisted what should be the praise and love of God, familiarity with my position in his family, and total trust in his sovereignty as the ultimate answer to mental health, specifically but not limited to depression and anxiety, which together are the bane of my creativity; music, généralement: tension is the reason I am still more moved by "classical" music, the composers of which were more acquainted and comfortable with tension than most modern artists (other than Radiohead), their music still speaking what words can't about this life of tension.
I could go on and on.
I see tension everywhere - which I only just realized thanks to a conversation with a dear brother - so that I'm rarely capable of getting across what's going on in my head because I run back and forth from this side of the argument to that, never completely spelling out either because, as my mind runs ahead of my mouth, I'm thinking of an apology against the capitulation I'm speaking.
Questions questions questions, which I'm starting to see as tension tension tension, which I'm finally starting to be ok with, because really, back to the psychology bit, this whole train of thought serves to make me even more aware just how utterly necessary it is to be leaning on and trusting in God - how could I not go insane otherwise? - these mysteries being his, for which I'm so thankful, because I need mystery.
You're tired of being in your head? You want to see something new? Following Christ - really trusting and loving him and losing my life to gain it - is proving to be a more exciting life than I imagined existed. Please, I beg you, consider him. Leave for a moment your problems with christendom and consider him. O, the man acquainted with sorrows knows your pain! He knows about the big insatiably thirsty hole in your being and he stands up and cries, "If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink!"
Go to him. Drink.
01 December 2010
invierno
This is the first day of December, and today, for the first time, it snowed. Agreeable symmetry, if you ask me.
I shouldn't have slept as long as I did today. There's something in my bones that can tell when it's snowing or raining - a barometer, say - and today, my bones communicated with my subconscious like this:
"Hey Subconscious. Um. You wanted us to tell you when it was snowing. Um. It's snowing."
"Thank you, The Bones. That'll be all."
Then, my snooty, suit-and-tie-wearing subconscious, who had rolled from the computer over to the phone in his too-expensive rolling leather chair, rolled back to the computer and sent an e-mail to my concious:
"ATTN: Conscious
Problem: The Bones informed me it is snowing currently.
Consideration: The Boss likes to sleep when it is snowing.
Submission: When the alarm sounds, signal The Hands to shut it off quickly, and I shall take him back under for another hour.
Efficiently yours,
Subconscious
sc
P.S. Absolutely loved that sweet-potato casserole. Send the recipe?"
My conscious found this submission consonant with his lethargic leanings, and I got up an hour late. I made up for it, though, by working until seven this evening. Of course, you are probably thinking Ian! here you are, writing trite, inconsequential things instead of sleeping so you can be up early tomorrow! Actions! not words.
Loud and clear. Here I go.
(He didn't send the recipe because my subconscious said "shall" instead of "will," and he felt that needed punishing. Also, the lethargy.)
I shouldn't have slept as long as I did today. There's something in my bones that can tell when it's snowing or raining - a barometer, say - and today, my bones communicated with my subconscious like this:
"Hey Subconscious. Um. You wanted us to tell you when it was snowing. Um. It's snowing."
"Thank you, The Bones. That'll be all."
Then, my snooty, suit-and-tie-wearing subconscious, who had rolled from the computer over to the phone in his too-expensive rolling leather chair, rolled back to the computer and sent an e-mail to my concious:
"ATTN: Conscious
Problem: The Bones informed me it is snowing currently.
Consideration: The Boss likes to sleep when it is snowing.
Submission: When the alarm sounds, signal The Hands to shut it off quickly, and I shall take him back under for another hour.
Efficiently yours,
Subconscious
sc
P.S. Absolutely loved that sweet-potato casserole. Send the recipe?"
My conscious found this submission consonant with his lethargic leanings, and I got up an hour late. I made up for it, though, by working until seven this evening. Of course, you are probably thinking Ian! here you are, writing trite, inconsequential things instead of sleeping so you can be up early tomorrow! Actions! not words.
Loud and clear. Here I go.
(He didn't send the recipe because my subconscious said "shall" instead of "will," and he felt that needed punishing. Also, the lethargy.)
28 November 2010
november
i keep forgetting to carry notecards around with me on which to write my incredible ideas.
this is a major problem i have: poor memory. a friend told me a few days ago about a conversation i had with her. i stared at her blankly while i desperately searched the reaches of my memory. no dice. maybe it wasn't an important conversation, but it sure sounded like one. i want to start remembering things again. i was good until the drugs broke me. it's a horrible thing to have the presence of mind to see memories slip away, to be unable to choose which to keep. but that's progress in itself, right? seeing it? before, i didn't realize i didn't remember. well, i did, but i was too high to care. i guess i do remember more now than nine months ago. i'm just impatient.
an aside: the question in that last blog i wrote would've been much easier on the eyes/ears had i written, "TO WHOM am i apologizing..."
in other news, november was a really good month, and some congrats are in order:
congrats to my new brother-in-law, for gaining an incredible partner. also for being a bigger nerd than jonathan (earnest basilisk soliloquy).
congrats to my sister, for taking a name of equal caliber to nix.
congrats to me, for not getting high in missouri for the first time in several years.
congrats to nicky and angela, for being the best people with whom to take a road-trip and, duh, be friends.
congrats to mr and mrs pope, for world's most outrageous bonfire and world's most thankful thanksgiving, respectively. we didn't burn down the neighbors'!
here's to the gradual healing of all wounds, by the goodness and power of my Lord Jesus.
this is a major problem i have: poor memory. a friend told me a few days ago about a conversation i had with her. i stared at her blankly while i desperately searched the reaches of my memory. no dice. maybe it wasn't an important conversation, but it sure sounded like one. i want to start remembering things again. i was good until the drugs broke me. it's a horrible thing to have the presence of mind to see memories slip away, to be unable to choose which to keep. but that's progress in itself, right? seeing it? before, i didn't realize i didn't remember. well, i did, but i was too high to care. i guess i do remember more now than nine months ago. i'm just impatient.
an aside: the question in that last blog i wrote would've been much easier on the eyes/ears had i written, "TO WHOM am i apologizing..."
in other news, november was a really good month, and some congrats are in order:
congrats to my new brother-in-law, for gaining an incredible partner. also for being a bigger nerd than jonathan (earnest basilisk soliloquy).
congrats to my sister, for taking a name of equal caliber to nix.
congrats to me, for not getting high in missouri for the first time in several years.
congrats to nicky and angela, for being the best people with whom to take a road-trip and, duh, be friends.
congrats to mr and mrs pope, for world's most outrageous bonfire and world's most thankful thanksgiving, respectively. we didn't burn down the neighbors'!
here's to the gradual healing of all wounds, by the goodness and power of my Lord Jesus.
03 November 2010
and just clap your hands
either i'm feeling a little ee cummings or i'm feeling small, but i just went through and decapitalized my blog titles. maybe it's an aesthetic thing. maybe i wanted an excuse to use the word aesthetic in this blog because i love a chance to put a and e next to each other. maybe it's nothing. what i do know is i didn't have the patience to go through the content and decapitalize. in my more obsessive days, i would have done just that, would not have been able to sleep otherwise. but, thank God, i have some peace again.
i know what you're thinking: mm, let's take a look at your last few posts there, ian.
point taken.
now hear this: airing angst, for me, is better than not airing angst, and gives me peace.
unless of course my motives are wrong. if my motive is shining Light in dark places, good. i'd rather be able to see it than to keep mulling it over without identifying it. i'd rather have it out there than up here. (i pointed to my brain.) but from time to time, i have other motives, not as pure. motives i'm too tired to explore at the moment.
i've been emotional recently. a wreck in the mood for a wreck. if in my brash crashing about i've upset you, i'm sorry.
who am i apologizing to? ... nope, too tired.
soporofic, these subjects. (that word arrived in my head unbidden and i had to incorporate it. sorry. great word, though.)
i know what you're thinking: mm, let's take a look at your last few posts there, ian.
point taken.
now hear this: airing angst, for me, is better than not airing angst, and gives me peace.
unless of course my motives are wrong. if my motive is shining Light in dark places, good. i'd rather be able to see it than to keep mulling it over without identifying it. i'd rather have it out there than up here. (i pointed to my brain.) but from time to time, i have other motives, not as pure. motives i'm too tired to explore at the moment.
i've been emotional recently. a wreck in the mood for a wreck. if in my brash crashing about i've upset you, i'm sorry.
who am i apologizing to? ... nope, too tired.
soporofic, these subjects. (that word arrived in my head unbidden and i had to incorporate it. sorry. great word, though.)
31 October 2010
23 October 2010
drain
I don't know what's going on with me. I've been off-kilter for the last two days. Thursday was a good day. Friday was not. Today was not. I'm supposed to come up with songs to sing tomorrow morning for church and I can't. I don't even know if I should be writing this because I'm supposed to have it all together. But no. That's a lie. Someone who means a lot to me helped me figure that out. I don't have to have it all together. But then I think of all those guidelines in Paul's letters concerning leaders in the church and I have to remember that "avoiding the appearance of evil" is different from "never having struggles and always being happy." Those were the people I couldn't stand in church. I understand them, now. I judged them for a while, but this didn't make me happier or better or anything, so I'm trying to stop. We all have reasons for doing things and often they don't make rational sense. I don't make sense.
I feel like I'm living the seventh chapter of Romans constantly. How far along was Paul into his ministry when he wrote that? That should be an encouragement to me, right? Here's one of the most influential people of all time, and watch as he pens this chapter of brokenness. Wretched man that I am!
Ok.
I know what I have to do. My stomach churns to repeat platitudes, but I just have to do the next right thing. My dad and I had a discussion a few weeks ago in which he told me of this person who decided that every five minutes or so, he was going to ask himself the question, "Am I doing what is pleasing to God right now?" or some variation. I always know the answer to this question, and asking it as often as I do has been changing me.
But then there are days when I totally forget about all of it, when I start looking at the world longingly - the world in the Biblical sense - and when I come to I'm just so disgusted with myself. How can these things still be in my heart? WHY are they still in my heart? Yes, yes I know I'm still sinful and I won't be perfect until That Day.
O Lord, hasten.
But that doesn't change David's sentiment that I resonate with so deeply: my sin is ever before me. And I know it's not before God - Well may the accuser roar of wrongs that I have done / I know them all and thousands more, JEHOVAH FINDETH NONE. Ian, you're forgiven. Ian, you're forgiven. Ian, relax. Take the advice you so willingly give to everyone else. Take the next right step.
I'm keeping myself from including swear words in this post, and I'm not sure why. I'm starting to think they're a bit... stumbly? is that the word? unnecessary? But they convey such emotion, and emotion is what I'm feeling right now. But I've gotten careless over the years and overused them, so I'm taking a break. I just don't know why they're called "swear" words. They aren't swears. It's not what the Bible is talking about when it says don't swear. I mean, there are a few of them that can be classified as unwholesome talk, I think, but only when they're actually taken literally, or used literally, and you know of which I speak...
Deep breath.
I also don't know how great an idea it is to be airing all this online.
And here's the other thing. I'm really tired of trying to sound smart all the time. I mean, some of what I write is written the way I actually speak, but other times - this is embarrassing - other times I'm getting on thesaurus.com and looking up words that sound smarter. I should be fair to myself: sometimes I'm also on thesaurus.com looking up words that make more sense than the ones I've used. I just mean that I read over what I've written from time to time and it sounds like I'm trying too hard. So, from time to time, I write things like this, where I don't let my fingers stop moving across the keys. I write and write and write and let it come because I'm tired of trying to sound smart. I'm tired of trying to BE smart.
Why do I want so badly to be smart? to be intellectual? I don't know! I really don't. Most likely it's an identity thing. Ian has to be this, this, and this, or Ian isn't ok. And one of those thises is brilliant. But here it is, folks: most of the time, I'm not. I'm not smart at all. Believe me, I understand the difference between wisdom and intellect. And as far as intellect goes, I think I'm average. There it is. I'm average. I'm not that great. (I'm saying this for my benefit. I know you don't need convincing.) I do things like spell out "et cetera" because... just because. Actually, no. I'm going to tell you why I spell out "et cetera." It's because I'm tired of hearing people pronounce it incorrectly - ecksetera. Just like Nick hates it when people say things like, "went missing." Well, it's not just like that, because "went missing" is nonsensical and "ecksetera" is just wrong.
And wisdom... let's not go there, except to say that I desire wisdom these days far more than I desire intellect.
You can get wit dis, or you can get wit dat. I love that commercial.
Ok. I'm done.
P.S. That last bit was not a plea for affirmation, and if you comment on this with statements like "Oh Ian, but you are smart," I'll probably feel sick. Sorry if that's rude. This funk I'm in will probably last until tomorrow morning, and then I'll look back on this and think, "Wow, Ian. Get a grip." So, apologies, et cetera.
(Boosh.)
I feel like I'm living the seventh chapter of Romans constantly. How far along was Paul into his ministry when he wrote that? That should be an encouragement to me, right? Here's one of the most influential people of all time, and watch as he pens this chapter of brokenness. Wretched man that I am!
Ok.
I know what I have to do. My stomach churns to repeat platitudes, but I just have to do the next right thing. My dad and I had a discussion a few weeks ago in which he told me of this person who decided that every five minutes or so, he was going to ask himself the question, "Am I doing what is pleasing to God right now?" or some variation. I always know the answer to this question, and asking it as often as I do has been changing me.
But then there are days when I totally forget about all of it, when I start looking at the world longingly - the world in the Biblical sense - and when I come to I'm just so disgusted with myself. How can these things still be in my heart? WHY are they still in my heart? Yes, yes I know I'm still sinful and I won't be perfect until That Day.
O Lord, hasten.
But that doesn't change David's sentiment that I resonate with so deeply: my sin is ever before me. And I know it's not before God - Well may the accuser roar of wrongs that I have done / I know them all and thousands more, JEHOVAH FINDETH NONE. Ian, you're forgiven. Ian, you're forgiven. Ian, relax. Take the advice you so willingly give to everyone else. Take the next right step.
I'm keeping myself from including swear words in this post, and I'm not sure why. I'm starting to think they're a bit... stumbly? is that the word? unnecessary? But they convey such emotion, and emotion is what I'm feeling right now. But I've gotten careless over the years and overused them, so I'm taking a break. I just don't know why they're called "swear" words. They aren't swears. It's not what the Bible is talking about when it says don't swear. I mean, there are a few of them that can be classified as unwholesome talk, I think, but only when they're actually taken literally, or used literally, and you know of which I speak...
Deep breath.
I also don't know how great an idea it is to be airing all this online.
And here's the other thing. I'm really tired of trying to sound smart all the time. I mean, some of what I write is written the way I actually speak, but other times - this is embarrassing - other times I'm getting on thesaurus.com and looking up words that sound smarter. I should be fair to myself: sometimes I'm also on thesaurus.com looking up words that make more sense than the ones I've used. I just mean that I read over what I've written from time to time and it sounds like I'm trying too hard. So, from time to time, I write things like this, where I don't let my fingers stop moving across the keys. I write and write and write and let it come because I'm tired of trying to sound smart. I'm tired of trying to BE smart.
Why do I want so badly to be smart? to be intellectual? I don't know! I really don't. Most likely it's an identity thing. Ian has to be this, this, and this, or Ian isn't ok. And one of those thises is brilliant. But here it is, folks: most of the time, I'm not. I'm not smart at all. Believe me, I understand the difference between wisdom and intellect. And as far as intellect goes, I think I'm average. There it is. I'm average. I'm not that great. (I'm saying this for my benefit. I know you don't need convincing.) I do things like spell out "et cetera" because... just because. Actually, no. I'm going to tell you why I spell out "et cetera." It's because I'm tired of hearing people pronounce it incorrectly - ecksetera. Just like Nick hates it when people say things like, "went missing." Well, it's not just like that, because "went missing" is nonsensical and "ecksetera" is just wrong.
And wisdom... let's not go there, except to say that I desire wisdom these days far more than I desire intellect.
You can get wit dis, or you can get wit dat. I love that commercial.
Ok. I'm done.
P.S. That last bit was not a plea for affirmation, and if you comment on this with statements like "Oh Ian, but you are smart," I'll probably feel sick. Sorry if that's rude. This funk I'm in will probably last until tomorrow morning, and then I'll look back on this and think, "Wow, Ian. Get a grip." So, apologies, et cetera.
(Boosh.)
20 October 2010
10 October 2010
MAN this hurts
Does anyone else feel drawn to wallowing in despair?
I do.
In fact, it's more difficult for me to choose happiness a lot of times, which is ridiculous when I look at it on paper. I would rather sit in the muck, and I don't know why. I mean, let's be logical for a little bit: I prefer the feeling of being happy/content so I should do things that make me happy/content. And I mean really, deeply happy, not temporal fixes like drugs, alcohol abuse, et cetera. So why don't I do those things that contribute to lasting joy? Why does it sometimes feel like I'm drawn to pain in the same way I was drawn to heroin - with what seems to be no choice in the matter?
Sometimes I just want to be done, to go home. I look at kids and I understand what all the adults used to say to me when I was a kid - You're gonna miss it! Enjoy your youth now! - because I don't want responsibility most of the time.
But now is where it really matters. Now the rubber meets the road, so to speak. Three jobs, a leadership position at my church, rent, a cell phone bill I'm paying myself for the first time (man I'm a spoiled brat), saving money for a car. And on top of that weight, there were certain things I thought I'd have or get back at this point that I don't have and haven't gotten back.
Welcome to life, huh?
I'm getting there.
Here's what I think is going on: When I was first getting sober, everything hurt. I couldn't cope with anything, because my coping mechanism was drugs. Period. But things gradually got more bearable, felt less like my whole being was an open and bleeding wound. And just so - slowly but surely and by God's grace alone - I made it through the program at Wayside. Now, I have a new set of issues - that list from before about rent, etc. - and if I'm smart, I'll look back on how I got through eight weeks at Teen Challenge Chicago and then six months at Wayside, and I'll trust my Jesus whose strength is made perfect in my weakness, and I'll keep limping after him.
It's just that the first few weeks getting into the swing of things is so hard. That's always been my problem. Take school for instance: Before the semester started, I'd be all pumped, and then a few weeks later, reality would set in, and I'd freeze up and fail all my classes.
I'm at that freezing point right now, and, knowing me, it'll last for the next few weeks at least. Then, the wounds will begin to heal and the lies I kinda believe right now about how I can't really do this will no longer have ground to stand on, and, always looking to Christ, I'll start to feel okay about life.
I do.
In fact, it's more difficult for me to choose happiness a lot of times, which is ridiculous when I look at it on paper. I would rather sit in the muck, and I don't know why. I mean, let's be logical for a little bit: I prefer the feeling of being happy/content so I should do things that make me happy/content. And I mean really, deeply happy, not temporal fixes like drugs, alcohol abuse, et cetera. So why don't I do those things that contribute to lasting joy? Why does it sometimes feel like I'm drawn to pain in the same way I was drawn to heroin - with what seems to be no choice in the matter?
Sometimes I just want to be done, to go home. I look at kids and I understand what all the adults used to say to me when I was a kid - You're gonna miss it! Enjoy your youth now! - because I don't want responsibility most of the time.
But now is where it really matters. Now the rubber meets the road, so to speak. Three jobs, a leadership position at my church, rent, a cell phone bill I'm paying myself for the first time (man I'm a spoiled brat), saving money for a car. And on top of that weight, there were certain things I thought I'd have or get back at this point that I don't have and haven't gotten back.
Welcome to life, huh?
I'm getting there.
Here's what I think is going on: When I was first getting sober, everything hurt. I couldn't cope with anything, because my coping mechanism was drugs. Period. But things gradually got more bearable, felt less like my whole being was an open and bleeding wound. And just so - slowly but surely and by God's grace alone - I made it through the program at Wayside. Now, I have a new set of issues - that list from before about rent, etc. - and if I'm smart, I'll look back on how I got through eight weeks at Teen Challenge Chicago and then six months at Wayside, and I'll trust my Jesus whose strength is made perfect in my weakness, and I'll keep limping after him.
It's just that the first few weeks getting into the swing of things is so hard. That's always been my problem. Take school for instance: Before the semester started, I'd be all pumped, and then a few weeks later, reality would set in, and I'd freeze up and fail all my classes.
I'm at that freezing point right now, and, knowing me, it'll last for the next few weeks at least. Then, the wounds will begin to heal and the lies I kinda believe right now about how I can't really do this will no longer have ground to stand on, and, always looking to Christ, I'll start to feel okay about life.
30 September 2010
graduation
I'm done.
Kind of.
And all the things I can think to say are really corny. But I feel corny. I haven't been in the habit of finishing things, but here I am, finished. I feel like saying things such as, "I made it!" and "The sky's the limit!" ad nauseam. Most addicts will tell you that, in their addiction, they never finished anything, but this was my modus operandi long before addiction. I used to get so overwhelmed, so anxious I'd just shut down. That became a familiar path for me. The foray along a new one has been very painful and uncomfortable. But I've made the first step. Well, the first big step, made up of a bunch of smaller steps fraught with missteps.
And the thing I'm taking away (even though I'm not leaving) is this: It's so simple. It's SO SIMPLE. I've been making it difficult. One of the best things I know is that life is better if you relax. It applies to everything, but especially to music. When someone starts on a new instrument, they're all tense and uncertain, whereas the poise of a pro is ease.
What I don't mean is that you should sit there on your computer and not do anything, or that you shouldn't practice your instrument. Instead, when you sit down to do your scales, don't worry about it so much. You can let worry drive you, and you, like me, will go crazy. Conversely, you can let the desire for the thing itself drive you, e.g. I want to be good at piano, so I'm going to do my scales. Worry sounds like this: dammitI'mbehindandthatguyIhateiswaybetterthanmeso IHAVETODOTHESESCALES!
So, if I could say one thing to you, it's this:
relax
Stop trying to keep all your plates spinning, because you can't and because it hasn't been you keeping the plates spinning in the first place and because it's freeing.
It's hard to live like this at every moment. Most of us are wired to do the opposite - control, control, control - and it happens in little ways. Here's an example:
I was walking the streets of Chicago today, and I came upon a young couple sitting on the sidewalk. Sitting this way cannot have been comfortable, especially for the boy. He was sitting up against a wrought-iron fence, ass-to-concrete. The girl looked more relaxed, laying on him a little bit, but that poor boy looked so tense. I could tell he was doing everything he could to hold the position in which he sat because the moment was so perfect and her being so close was setting him on fire. I laughed to myself because I remember being his age with a girl, how it felt as though if I made one wrong move, if I adjusted my position too much, I was going to spoil everything. My heart would beat so fast at the tiniest things - shit. is she upset? she hasn't moved or spoken in a way that would signify she's upset. she's not upset. is she? - my hands sweaty and trembling, my breathing shallow.
It was awful! and it's how trying to keep the plates spinning feels: sitting in uncomfortable positions on concrete.
So. Take a deep breath,
and let go
So. Take a deep breath,
and let go
something i've learned about ian
If I drink more than one normal-sized cup of coffee - or if I drink that normal-sized cup too quickly - my heart beats fast and my lungs decide they haven't had enough oxygen, which revives a long-held suspicion that, should I err in the slightest, my world will spiral irrevocably into chaos.
08 July 2010
bored...
Just so the two of you who read this (Hi Mom! Hi Dad!) know, I'm considering changing the name of this blog. If you've read Donald Miller, you'll have realized Red Like Tango is a parody of Blue Like Jazz. I thought it clever at the time - and still kind of do - but I'm in a different place in life, nowadays, and have decided on a new direction for this blog, namely, a journal of a recovering addict. Not sure how many blogs out there cover the topic (haven't looked), but I figure I'll add my voice to the list. Haven't decided on a name, yet. Suggestions?
wayside
The program I'm in right now is a part of Wayside Cross Ministries in Aurora, Illinois, named Master's Touch. It's a men's residential program which has been around for eighty-two years, I think. It's twenty-four weeks in duration, after which there are options for staying on for an extended amount of time. It's a really great program.
No place is perfect, though. The buildings we live and work in have to be fifty years old or more. There are two dorms, the third and fourth floors. The third floor packs fifty-seven men together, the fourth, thirty-eight. There are few modern amenities - air conditioning, for instance, is available for those who'd like to sleep on the floor in the chapel downstairs - but we have the necessities (three squares a day, a mattress and pillow with the accompanying linen, indoor plumbing) and that's more than most the world can say.
It gets pretty hot on the fourth floor, which is where I sleep. It also gets... malodorous... what with thirty-eight sweating men, some of whom haven't learned the finer points of hygiene. Like showering. (I wish I wasn't serious, but I've witnessed some of them using a sink and a rag for their daily routine. Lord, have mercy.)
The staff isn't perfect, but this does not phase me as it once might have. Why it is that so many come in the doors expecting everyone but themselves to be perfect - especially those in authority over them - baffles me. Or perhaps they are blind and believe they are, indeed, perfect. Not so baffling, when put in those terms, because I've been guilty of the same over and over again. Daily, in fact. I'm always getting angry at someone for doing something wrong or not being who I want them to be, and then God - sometimes gently, sometimes not - shows me the hundred ways I've not hit the mark that day.
Anyway, every once in a while, I kind of snap to, and I observe my surroundings. This happened yesterday. I was thinking about all the less-than-pleasing parts of being at Wayside, and it occurred to me that, despite all of them, I'm sober, and have been for almost five months (woohoo!). Then, it occurred to me that the exorbitantly expensive Hazelden didn't keep me sober. Nor did Calvary Center in Phoenix. Okay, don't hear me saying they're bad places. They aren't. Also, don't hear me saying Wayside is keeping me sober. It isn't. But Hazelden and Calvary lack the foundation I've found here at Wayside, namely, a solid theology. A "god of my understanding" doesn't do it for me. In fact, it was detrimental.
Jesus means everything to my sobriety, and, for that matter, my sanity. If I'm just going to create a god out of a tree or a rock, as a counselor at Hazelden and some in AA told me to do, I'm going to struggle - did struggle - with applying any sort of logic. How did that rock reach into my life and bring me out of my addiction to heroin? How is that tree going to fill the void in my soul? Addicts and alcoholics are really comfortable talking about that void, but they get mad when I tell them an inanimate object probably won't fill it. As my grandpa would say, Cada loco con su tema!
My God makes sense. Indeed, the Christian religion, as founded on the Bible, is the only belief system that makes sense of all this terrible stuff that keeps happening in and around me. I was told the higher-ups in AA added that line "of my own understanding" so they wouldn't offend people, because God knows addicts and alcoholics are in a vulnerable spot. Please. Everyone's in a vulnerable spot. Maybe we need to have our ideas about God and the universe and everything challenged. Maybe the logic we've employed - especially as addicts and alcoholics - isn't the best logic in the world, it having gotten us into rehab at best, or sleeping in some gutter, at worst.
I'm glad I'm at Wayside, with its many failings. Coming up against these (relatively) difficult situations has made me a better person. And that makes me happy.
No place is perfect, though. The buildings we live and work in have to be fifty years old or more. There are two dorms, the third and fourth floors. The third floor packs fifty-seven men together, the fourth, thirty-eight. There are few modern amenities - air conditioning, for instance, is available for those who'd like to sleep on the floor in the chapel downstairs - but we have the necessities (three squares a day, a mattress and pillow with the accompanying linen, indoor plumbing) and that's more than most the world can say.
It gets pretty hot on the fourth floor, which is where I sleep. It also gets... malodorous... what with thirty-eight sweating men, some of whom haven't learned the finer points of hygiene. Like showering. (I wish I wasn't serious, but I've witnessed some of them using a sink and a rag for their daily routine. Lord, have mercy.)
The staff isn't perfect, but this does not phase me as it once might have. Why it is that so many come in the doors expecting everyone but themselves to be perfect - especially those in authority over them - baffles me. Or perhaps they are blind and believe they are, indeed, perfect. Not so baffling, when put in those terms, because I've been guilty of the same over and over again. Daily, in fact. I'm always getting angry at someone for doing something wrong or not being who I want them to be, and then God - sometimes gently, sometimes not - shows me the hundred ways I've not hit the mark that day.
Anyway, every once in a while, I kind of snap to, and I observe my surroundings. This happened yesterday. I was thinking about all the less-than-pleasing parts of being at Wayside, and it occurred to me that, despite all of them, I'm sober, and have been for almost five months (woohoo!). Then, it occurred to me that the exorbitantly expensive Hazelden didn't keep me sober. Nor did Calvary Center in Phoenix. Okay, don't hear me saying they're bad places. They aren't. Also, don't hear me saying Wayside is keeping me sober. It isn't. But Hazelden and Calvary lack the foundation I've found here at Wayside, namely, a solid theology. A "god of my understanding" doesn't do it for me. In fact, it was detrimental.
Jesus means everything to my sobriety, and, for that matter, my sanity. If I'm just going to create a god out of a tree or a rock, as a counselor at Hazelden and some in AA told me to do, I'm going to struggle - did struggle - with applying any sort of logic. How did that rock reach into my life and bring me out of my addiction to heroin? How is that tree going to fill the void in my soul? Addicts and alcoholics are really comfortable talking about that void, but they get mad when I tell them an inanimate object probably won't fill it. As my grandpa would say, Cada loco con su tema!
My God makes sense. Indeed, the Christian religion, as founded on the Bible, is the only belief system that makes sense of all this terrible stuff that keeps happening in and around me. I was told the higher-ups in AA added that line "of my own understanding" so they wouldn't offend people, because God knows addicts and alcoholics are in a vulnerable spot. Please. Everyone's in a vulnerable spot. Maybe we need to have our ideas about God and the universe and everything challenged. Maybe the logic we've employed - especially as addicts and alcoholics - isn't the best logic in the world, it having gotten us into rehab at best, or sleeping in some gutter, at worst.
I'm glad I'm at Wayside, with its many failings. Coming up against these (relatively) difficult situations has made me a better person. And that makes me happy.
01 July 2010
nicotine dreams
I have great news! I haven't smoked a cigarette since Sunday evening. That's a solid 96 hours.
I feel good about it. When I quit before, at Teen Challenge, it was forced. Now, at Wayside, it isn't. I'd been smoking for ten weeks - that is, from the very second I left TC. Ten sounded like a nice, round number to me. More accurately, I'd been smoking for six years - that is, from the day I turned eighteen. (That's right, I just had a burfday.) Six sounded like a nice, round number to me.
My parents came for my birthday weekend, and the plan was to smoke my last cigarette the day before my birthday - last Friday. Well... that didn't work out. I didn't smoke through my whole pack by Friday night, and I hadn't the strength to simply toss the rest. Yes. I'm ridiculous. So I smoked the rest on Saturday. Sunday, when my parents and I were coming back from our short trip to Wisconsin, I fell further into compulsion and bought another pack at a gas station. I'd recently become a huge fan of Newports, and am even now lamenting how late in the game I discovered them. Anyway, I wasn't doing well.
We got back to the west suburbs around one in the afternoon, just in time for the Argentina vs. Mexico game. Viva Argentina! At halftime, I stepped onto the porch to smoke because I was feeling anxious, and it didn't help. Actually, I felt more anxious. This had been occurring a lot over the last few weeks. Cigarettes used to calm me down, but they weren't doing the trick any more. They weren't really good for anything except for that wonderful Newport taste - and, of course, the poetic aura to which I've become so attached over the years. What vanity!
My parents took me to see a movie after the game, and I had a post-movie cigarette, just like all the other times I've watched movies in the past six years. There it was again: anxiety. And this time, there hadn't been any anxiety preceding the cigarette, so I knew I was in trouble. Or at least my habit was.
I got into the car with Mom and Dad, and told them what was going on, except I wasn't super clear about it. "I think I've become really susceptible to caffeine. Even the smallest amounts make me crazy."
"It could be that," said Dad. "The nicotine probably isn't helping, either." Saw right through me.
"Whatever do you mean?"
"Well, nicotine is an upper, don't you know."
"Whaaat?"
"Well, yes!" With feeling now. "The reason most people feel they are calmed is that they're satisfying their addiction, which has made them nervous. Meth to a meth addict is calming. To anyone else, it's crazy-making."
We pulled into the bar-and-grill at which we'd decided to eat. An undertrained young man sat us, sped through his welcome, and darted away. I'd planned on pushing my almost-new pack of cigarettes off on him, but he was too quick for me. My parents and I continued our conversation.
Ahah! There he is again. "Excuse me, sir?" Didn't hear me. "Sir!" He turned. "Do you smoke cigarettes?"
"Cigarettes? No." That's code in the world of pot-smokers for "I smoke pot."
"Well, does anyone you work with in there" - I pointed into the restaurant because we were sitting on the patio - "smoke?"
"You just wanna give me this pack of cigarettes?"
"Yes."
"O..kay?"
Pack of Newport cigarettes - and Bic lighter - gone.
"Why didn't you just trash them?" asked Dad.
"It... didn't feel right."
I feel good about it. When I quit before, at Teen Challenge, it was forced. Now, at Wayside, it isn't. I'd been smoking for ten weeks - that is, from the very second I left TC. Ten sounded like a nice, round number to me. More accurately, I'd been smoking for six years - that is, from the day I turned eighteen. (That's right, I just had a burfday.) Six sounded like a nice, round number to me.
My parents came for my birthday weekend, and the plan was to smoke my last cigarette the day before my birthday - last Friday. Well... that didn't work out. I didn't smoke through my whole pack by Friday night, and I hadn't the strength to simply toss the rest. Yes. I'm ridiculous. So I smoked the rest on Saturday. Sunday, when my parents and I were coming back from our short trip to Wisconsin, I fell further into compulsion and bought another pack at a gas station. I'd recently become a huge fan of Newports, and am even now lamenting how late in the game I discovered them. Anyway, I wasn't doing well.
We got back to the west suburbs around one in the afternoon, just in time for the Argentina vs. Mexico game. Viva Argentina! At halftime, I stepped onto the porch to smoke because I was feeling anxious, and it didn't help. Actually, I felt more anxious. This had been occurring a lot over the last few weeks. Cigarettes used to calm me down, but they weren't doing the trick any more. They weren't really good for anything except for that wonderful Newport taste - and, of course, the poetic aura to which I've become so attached over the years. What vanity!
My parents took me to see a movie after the game, and I had a post-movie cigarette, just like all the other times I've watched movies in the past six years. There it was again: anxiety. And this time, there hadn't been any anxiety preceding the cigarette, so I knew I was in trouble. Or at least my habit was.
I got into the car with Mom and Dad, and told them what was going on, except I wasn't super clear about it. "I think I've become really susceptible to caffeine. Even the smallest amounts make me crazy."
"It could be that," said Dad. "The nicotine probably isn't helping, either." Saw right through me.
"Whatever do you mean?"
"Well, nicotine is an upper, don't you know."
"Whaaat?"
"Well, yes!" With feeling now. "The reason most people feel they are calmed is that they're satisfying their addiction, which has made them nervous. Meth to a meth addict is calming. To anyone else, it's crazy-making."
We pulled into the bar-and-grill at which we'd decided to eat. An undertrained young man sat us, sped through his welcome, and darted away. I'd planned on pushing my almost-new pack of cigarettes off on him, but he was too quick for me. My parents and I continued our conversation.
Ahah! There he is again. "Excuse me, sir?" Didn't hear me. "Sir!" He turned. "Do you smoke cigarettes?"
"Cigarettes? No." That's code in the world of pot-smokers for "I smoke pot."
"Well, does anyone you work with in there" - I pointed into the restaurant because we were sitting on the patio - "smoke?"
"You just wanna give me this pack of cigarettes?"
"Yes."
"O..kay?"
Pack of Newport cigarettes - and Bic lighter - gone.
"Why didn't you just trash them?" asked Dad.
"It... didn't feel right."
19 June 2010
epiphany
My writings are postmodern. Therein lies my frustration with them.
Thanks for the pointer, Papito.
Thanks for the pointer, Papito.
16 June 2010
pain
I was rereading Rehab Sucks just now, making grammatical corrections, and I realized I didn't nail what I wanted to nail with the second point. I said I know what it's like to want the pain. I suppose that's true to some extent. But, more accurately, I know what it's like to not know what the pain is or where it's coming from, to become frustrated with this and euphorically recall what it was like to be numb. It takes a lot of uncomfortable digging - a lot - to find the source of the pain. And once it is found, amidst overwhelming feelings to continue avoiding it, it must be felt. I have to sit down, bow my head and close my eyes, quiet myself - all the voices screaming at me Please! Not this! - and Go There. I'm not very good at it.
While I'm sitting there, in the middle of it, I try to remember to ask God about it. This is not easy. The temptation to just sit there and enjoy the sickness of it - I am fallen - is strong, because it provides a weird sort of rush, of the same sort I get when I do something I know is wrong. This is what I meant by wanting the pain. It's macabre. I know.
But if I ask God about it, I can start hacking through the undergrowth because I can see now which is the direction of the light. This is tiring, but it is good.
Also, I figured out something about The Tape. (The Tape is what plays in an addict's head over and over again, scenes from using that do not include the horrible results of using. It can include the excitement of going to get the drug, the friends one was with and the camaraderie felt there, the moments right before using the drug, the effects, and much more. But never does it include the almost-immediate remorse, or the looks on the faces of one's family.) I figured out it's no good to play the actual using part. Makes things worse. So, I apply Scripture - sharper, I tell you, than any two-edged sword - and I take this thought captive. I blink, mentally, and avert my gaze, ideally to things like what I referenced in Father of lights.
Well would you look at that. That's starting to sound sane.
While I'm sitting there, in the middle of it, I try to remember to ask God about it. This is not easy. The temptation to just sit there and enjoy the sickness of it - I am fallen - is strong, because it provides a weird sort of rush, of the same sort I get when I do something I know is wrong. This is what I meant by wanting the pain. It's macabre. I know.
But if I ask God about it, I can start hacking through the undergrowth because I can see now which is the direction of the light. This is tiring, but it is good.
Also, I figured out something about The Tape. (The Tape is what plays in an addict's head over and over again, scenes from using that do not include the horrible results of using. It can include the excitement of going to get the drug, the friends one was with and the camaraderie felt there, the moments right before using the drug, the effects, and much more. But never does it include the almost-immediate remorse, or the looks on the faces of one's family.) I figured out it's no good to play the actual using part. Makes things worse. So, I apply Scripture - sharper, I tell you, than any two-edged sword - and I take this thought captive. I blink, mentally, and avert my gaze, ideally to things like what I referenced in Father of lights.
Well would you look at that. That's starting to sound sane.
09 June 2010
Father of lights
I just realized something: being hard on myself is mostly a result of believing my actions save me. I think very often of the mistakes I've made, and until recently, I had the idea that God was Up There shaking his head at my most recent intemperance. Within the last year, helped by Phillip Yancey, God has revealed that "grace" means there's nothing I can do to make God love me more or less. And I've spent the last year attempting to work this into my awareness.
Of course, I must remember the slavery from which I've been brought out, but the effect this retrospection has is not immediately apparent. That is, it doesn't make me depressed, but, compounded by the fact that I didn't escape slavery but was rescued, gives me great joy as I consider an almighty, universe-sustaining God who loves me so.
Also, I'm not saying my many offenses against various individuals are paltry or inconsequential. They aren't. But if on thinking of these offenses I despair of a saving righteousness, I've forgotten that my righteousness is not, in fact, my righteousness. It is Christ's, imputed to me, despite what I've done.
OK, that's not what I sat down to write. I sat down to write about one of my favorite verses and its cross-references. To wit:
Ephesians 5:14 - Awake, thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall give thee light.
I chose the KJV translation because I love how it puts that last phrase, this imagery of Christ the light-giver. One of my favorite names for God is Father of lights.
Luke 1:78-79 - ...the sunrise shall visit us from on high to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace.
The light this Sunrise is giving us is peace. I need peace, and my God knows it.
Isaiah 60:1 - Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you.
Malachi 4:2 - ...but for you who fear my name, the sun of righteousness shall rise with healing in its wings.
Read that last one over and over, Christian, and see if your soul isn't transported. How badly do you want to be healed? To find refuge from devastating pain? To step out of the night and into the sun? Our God knows and is powerful to do it.
Of course, I must remember the slavery from which I've been brought out, but the effect this retrospection has is not immediately apparent. That is, it doesn't make me depressed, but, compounded by the fact that I didn't escape slavery but was rescued, gives me great joy as I consider an almighty, universe-sustaining God who loves me so.
Also, I'm not saying my many offenses against various individuals are paltry or inconsequential. They aren't. But if on thinking of these offenses I despair of a saving righteousness, I've forgotten that my righteousness is not, in fact, my righteousness. It is Christ's, imputed to me, despite what I've done.
OK, that's not what I sat down to write. I sat down to write about one of my favorite verses and its cross-references. To wit:
Ephesians 5:14 - Awake, thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall give thee light.
I chose the KJV translation because I love how it puts that last phrase, this imagery of Christ the light-giver. One of my favorite names for God is Father of lights.
Luke 1:78-79 - ...the sunrise shall visit us from on high to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace.
The light this Sunrise is giving us is peace. I need peace, and my God knows it.
Isaiah 60:1 - Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you.
Malachi 4:2 - ...but for you who fear my name, the sun of righteousness shall rise with healing in its wings.
Read that last one over and over, Christian, and see if your soul isn't transported. How badly do you want to be healed? To find refuge from devastating pain? To step out of the night and into the sun? Our God knows and is powerful to do it.
08 June 2010
this inspires me
It's a long one, so maybe fast forward to minute seven or so, because that's where it gets ridiculous. Actually, start at 6:45 when he tunes his guitar in the middle of a riff and just goes on. Words are useless.
05 June 2010
rehab sucks
Rehab is not an easy place. I see people come in and go back out and it. is. exhausting. I mean, I remember how I was in my addiction, how no one could tell me anything I didn't already know, how the problem was always someone or something else, never - perish the thought! - never me. And I remember all the reasons I had for continuing to use. So I feel for them - the guys who go back out. But it hurts, for two reasons.
1. I remember my own past: the people I hurt who were trying to help because they loved me, the way I didn't love anyone but me, didn't know how to or couldn't or whatever, and the way some of those people left my life altogether because I'd really, seriously injured them. Everyone close to me ended up a victim.
2. I know the pain to which they will return. I know it well. And I know what it's like to want the pain, if only as an excuse to use. And then there's the awful truth that quitting is like leaving an old friend, one who is always there, from whom you can always know exactly what to expect. When I stopped smoking pot, I mourned. I still do, as often as I remember it. When I stopped shooting heroin, I mourned. I mourned the needle, too. It was really hard. It felt, in some really twisted way, like betrayal.
So I get it. But it sucks. Not to mention it's a constant reminder that so few actually make it out of addiction, and I am terrified by this. (Not a plea for assurance. Just a statement.)
1. I remember my own past: the people I hurt who were trying to help because they loved me, the way I didn't love anyone but me, didn't know how to or couldn't or whatever, and the way some of those people left my life altogether because I'd really, seriously injured them. Everyone close to me ended up a victim.
2. I know the pain to which they will return. I know it well. And I know what it's like to want the pain, if only as an excuse to use. And then there's the awful truth that quitting is like leaving an old friend, one who is always there, from whom you can always know exactly what to expect. When I stopped smoking pot, I mourned. I still do, as often as I remember it. When I stopped shooting heroin, I mourned. I mourned the needle, too. It was really hard. It felt, in some really twisted way, like betrayal.
So I get it. But it sucks. Not to mention it's a constant reminder that so few actually make it out of addiction, and I am terrified by this. (Not a plea for assurance. Just a statement.)
03 June 2010
dirty laundry
Every now and then, I confront the question: Why do I write? This is different from the question: Why write? There are a lot of really great and romantic reasons to give for the second. For the first, not so much. I'm pretty sure I write because of a compulsion to do whatever I can to make people like me. So, following the logic, I must think I'm a good writer. And so I do, sometimes. But when I return to this blog and read over some of my blatherings, I cringe as the many critics in my head and the voices I've given to the people who probably don't even read this accuse me of fraudulence, denounce my writing as self-important and trivial. Worse, I imagine someone happening across my page and thinking to themselves, "Well... he's really trying... and that's worth something, isn't it?" This makes my face flush. I really hate caring about what you think of me.
And so I arrive at an even more interesting question: Why, knowing all this, do I continue to write? Answer: I'm insane, and I (apparently) wish to remain that way. Here is an instance which backs my theory:
A couple of weeks ago, I felt like I needed to write a letter. (At least, this is what I was telling myself. I didn't.) I stared at the computer screen for a while, and then I typed a couple sentences. My heart was racing, my adrenaline pumping, because I knew full well I was doing what I should not. And then, succumbing even further to impulse, I added a line at the end of my two-sentence letter that I really should not have written, but I was extra weak that day. And then I sent it.
I sat back in my chair and immediately started to go crazy. Will this person respond? I wondered. What would this person say in response? What if this person doesn't respond? If this person doesn't respond, is it because of anger, or because not to respond is the better thing to do? Why the hell did I even write that? That wasn't a good thing I did just now. It was manipulative. I've probably just further disqualified myself from something I might have had if I'd just held on, exercised some fucking self-control.
So you see, in sending the letter, I damned myself to insanity. That is, there was no possible outcome - response or no - which provided for anything other than insanity. This is why I think I'm addicted to it.
It's embarrassing. But I'm writing about it because I really do want to be free of it and because I suspect I'm not alone in it, and I have this conviction that freedom can't be reached alone, not in my experience, anyway, because we weren't made like that. We need more than our selves. We need each other. And we need to delete our facebooks.
And so I arrive at an even more interesting question: Why, knowing all this, do I continue to write? Answer: I'm insane, and I (apparently) wish to remain that way. Here is an instance which backs my theory:
A couple of weeks ago, I felt like I needed to write a letter. (At least, this is what I was telling myself. I didn't.) I stared at the computer screen for a while, and then I typed a couple sentences. My heart was racing, my adrenaline pumping, because I knew full well I was doing what I should not. And then, succumbing even further to impulse, I added a line at the end of my two-sentence letter that I really should not have written, but I was extra weak that day. And then I sent it.
I sat back in my chair and immediately started to go crazy. Will this person respond? I wondered. What would this person say in response? What if this person doesn't respond? If this person doesn't respond, is it because of anger, or because not to respond is the better thing to do? Why the hell did I even write that? That wasn't a good thing I did just now. It was manipulative. I've probably just further disqualified myself from something I might have had if I'd just held on, exercised some fucking self-control.
So you see, in sending the letter, I damned myself to insanity. That is, there was no possible outcome - response or no - which provided for anything other than insanity. This is why I think I'm addicted to it.
It's embarrassing. But I'm writing about it because I really do want to be free of it and because I suspect I'm not alone in it, and I have this conviction that freedom can't be reached alone, not in my experience, anyway, because we weren't made like that. We need more than our selves. We need each other. And we need to delete our facebooks.
30 January 2010
kaleidoscope
The following occurred a few months back.
Two gentlemen walked up the stairs today. They had overcompensation written all over their faces.
"Yo, man."
"What's happenin? You guys bring your IDs?" I responded.
"Yes, sir. It's right... here." Hands me the wallet. Follower-dude also quick on the draw.
"Thank you, gentlemen. What can I do for you?"
"Just lookin for a new piece. This guy's a total stoner," slaps follower dude on the back.
"Well unfortunately for you, you've established illegal intent. You're no longer welcome to shop tobacco products today, and you'll need to vacate the premises immediately."
"Duuude--"
"No dudes. Leave. Now."
Two gentlemen walked up the stairs today. They had overcompensation written all over their faces.
"Yo, man."
"What's happenin? You guys bring your IDs?" I responded.
"Yes, sir. It's right... here." Hands me the wallet. Follower-dude also quick on the draw.
"Thank you, gentlemen. What can I do for you?"
"Just lookin for a new piece. This guy's a total stoner," slaps follower dude on the back.
"Well unfortunately for you, you've established illegal intent. You're no longer welcome to shop tobacco products today, and you'll need to vacate the premises immediately."
"Duuude--"
"No dudes. Leave. Now."
28 January 2010
anxiety
the glare of the sun off of the windshield
the high-pitched whine of machinery
the rip in the new nice denim
the tone of the accuser
the immutability of contesting wills
the angle of the hang of the head
the sudden decrescendo of sound
the sink of the pit
the excruciating molasses of time
the high-pitched whine of machinery
the rip in the new nice denim
the tone of the accuser
the immutability of contesting wills
the angle of the hang of the head
the sudden decrescendo of sound
the sink of the pit
the excruciating molasses of time
27 January 2010
oscar
Everything started after a semester at school. Well... before that. It's always before, isn't it? But that semester set it off. I was wound up tight. Restless, without peace. I felt okay when I left that town, never in it. Too much baggage.
I went to Mexico to clear my head. To relax. I packed my car, stopped before leaving town to fill up. I hung up the pump with an air of finality, electricity in my blood. Bid that town fucking adieu.
Now just the road. I had enough pot for the first part of the trip, and my cousin had some waiting down in Texas. Perfection. I stopped to see him graduate highschool, and then he came with me. He'd grown up quick and tall.
Excitement! The road! Mexico! I left the tension, the restlessness, and I drove. Got high and drove. Tell me I was immature, reckless. I didn't care. I don't care.
Me. On the road.
I went to Mexico to clear my head. To relax. I packed my car, stopped before leaving town to fill up. I hung up the pump with an air of finality, electricity in my blood. Bid that town fucking adieu.
Now just the road. I had enough pot for the first part of the trip, and my cousin had some waiting down in Texas. Perfection. I stopped to see him graduate highschool, and then he came with me. He'd grown up quick and tall.
Excitement! The road! Mexico! I left the tension, the restlessness, and I drove. Got high and drove. Tell me I was immature, reckless. I didn't care. I don't care.
Me. On the road.
26 January 2010
vibrations
I'm bored. I'm anxious. Because nothing belongs to me.
Because I owe.
I fight to be something I'm not.
I am weary. Weary of trying to think new thoughts. How do I think new thoughts? It feels so new it's not me. It's fake. It's tiring.
But there are glimpses of hope, like today. Then I immediately fear my hope because it crumbles, always. Falls away.
I yearn to express myself poetically and I fail because I try. Too hard? Yes. Too hard. And what am I trying for? Newness. The newness I fear and is elusive.
Avoiding. Avoiding me. I'm avoiding me. I come to the brink and retreat back. Because it's unknown? Kind of. Not really.
Because it doesn't work.
Not the way I want it to. And I fear it never will. That is my fear. Mediocrity. I fear being one of the crowd. Indistinguishable. Because I hate the masses? Yes. The masses, not individual people. The stupid masses, I hate. And I am lost in them. I cannot escape. I can. But I won't because I choose not to. I choose to stand and fight, not escape. Overcome, not escape.
I want reality to feel better. Peace. I am not at peace because I don't live now. I live then, or before. To live now, see the trees, smell autumn, do, finish. To lift my arms, to raise them and shake fists! To seek truth, to say truth, to live it. To believe it. Mostly to believe it.
Droll argument.
Rather droll, once it hits there. Belief. Life. Do they cross? Droll. Why? No progress. No moving forward. Just idle arguments. Idle words. Words make me feel like I'm doing something when I'm not. Words rarely satisfy. Do I not believe in them? Less and less. Words are folly. No one hears them. It matters not what I say, but how I say it. I hate this. No one listens. I don't listen.
We are preoccupied. The present is vulnerable and painful, yes? Living now, this is painful. And boring. Why do I feel pain in boredom? I feel pain everywhere. I cannot escape it.
I can!
I don't.
I will.
I won't, needs facing. Process. This is what I'm told. Process. Think.
I don't want to. It's the same every time.
But it's not, if I try. Not try - if I stop escaping. Emotions are in control. I am not my master. Emotions run free. And drag.
And now I am tired. I am broken, feel empty. Drained of useless thoughts, the goal. But never drained, really. They sit and they wait, the follies. They claim me at my best and desert me. Flee. Like rational thought.
Too intellectual. Too.. bleh.. abstract. I hate that word and what it means. Pseudo-intellectual. That's what comes to mind when I hear or say or write the word abstract. Overused. Overadmired. Now scorned.
There's a good one. Scorned. Word.
I'm trying to drain it all. Trying to sleep. Trying to remember myself. Trying to keep it together.
(Partial bile upheaval.)
Scream. Scream again. From the guts, now! From the belly, tearing through the throat, the body resonating like a beat drum, bare teeth SCREAM!
Imagine there's a Heaven. And imagine it's where you're made to be.
I hate. Odd place to turn, I know. But there are some things I hate. People acting, for one. Acting different from because they're embarrassed of.
Speaking things into being. Interesting concept. God's vehicle in creation, our best way toward healing. Yes. Dark thoughts need to be spoken. Loudly. Not without propriety. Not to just anyone. Not at dinner. No, no, NO.
Keep your head on.
Don't mess up.
Be a jackass. They love it.
Because I owe.
I fight to be something I'm not.
I am weary. Weary of trying to think new thoughts. How do I think new thoughts? It feels so new it's not me. It's fake. It's tiring.
But there are glimpses of hope, like today. Then I immediately fear my hope because it crumbles, always. Falls away.
I yearn to express myself poetically and I fail because I try. Too hard? Yes. Too hard. And what am I trying for? Newness. The newness I fear and is elusive.
Avoiding. Avoiding me. I'm avoiding me. I come to the brink and retreat back. Because it's unknown? Kind of. Not really.
Because it doesn't work.
Not the way I want it to. And I fear it never will. That is my fear. Mediocrity. I fear being one of the crowd. Indistinguishable. Because I hate the masses? Yes. The masses, not individual people. The stupid masses, I hate. And I am lost in them. I cannot escape. I can. But I won't because I choose not to. I choose to stand and fight, not escape. Overcome, not escape.
I want reality to feel better. Peace. I am not at peace because I don't live now. I live then, or before. To live now, see the trees, smell autumn, do, finish. To lift my arms, to raise them and shake fists! To seek truth, to say truth, to live it. To believe it. Mostly to believe it.
Droll argument.
Rather droll, once it hits there. Belief. Life. Do they cross? Droll. Why? No progress. No moving forward. Just idle arguments. Idle words. Words make me feel like I'm doing something when I'm not. Words rarely satisfy. Do I not believe in them? Less and less. Words are folly. No one hears them. It matters not what I say, but how I say it. I hate this. No one listens. I don't listen.
We are preoccupied. The present is vulnerable and painful, yes? Living now, this is painful. And boring. Why do I feel pain in boredom? I feel pain everywhere. I cannot escape it.
I can!
I don't.
I will.
I won't, needs facing. Process. This is what I'm told. Process. Think.
I don't want to. It's the same every time.
But it's not, if I try. Not try - if I stop escaping. Emotions are in control. I am not my master. Emotions run free. And drag.
And now I am tired. I am broken, feel empty. Drained of useless thoughts, the goal. But never drained, really. They sit and they wait, the follies. They claim me at my best and desert me. Flee. Like rational thought.
Too intellectual. Too.. bleh.. abstract. I hate that word and what it means. Pseudo-intellectual. That's what comes to mind when I hear or say or write the word abstract. Overused. Overadmired. Now scorned.
There's a good one. Scorned. Word.
I'm trying to drain it all. Trying to sleep. Trying to remember myself. Trying to keep it together.
(Partial bile upheaval.)
Scream. Scream again. From the guts, now! From the belly, tearing through the throat, the body resonating like a beat drum, bare teeth SCREAM!
Imagine there's a Heaven. And imagine it's where you're made to be.
I hate. Odd place to turn, I know. But there are some things I hate. People acting, for one. Acting different from because they're embarrassed of.
Speaking things into being. Interesting concept. God's vehicle in creation, our best way toward healing. Yes. Dark thoughts need to be spoken. Loudly. Not without propriety. Not to just anyone. Not at dinner. No, no, NO.
Keep your head on.
Don't mess up.
Be a jackass. They love it.
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