Random blog entry #774

The following was written with the idea that I would go over it later, editing and refining it, maybe making it less stream-of-consciousness. But I didn’t. So it should be like most everything I’ve ever written here. I just wanted to add a disclaimer to say that.

 

I don’t know if I can write fiction right now. That’s the feeling that I have, that I can’t craft something appealing and meaningful while still keeping it distant and not too personal. The last point isn’t a requirement, of course, but currently I don’t feel like exposing myself more than I already have. Too many people (like two or three) that I know personally and talk to occasionally may read what I write, and my social structure is fragile enough right now that I don’t want to damage it. That’s the thought in my head, I can tell, even though I know that there hasn’t been damage done in the past when I’ve been open and vulnerable. If anything, sometimes it is better. But that doesn’t mean that the perception isn’t still there, and I just feel like whatever I wrote would boil down to being whining, needy and desperate. So I’ll just put it here instead, where some may still read it but it’s not “fiction” and I’m pretty sure at least one person won’t read it because I don’t think they know about it. Such a scared little boy…

The weird thing is, that’s complete bullshit. I’m hardly a scared little boy. I’ll kick your ass…and yours…yeah, you too. C’mon; bring it on. So maybe this has nothing to do with writing. Writing is the scapegoat. Using it as my topic allows me to introduce a notion which you probably don’t get yet, and which I’m not going to explain to you, but it’s something constantly swimming around in my psyche and my retort to it is: Fuck you! Okay, so what it is … it’s a cloak I hide behind. It’s a habit. It’s something I’ve always done. It’s saying “I don’t know” and then continuing on to answer or state something, showing that I do actually know, but somehow the disclaimer beforehand release me from all liability if you don’t like what I’m saying. I fucking well do know. And some people get to see that in me, and once in a while I do.

I want to blame our society. I want to say that it’s what we learn growing up: that some things are good and some things are bad; that we should do certain things to be successful and if we don’t then we are achieving less than we could, than we should; and maybe there’s a personality or character underneath that we’re born with or we somehow develop, I don’t know, that gets this framework built by society laid on top of it, and that framework ends up fettering us and keeping us from behaving as we would naturally. I started all of this out by saying “I want to…” which is another disclaimer, a way of making what I say less harsh somehow.

The funny thing is, I have this idea about natural behavior, survival of the fittest, and the way some of the ancient Greeks used to think about the strong taking what is theirs. I don’t like that type of behavior. I see it in modern times as an integral part of our corporate, capitalist structure, and the attitude that lead so many to despise the rich, the politicians, the greedy crooks of Enron and others who just haven’t been caught. So I don’t believe in what Ayn Rand wrote about in Atlas Shrugged. Anyway, what is the real value of gaining power, of being driven and successful, of being a mover and a shaker? I guess you could take the question to the next level and ask what really brings people happiness, what is “worth it” in this life, and if there is anything after it.

I don’t know if any of this will make sense to anyone else, or even to me later on. It may not be cohesive enough, but I’ve written plenty here that isn’t. The funny thing is, I could be a hell of a mover and a shaker if I chose to. I’d be a terror. But I’ve never had the inclination. Sure, I used to think I wanted to be rich and be able to afford all sorts of fast cars, but I realize that doesn’t really matter anymore. One thing that always comes up in my brain, though, is that maybe I really am ruthless, amoral, and a perfect match for the type of person I describe (at least in my head), but I’m just too scared or timid or something to let it show. My ex saw it in me and liked it, but she’s a lot more one of those people than I appear to be. It does feel good to wear the clothes, though–to step into that role once in a while, as needed, and have the power to own a situation, to take control. Yet I rebel against it so…

Every time I try to start writing, I am distracted and discouraged. My email inbox calls my name, even though there’s nothing there waiting for me. I have an idea that I think is clever or funny while riding the bus, or walking down the street as I see a unique human interaction, and I want to write about it, but I’m doomed for failure because I feel that nothing I write is clever enough. I nearly stopped in the middle of my last sentence because I couldn’t describe “a unique human interaction” in any more detail or in a more clever way, making use of metaphor and allusion, or least setting a scene and ensuring that I “show, don’t tell”.

Perhaps I’m in the middle of an existential crisis. I’m balancing on the line separating reality from fantasy, and the choice forced upon me determines how I live the rest of my life, or how I answer questions about my life. If I choose reality over fantasy (and perhaps reality should be set apart by quotation marks here), it feels as if it will require an entire reworking of my values, my belief system, and of my personality. Gone are the days of believing in old movies, believing that Cary Grant was really so smooth and that love can be so romantic and ideal; gone the days of believing that life is more than just a job one works at to get by and survive, and one’s life is what one does in one’s free time, yet even then (believing in that) there is a certain disappointment that things aren’t quite what one had hoped for; gone the days of believing in the inherent good of people (?), instead choosing to believe that morality is relative and that life is bound the be the way it is, with certain elements of “good” and “bad” inherently a part of humanity and completely unavoidable (?); and gone the days of believing that it truly matters a great deal who one votes for, what organizations like Greenpeace and the Peace Corps do, the idea that each individual can make a difference and humanity is not just one gigantic juggernaut wherein an individual’s actions make the whole deviate from its course one iota.

Have I wrapped too many elements, too many varieties of “realism”, up together and made it difficult for anyone to stomach my definition? Perhaps, but only because we each live our lives somewhere in the in-between, not able to fully commit to one extreme or the other, but equally able to ridicule anyone who doesn’t reside in the particular state we are in, whose world is at a different point along the reality-fantasy continuum.

To return to my original point, I’m not able to churn out anything creative or humorous or life-affirming. Even when I have plenty of material, plenty of things to start with and expand into whatever they choose to become, I am unable to invest myself in it and truly believe that it matters or will be worthwhile. And so not being able to commit to my former world of fantasy leaves me unable to spin a tale, and yet I’m not ready to commit to what some might realism, and not able to create anything that might contribute. Instead, I offer this, whatever the world might judge it to be. At least it is probably in line with what I set out to do with this blog, but no one should have to suffer it.

Evil bastards

I’ve been reading a lot lately, mostly online. Following a few blogs and clicking links they put up that lead to other interesting things. It’s like following the rabbit down the hole and into another world, but then there’s another hole, and, rabbit or no, it’s tempting to dive in. So I’m going to post more things i find interesting here. I already posted a few links on Your Daily Adventure. I just read something I thought was really worthwhile and insightful, so I’m putting a link to it here, and maybe I’ll have more than just the one before the night is through.

• Kerry Cohen lives in Portland, OR, has an MFA in creative writing and an MA in counseling psychology, she wrote a book or two and wrote this great posting on the Powell’s Book blog. Oh, and if you don’t click on the link, at least know that she is reading at Powell’s on Wednesday at 7:30.

• Didn’t read this online originally, but it’s interesting. It’s about Google. Obviously, there’s a bit of a spin from the author to make it read a certain way and be entertaining, but it makes one think. At least it made me. Made me think about how maybe the real evil bastards in the world society might be the CEOs, board members and all higher-ups of big corporations. Or at least maybe we should look into what’s happening and what the future holds a little more by examining what’s happening at that level and not just worrying about the Kim Jong-il’s and Saddam Hussein’s of the world. Oh yeah, I used Google’s search engine to look up proper spellings.

Ok, I’m done.

Contrast

I am an ignorant, unhappy man. I am a manipulator, dishonest, unworthy. I don’t read the news. I will probably not vote. I do not have interests or passions. I sometimes reflect on my lack of interest, but get bored and forget about it. I don’t know what my life is worth, what good it is doing anyone or why I am here. I don’t have a good reason not to be. I exist. Maybe that is all. Maybe I am just like everyone else, sitting here existing, and that is all there really is to do. But that’s not what I learn from talking to others, from watching TV, from reading books, from the elapsed time from my date of birth until now.

I am a happy person. I attract other people to my goodness, to my honestly. I am in touch with myself and with others, with this flow of life, understanding some bit of it. Other people see this. Maybe I glow. Some people bask. Some people use, taking advantage of me because I am strong and kind. I can see what is, or if not I have an inkling of what is, or if not I am able at least to know that there is something that is and there are many things that are not. Everyone wants to know what is, to be it, hold it, to be happy, complete, and full. Do we all chase what is not and think that it is what is, unable to see the truth, not knowing or taking a break to stop and look? Who is happy?

May I throw up on you?

Man, I decided I needed to write something here just because I can say whatever I want. I keep restricting myself to saying certain things or a certain format. On my daily adventure blog (on the links to the right) I always try to do something creative and clever, and I’m worried about all the “rules” of writing fiction that I’m learning in class. I gave the link to several people in class so I’m conscious of what they might be reading and feel like I have to write a certain way. Everything becomes a subject I could write about, but is it offensive? Does that matter? Is it too revealing? Is it any good? I almost wrote something about my penis just now. I did, actually, but I haven’t published it … yet. If you love a good penis story, stay tuned!

I think I’m sort of sick of writing. I need to save it up to write my next short story or novel chapter for next week. It’s sad, too, because I have lots of interesting thoughts that I think about writing about, but I just don’t have the energy. It takes too much just to write these sentences about not having energy to write anything. See, I would never write drivel like this if I was being discriminating and worried about my audience, but I guess this blog is now verbal vomit writ in Times New Roman. Blah, blah, blah … blech!

Yesterday’s Adventure

Hi there. I don’t know if anyone reads this except maybe my ex-fiancee and random people off the street because nobody responded to my call-out. If my ex is reading, she should probably stop. It would probably be better for her. Anyway, I wanted to post a link to the other blog I started recently where I’m posting . . . well, you should just check it out and see. I called it Your Daily Adventure and the idea was that I would write about funny stuff I see every day. I haven’t been doing it as much as I intended and the focus is sort of shifting, but it’s still fun. It’s now a side-project for my writing class, my contribution to our shared literary culture as the teacher put it. I’ll add a link for it to the side of this blog somewhere.

I haven’t been writing here because I’ve been busy working on other stuff including the other blog. Not only that but the only known audience I have for this crap is my ex and I thought maybe I would just let it die and not write anymore. I’m also sometimes hesitant to write about certain things based on that knowledge of my audience, but fuck it, eh? God, I drone on sometimes . . .

I went for a kick-ass ride the other day and then again yesterday. Kick-ass because I’ve been able to ride for a couple of hours without being completely dead at the end and because I can feel that I’m getting stronger when I climb hills or accelerate. Yesterday was especially kick-ass because all sorts of crazy, funny things happened. It was a typical spring day in Portland, sometimes warm and sunny, sometimes cold and rainy. I have fenders on my road bike now and I got rained on before recently so it’s no big deal. I headed out with a plan to do a new route. In the process, I got rained on, pulled on my rain jacket, then it stopped so I took it off, then it rained some more, put it on, stopped . . . Typical. Something about inclement weather makes me smile when I’m out working in it or working out. I like feeling tough, I guess.

So there was the weather, and I almost made myself crash when my rain jacket hooked onto my handlebars while I was putting it on with no hands on the bars, then I got lost when there was a detour on the route I had planned, my bike got filthy from the rain and muck, and I ripped my rain jacket. But none of it mattered. I kept shaking my head and cursing under my breath, but I was smiling the whole time. It was one of those things where shit happens and sometimes you just have to laugh. It helps that I was feeling good on the bike, even though I’m getting over a cold that knocked me out for a few days. The things that happened are all typical of being a cyclist, too. It reminded me of plenty of other times getting lost by myself or with a riding partner, and strange weather always gets you at some time. There’s no use getting mad or feeling sorry for yourself. Instead, it becomes fun. I’ve always had that mentality and it served me well in the Army because I didn’t whine and complain when the going got tough, I just kept going.

I got home after my ride and I probably had a big shit-eating grin on my face when I told my roommate about it and how much fun it was, regardless of all the “setbacks” and that’s when I found out my jacket had ripped, but I just said, “Oh, well,” and kept telling my story. Maybe sometimes it’s better to keep the good vibrations to yourself. He interrupted me and said, “Stop! Can you hear yourself right now?” I kind of knew what he was saying, but I made him spell it out. He said something to the effect that my perspective was positive and that I wasn’t letting any of the stuff that had happened get to me, and that usually my perspective wasn’t so positive and I was a bit more pessimistic. Or something like that . . . Geez. I appreciate the thought, but don’t interrupt a guy when he’s feeling good to grab the Good and point at it, saying, “Look! Look! You normally suck, but this is Good!”

So he interrupted my flow, how I was feeling good, but I blew it off and kept on feeling it. I also thought that he didn’t really know me that well. Those “setbacks” are exactly the kind of thing that make me smile and shrug, and that combined with feeling good on the bike and enjoying riding again were responsible for the good feeling. He also doesn’t realize that deep down I am a happy person. I slip into melancholy and depression quite easily, especially for the last, I don’t know, at least five years of my life, probably more. But things are changing and I’m recognizing some of the old feelings again. It’s really good. I talked about it with my mom and she agreed, too. I’m a happy, joyful person. I love to be in the moment, to make people laugh, to make myself laugh with silly things. There has just been a lot of funkiness in my life lately, but I’m movin’ on and it feels good.

See-through me

I must be fairly transparent. It seems like people can see into the heart of me, through whatever walls I’ve built or the defenses I have. Maybe it’s because I’m being more myself, more comfortable, and it lets the sentries on top of the walls and men manning the defenses relax. Several times in the last month or so it has happened.

I bumped into my neighbor on the bus. I was on my way out of town, taking the bus to the Max, the Max to the airport, the rental car from the airport to Idaho and Utah. We talked for a little while and she got off the bus with me and walked over to the Max station. Along the way she told me that she sees me as a poet. Not that I write or speak in rhyme, but that I have a sensitive soul. Something about the way that she said it made me feel exposed and vulnerable, like she really was seeing my soul.

I talked to a woman in my class who shares her name with a famous city in Egypt. It was part of an exercise: we were supposed to interview each other and come up with a description of the other, especially one thing about them that we thought was a telling detail in that it revealed something about them which they didn’t explicitly say. I don’t remember what she said, but something to the effect that I am a sensitive soul, have a gentle heart and love to give. Something like that. She said that in class and I didn’t know what to think or do or say, so I didn’t do anything. But I did feel outed, somehow.

I met my roommate’s mom the other night. It was very brief. He had just picked her up at the airport and knocked on my door to introduce me. I said hi, we both remarked that we had heard a lot about the other and that was it. The next morning I was milling around the house and getting ready for school when she came into the living room and we started chatting. Right off, she seemed to have a sense of me, and more than that I have a big heart or anything like that, but like she had a complete picture. She knew about where I’d been, in a way, and who I was. She said many complimentary things about me and told me she saw me as a writer, or maybe on the radio or in commercials because of my voice. It was incredible and came at just the right time when I needed to hear something nice about myself. My one regret is that I can’t adequately explain what happened or what she said.

Somehow there is a connection between all of us. I think most of us aren’t aware of it the majority of the time, and if we were I can imagine it being like cords tying all of us together which we’d constantly trip over or not be able to move at all. But it’s there and when we’re open to it there can be a flicker and a connection in an instant between relative strangers and somehow we get a sense of one another and there’s a small exchange, even if only for the briefest moment. Then it’s gone and we go on about our day in the same way we always do, the same colors we see, the same feelings and things happening, but at least we can carry the memory of that connection with us and hang onto it until it happens again.

Calling out and Change

My attempt in a previous post to call out any readers of this blog failed miserably. I ask myself, What do you expect? Do you really think badgering the witness is going to get you the response you hope for? Instead, I suppose the correct technique is to write gorgeous prose or political statements about something people are interested in. Write about what people believe or want to. Write a post full of tags that people might search for on the internet so they find your blog (kidding).

I haven’t written much here because I’ve been too preoccupied with reading and writing elsewhere. I think I mentioned before that I’m in a writing class. The largest task so far has been constructing a short story but I did it, it’s been critiqued by the instructor and my peers, and now it’s time to go over it and make revisions to turn in a second draft in a couple of weeks. I also need to work on a second story that will go through the same process and be turned in as the final. Been reading lots of good stuff, too. Not so much the works of my classmates (although they all have redeeming qualities and some are quite good), but the short stories that are assigned for class or the novel I chose to read for class or the stuff I’ve been reading on the side.

Life is good. I’m back to being myself more often and being okay. I’m fairly busy and that’s been good for me. My own philosophy of life is bubbling back to the surface and it feels like I’ve repressed it for so long. Portland helps draw it out. Meeting new people helps the experience as well, and the combination of this city and my desire to reach out has made it so I’m having some good interactions.

That’s all I’m really going to say for now. I have a new blog project that I started, but I will wait a little while before I make it public here for any random souls passing through to find and look at. I guess in a way it’s good that I don’t know whether I have any readers or not. It frees me to write whatever gobblydeegook I want and not be concerned about the content or writing for a specific audience. It’s just for me. ‘Til next time…

Post #47

I made a comment once on another blog I sometimes write for that I only write when I’m feeling down and need a place to vent, but when I’m happy and things are going well in my life I don’t need it in the same way and therefore don’t write as much, if at all. When I look at most of what I’ve written here, I would say that the trend is opposite that of my writing on that other blog. This is my shiny, happy blog.

What is the purpose of blogging? Why do we write the things we do in a place that is so accessible, where anyone can read it if they only know to look? Why not keep a private journal? Do we crave attention, secretly hoping that someone out there will find resonance within the words we write, within our experiences, our pains and our hopes? I know it’s writing practice for me, but it’s also a way to slowly expose more about myself to an invisible audience, to get comfortable with revealing my thoughts and some of my experiences so that I don’t mind even when I have an audience that is no longer invisible, so that I’m not ashamed of anything I am or think. I check my blog stats all the time to see how many times people have visited and what they’ve looked at. I’m curious about who is finding my blog, what they think, if there are any regulars.

I have to ask myself about my motivation to write certain things and to avoid others. The only person I’ve ever known to read the drivel I write is my ex. She used to comment, but only she and God know if she still reads this. It’s clear to me that I’m not ready for primetime. I don’t have the capacity to expose myself like a true exhibitionist, even if I apply a “fictional” tag to what I write. Maybe I can gain courage through interacting with you, dear reader. Are there any? Are you out there? Oh, send me a sign. Better yet, avoid devil-worship and divinity equally and just leave a comment here for me to read. Maybe I will be more brave, more able to show myself and lie exposed if I see examples.

What the fuck am I talking about, you may ask. Sometimes, old chum, I honestly don’t know. It all goes back to the subtitle for this blog, which doesn’t show up with the current theme I’m using: Sometimes high-minded rhetoric – the rest is crap. (This is just a label.) Oh, so self-deprecating, so witty. So is the title of this particular posting. Very original, it is. I wrote most of this the other day and saved it as a draft. The title is what it was saved as, so I guess let’s celebrate it as an anniversary.

What is a writer? (Did someone mention the need for a segue? We don’t need no fucking Segway.) I never claim to be a writer. I sometimes write, but it’s mostly shite like this. But now I have to write a short story in the next two weeks. Two weeks! I haven’t written anything that can really qualify as fiction for a decade or more. Bloody hell. Anyone have any great story ideas?

Impression of UAE after a few weeks

I originally wrote the following on January 8, 2008:

People keep asking me, “So what do you think of Abu Dhabi?” That’s made me really think about my impressions since I’ve been here and try to come up with something coherent. Usually I respond, “It’s . . . interesting . . . crazy . . . different . . .” or some other disarming word that leaves the questioner with nowhere to go. I don’t want to give them my real thoughts or offend anyone. I haven’t loved it since the beginning, but part of that may have just been jet lag and the circumstances around my arrival.

Really, I find it awe-inspiring, beautiful, dirty, extreme, restricting and easy. I’m pretty annoyed about some of the people that live here, but I’m struggling to ensure that that feeling isn’t just resistance to anything different. I never thought I was that kind of American. I’ve always had a dislike for things about my own country, so I’ve gravitated to other cultures and an understanding that there are a lot of difference between people on this planet, but that doesn’t mean that one way of doing things is better than the rest. I was overseas more than three years when I was in the Army and I always enjoyed it and thought I had an appreciation for the different cultures and peoples.

Maybe it’s been too long. Maybe the surroundings here are too opulent. It doesn’t feel dirty and real enough to me. Most of the people here are expatriates. A small percentage of the residents are nationals and account for the majority of the wealth. They are all entitled to a piece of the country’s wealth and seem to lead privileged lives. I imagine the way they feel might not be dissimilar to the elitism of whites over blacks or the Nazis over Jews. That may be extreme, and maybe the feeling I have is just backlash from having been reduced in status from a white American to something less here. Of course, I could always choose to look down on the Indians, Pakistanis, Filipinos and other ethnicities that make up a lot of the working class here, particularly in service industries. (I have to qualify that by saying it is a sort of joke, a mockery, and completely outside the realm of what I am actually capable of. Besides, it’s not a solution.)

It also seems like rather than choosing to work smarter or harder, here the choice is just to pay more. In fact it seems like there is a lack of common sense about business and development decisions here. Because there isn’t a need to worry about cost or scale, they don’t take time to consider some of their decisions or impacts. Yesterday I met someone who works for the local government in the area of urban planning. He was reviewing a proposed development that will become a city of nearly 200,000. It may be well designed, but it is planned for construction in the middle of nowhere. There isn’t a need for housing or development where it is being planned. He quipped that rather than give them any guidance about particulars of the plan he would like to tell them it is a bad idea from the ground up, but doesn’t know how. There’s another settlement being planned outside of the city and away from any other urban development that recently got approval to build up to 40 stories tall. There’s no need for it since there is plenty of land available around it so space isn’t an issue, but they insist on building big and expensive here.

Again, maybe this is all just my Western perspective having difficulty understanding something different. I guess time will tell, but other people that have been here for a few years still talk incredulously about things that happen here every day, and many of them are from countries other than the US.

I think I gained a better understanding of Abu Dhabi and the Middle-East in general after another two months spent in country, but a lot of what I wrote above remains true, especially at first blush, the glancing at the surface without seeing further into the depths. I won’t elaborate now, but perhaps in the future.