I don't communicate well.
I mean, I arguably write well, but that's not actually communicating.
I mean technically it is but this is actually proving my point.
You know I love. I love strongly and deeply and completely. There is not a person in my life who I don't feel some love for. Even the ones I hate. Especially the ones I hate.
I'm even in love with several of you. And it's all fake kisses and cowardice, bad timing and being the wrong person. It's fairies and butterflies watched through stolen eyes. It's angels made of earth and meat reached for with claws of bone but never touched. Souls dancing the most temporary and therefore beautiful of moments.
The above is an example.
We don't speak the same language you and I. I learned yours. I do everything in my power to do so. I try so very hard to. I generally do.
I've been told I'm hard to understand. That I don't talk or am passive aggressive. I've been made fun of for word choices or autoresponses I use. I'm not speaking your language. I can understand yours but I can't get you to understand mine.
Well... sometimes. Kind of.
My constant use of metaphors isn't an attempt at poetry. It's literally how I think.
It's entireties.
It's paradoxes.
It's fantasies.
Feeling and thought and metaphor and image aren't different. They're all a colossal web of intertwined meaning. It's madness and imagination crashing in waves. It's fear and love, pain and pleasure, joy and sorrow blended into a paste filling my skull.
But how do you translate that? So much of it is intuition and energy. It's spirits and goblins and golems. It's a fairy tale played out in real time. The reality of reality is sideways.
And you ask me to explain what that means. But you don't speak the language. You can't examine it with the lens require. How could you? How can I tell you the smell of your joy? How can I tell you the fire you ignite with simple words? How can I when you can't feel it burning in your hands?
I am Madness.
I am Shaman.
I am the construction of an age that never existed. I'm pieced together from pieces I've stolen from all of you. I'm welding together through naked will and a handful of poisons in tiny capsules on my shelf.
Talking can be hard. Because it takes so much energy to translate. And I prepare myself for every possible way you'll react. I'm never entirely right or entirely wrong. But it means I have hurt people. A lot.
I've ghosted.
I've cut deeper with silence then I ever could with knives.
I've come across as passive aggressive because I am so deeply frustrated with myself and my inability to process or communicate so I stop talking or ignore my own needs.
I hate it. But I can't really change it. I know cause I've tried. Gods how I've tried.
I wish I spoke your language.
I wish I could be what you need me to be.
But I am a hurricane in people clothes.
I'm a beast following smells.
And I don't communicate well.
Thursday, August 18, 2016
Tuesday, August 16, 2016
Ramblings
I'm writing this purely out of jealousy.
A feeling that is generally so rare for me that I don't know what it feels like. It is not one of mine my prime motivators. It's something I generally have contempt for on the deepest possible level.
And yet... Here we are.
A dear friend wrote some pretty words. Two days in a row he wrote some pretty words, and as I read them I felt the words welling up in me.
But they are not pretty.
They are words about transmuted flesh and the severed hands of God.
They are rusted iron knives and axes made of stolen bone.
They are carapaces of jade hiding the madness bloated wreck of what should have been a heart.
They're words about love. About a play. About the pain and expense involved in survival.
I fell in love. As I usually do. Warm feeling slipping in the cracks in my armor. Someone who made me not just want to be but feel like a better person.
I wrote a poem for them. But I didn't show them. Not really. I threw it into the digital tide. I hurled it into the ether. Because I wanted them to see it, but I was too cowardly to show it. Something that should have been fake, was fake, had suddenly become terrifying, heart-wrenchingly real.
Love is easy. It's cheap and fast and overwhelms like the salt in those enlarged fries that you know you don't need but bought anyway. But you'll always come back. Cause you're hungry and love is food.
What's hard is everything else.
Logistics. Attraction. Relationship. Homemaking. Scheduling.
That's the rub. That's where it all falls apart. And the last one Compatibility.
That's the kick in the teeth. That's the severed hand of god.
They are earth and horse and flowers.
Whilst I am a hurricane of rusted metal and jagged bone crammed into a defective meatsuit.
I am ever so slowly exploding. I have little more to offer than madness and love. And that will never be enough.
And that's okay. It'll all be okay. Cause one way or another...
We're all just stardust in the end.
A feeling that is generally so rare for me that I don't know what it feels like. It is not one of mine my prime motivators. It's something I generally have contempt for on the deepest possible level.
And yet... Here we are.
A dear friend wrote some pretty words. Two days in a row he wrote some pretty words, and as I read them I felt the words welling up in me.
But they are not pretty.
They are words about transmuted flesh and the severed hands of God.
They are rusted iron knives and axes made of stolen bone.
They are carapaces of jade hiding the madness bloated wreck of what should have been a heart.
They're words about love. About a play. About the pain and expense involved in survival.
I fell in love. As I usually do. Warm feeling slipping in the cracks in my armor. Someone who made me not just want to be but feel like a better person.
I wrote a poem for them. But I didn't show them. Not really. I threw it into the digital tide. I hurled it into the ether. Because I wanted them to see it, but I was too cowardly to show it. Something that should have been fake, was fake, had suddenly become terrifying, heart-wrenchingly real.
Love is easy. It's cheap and fast and overwhelms like the salt in those enlarged fries that you know you don't need but bought anyway. But you'll always come back. Cause you're hungry and love is food.
What's hard is everything else.
Logistics. Attraction. Relationship. Homemaking. Scheduling.
That's the rub. That's where it all falls apart. And the last one Compatibility.
That's the kick in the teeth. That's the severed hand of god.
They are earth and horse and flowers.
Whilst I am a hurricane of rusted metal and jagged bone crammed into a defective meatsuit.
I am ever so slowly exploding. I have little more to offer than madness and love. And that will never be enough.
And that's okay. It'll all be okay. Cause one way or another...
We're all just stardust in the end.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Crazy
We don't like crazy people. As a culture mental illness makes us very uncomfortable.
I'm watching Fringe, because I'm on the cutting edge of cult shows from the late 00s, and there's a point where the main character starts to think she's going crazy. (If the spoiler angers you then just never talk to me again.) She fights against and is profoundly offended by the idea that she needs a psych eval. Her offense stems from the thought that she will no longer be trustworthy to those around her.
The mere idea that you are talking to somebody about your psychology will so shake the foundations of people's faith in you.
And this is from a show from 2008.
When somebody kills themselves or kills somebody else, it's the first thing we go to look at. "Yes they did a horrible thing... But where they crazy cause that would explain it?" Now, I do not mean to say that we shouldn't look at mental illness in these cases, because well it does explain a lot. However fixating on it. Stigmatizing it. Demonizing it... These things make it so much more difficult to fight.
We are, as a culture, looking at mental illness as a monster are however unintentionally telling the mentally ill are monsters. And when you tell someone they're a monster, you give them permission to be monstrous.
I work with the kids that have the real potential to be monsters. Like a B-movie priest or a Fairy Tale Paladin my job is to help them fight demons. Using compassion, understanding, and structure I battle their madness and hopefully let them become something more than the monsters they think they are.
I can only do this because I know how to fight it. And I only know that because I've had to fight it my entire life. I know what NOT to say. I know when to say the right thing, because I've been on their side.
I know what it is like to feel like a monster. To think that it doesn't matter what it is that you do. That you aren't strong enough to fight that part of you. Though I've never attempted it and never will, I know what it's like to contemplate suicide. I've kept my parents up with worry about me harming myself. I know these pains.
And there are moments when I've looked at the story of my life, added up the equation of what I am, intuit the effects of my life, and come to the clear rational conclusion that the world would be better without me in it.
Now I need to state again that I'd never go through with it. There are too many variables to accommodate for when I'm in that mindset. And for me it's never a strong enough impulse that a simple hiccup won't kill the desire. That and I'm never sure if I've earned my place in Valhalla yet. Can only die in glorious battle if you survive long enough to see that battle. I can't leave until I've slain many more demons.
But that's just me. It's not the same for us all. Some have harder fights. My personal demon is so very small compared to some I have known or heard of. Like the sad clown who so recently passed. I loved his work, and I see his passing as I would that of a comrade in the war I fight.
I did not know him, so I cannot truly mourn him. But I can feel for a moment that we fought the same fight. He was a casualty in a holy war. The war I fight everyday. And with any luck, will continue to fight for a very long time.
Sleep well Mr. Williams.
I'm watching Fringe, because I'm on the cutting edge of cult shows from the late 00s, and there's a point where the main character starts to think she's going crazy. (If the spoiler angers you then just never talk to me again.) She fights against and is profoundly offended by the idea that she needs a psych eval. Her offense stems from the thought that she will no longer be trustworthy to those around her.
The mere idea that you are talking to somebody about your psychology will so shake the foundations of people's faith in you.
And this is from a show from 2008.
When somebody kills themselves or kills somebody else, it's the first thing we go to look at. "Yes they did a horrible thing... But where they crazy cause that would explain it?" Now, I do not mean to say that we shouldn't look at mental illness in these cases, because well it does explain a lot. However fixating on it. Stigmatizing it. Demonizing it... These things make it so much more difficult to fight.
We are, as a culture, looking at mental illness as a monster are however unintentionally telling the mentally ill are monsters. And when you tell someone they're a monster, you give them permission to be monstrous.
I work with the kids that have the real potential to be monsters. Like a B-movie priest or a Fairy Tale Paladin my job is to help them fight demons. Using compassion, understanding, and structure I battle their madness and hopefully let them become something more than the monsters they think they are.
I can only do this because I know how to fight it. And I only know that because I've had to fight it my entire life. I know what NOT to say. I know when to say the right thing, because I've been on their side.
I know what it is like to feel like a monster. To think that it doesn't matter what it is that you do. That you aren't strong enough to fight that part of you. Though I've never attempted it and never will, I know what it's like to contemplate suicide. I've kept my parents up with worry about me harming myself. I know these pains.
And there are moments when I've looked at the story of my life, added up the equation of what I am, intuit the effects of my life, and come to the clear rational conclusion that the world would be better without me in it.
Now I need to state again that I'd never go through with it. There are too many variables to accommodate for when I'm in that mindset. And for me it's never a strong enough impulse that a simple hiccup won't kill the desire. That and I'm never sure if I've earned my place in Valhalla yet. Can only die in glorious battle if you survive long enough to see that battle. I can't leave until I've slain many more demons.
But that's just me. It's not the same for us all. Some have harder fights. My personal demon is so very small compared to some I have known or heard of. Like the sad clown who so recently passed. I loved his work, and I see his passing as I would that of a comrade in the war I fight.
I did not know him, so I cannot truly mourn him. But I can feel for a moment that we fought the same fight. He was a casualty in a holy war. The war I fight everyday. And with any luck, will continue to fight for a very long time.
Sleep well Mr. Williams.
Monday, August 4, 2014
The Hero's Journey
Over this weekend I say a film. A film that I absolutely feel in love with. It's a Gonzo Space Opera called "Guardians of the Galaxy". I know you know what that is. It's the one with the Tree dude and the Raccoon with a machinegun.
After watching it twice and planning my third and fourth watchings (SPOILER ALERT: I liked it) I read a series of articles talking about the show. Like you do. And one really stood out to me. In an "Art and Entertainment" article in the LA Times Steven Zeitchik states that Guardians is an example "Post-plot cinema". He asserts that there is no plot. Just a bunch of confusing stuff that happens. There's so much going on that you could not explain it to somebody else.
Now, I don't agree. But I think he does have a point. If you're looking for a clear Aristotelian plot structure or to be beaten over the head with the Hero's Journey he's dead on. There isn't a clear hero who's journey the story revolves around. Because it's not about any one character.
It's about the group.
This is a story about a group of head strong individuals who collide and become more than they could singularly be. There's isn't one character who the story is about. It's about all of them. And that's not generally something that this format handles well. Multiple heroes aren't well handled when you're trying to follow this structure.
Which for me highlights one of the issues with the thought that "All stories are the Hero's Journey". What I took from my study of it was that most of the great stories fell into this same structure. However, I have never believed that just because you can ramrod and hamfist every story into the structure that they are all "Hero's Journeys".
Now, I realize that many of my writerly friends will disagree. There is a worship of the Journey in many writer's circles that I think misses the entire point and at its very worst creates some truly soulless stories. The movie "Pleasantville" was a movie I truly loved, but the insistence at the end that he return from the "Special world" in the TV back to his mother felt pointless, disingenuous, and like the writer was actively catering to the Journey. It sincerely ruined for me a film that I otherwise truly loved.
When these plots come up as a natural extension of a well crafted story it's amazing and really does work well. However... many times a "well-crafted" story is overworked for the artform it relies in. We think of all movies as Hero's Journey's and so they all are. And we say things like "Love is the Special Realm" to make it all happily fit into the preconceptions.
I think that it's a powerful tool that everybody should learn. But, by the same token we need to write our stories and then look for the themes and Monomythic elements.
And sometimes just sit back and enjoy the story.
In summation:
I am Groot.
After watching it twice and planning my third and fourth watchings (SPOILER ALERT: I liked it) I read a series of articles talking about the show. Like you do. And one really stood out to me. In an "Art and Entertainment" article in the LA Times Steven Zeitchik states that Guardians is an example "Post-plot cinema". He asserts that there is no plot. Just a bunch of confusing stuff that happens. There's so much going on that you could not explain it to somebody else.
Now, I don't agree. But I think he does have a point. If you're looking for a clear Aristotelian plot structure or to be beaten over the head with the Hero's Journey he's dead on. There isn't a clear hero who's journey the story revolves around. Because it's not about any one character.
It's about the group.
This is a story about a group of head strong individuals who collide and become more than they could singularly be. There's isn't one character who the story is about. It's about all of them. And that's not generally something that this format handles well. Multiple heroes aren't well handled when you're trying to follow this structure.
Which for me highlights one of the issues with the thought that "All stories are the Hero's Journey". What I took from my study of it was that most of the great stories fell into this same structure. However, I have never believed that just because you can ramrod and hamfist every story into the structure that they are all "Hero's Journeys".
Now, I realize that many of my writerly friends will disagree. There is a worship of the Journey in many writer's circles that I think misses the entire point and at its very worst creates some truly soulless stories. The movie "Pleasantville" was a movie I truly loved, but the insistence at the end that he return from the "Special world" in the TV back to his mother felt pointless, disingenuous, and like the writer was actively catering to the Journey. It sincerely ruined for me a film that I otherwise truly loved.
When these plots come up as a natural extension of a well crafted story it's amazing and really does work well. However... many times a "well-crafted" story is overworked for the artform it relies in. We think of all movies as Hero's Journey's and so they all are. And we say things like "Love is the Special Realm" to make it all happily fit into the preconceptions.
I think that it's a powerful tool that everybody should learn. But, by the same token we need to write our stories and then look for the themes and Monomythic elements.
And sometimes just sit back and enjoy the story.
In summation:
I am Groot.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Sing Your Song Louder my Sisters
I'm not a woman.
I'll wait while you overcome the shock.
I'm also flamingly heterosexual and quite Non-Mormon. So my interest in the Ordain Women movement and subsequent ripples are somewhat... odd. If not outright bizarre. But, as an outsider both within and outside of the church I feel a kinship with these women that I cannot deny. They sing a song that speaks to me. Their pain and desire to be more a part of the decisions in their lives makes me wish to stand with them.
But this is not my fight. I'm a straight cisgendered male and generally some kind of pagan. But I have something I'd like to say to those who are in this fight. The women wanting to stand as proper equals, or the rejected men and women just wanting to be accepted for what they are.
One thing that he said was that "The Ancestors are hard of hearing." He then explained that that's why we have to sing louder and play the drums with more passion. We need to let them know that we are here and that we need their strength and guidance.
I'm mentioning this to you, my sisters of another Path, because you are doing the right thing. You are singing the song of your soul. If the ancestors are hard of hearing than perhaps God is too.
Scream out my friends!
Sing out your beautiful bittersweet melody, and know that though I'm not on the front lines with you, I'd fight with you if I my path lead me there.
You truly inspire me.
The church may not hear the notes. Your communities may not hear the truth of your psalm. But they are not for whom you are singing. Sing out my Sisters! Sing out my Brothers!
Because God is hard of hearing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)