Where Were You

I need to break free of my social dependence. Relying on others only results in getting hurt. Love? Trust? What of those? Elements of fantasy, they hold no bearings in the world of reality.

You abandon me. Every last one of you. In my time of need who raced over? Who came to the door armed with compassion and brandishing support? I stood alone. I broke alone.

Now I must stand
Alone.

I take comfort in knowing my strength of loyalty. But that comfort is overshadowed by my doubt in Humanity.

My folly lies in my own misplaced faith in others. I can blame but myself for my shortcomings. No soul promised me fidelity, no dusk promises dawn; it is assumed.

And in that assumption we die, cold in our abandon. Drowning in loneliness and sorrow, pressed beneath the weight of regret of unspoken words, you and I -not we- die alone.

To place confidence in another is to relinquish his faults and accept him for the one he truly is. When cowards dress as wolves we may as well cast our stones into our bowels, for to have one eat one’s words is bittersweet in victory.

Bracing for the Cold

It's a scandal to be indoors today, so I type this sitting as close to a sun-drenched window as possible.

Winter is closing in, slowly sneaking through doorjambs and permeating our jackets like a civet cat. I've been adding layers to my daily ensemble, from T-shirts and sweaters to thermal shirts, heavy hooded flannels, mittens, gloves, and scarves. Soon we will be experiencing the Turtle Days: when people bundle and layer all their clothing, tucking in their faces, hands, necks, and any other exposed body parts for fear of threatening bitter winds and sudden blasts of cold descending upon us from the pits and peaks of Evil. People tuck themselves inside a shell of wool, flannel, down, and anything else that may keep that precious body heat from escaping. Faces retreat behind fur-lined hoods, cable-knit scarves, fleece wraps, and the occasional ski mask. We may not see some people until spring. We shall learn to recognize our friends and acquaintances by distinguishing outerwear, "Dan has a red hunting hat with a burn hole from the bonfire last week. Laura has the black boots with the white polka-dots on them. The person inside the puffy down-feather coat with the brown hat is either Professor Liam or the girl who sits next to me in Biology." You never can be sure on Turtle Days.

Fortunately, today is one of those days where Mother Nature took pity on the state and decided to give us a fleeting glance of sunshine before we're forced to don our woolen armor and suffer the Gray Dome, where we lose the sun, the blue sky, and any hope of ever again being warm. Threatened by a Wind Chill Advisory, I ventured outside barefoot, in blue jeans and my pajama top, disbelieving such a blue sky could be harboring cold temperatures in its midst. As we all know, there's no better judge of how cold the weather is than your bare feet on concrete at 730 in the morning. Regardless, the Wind Chill Advisory lied, (an inaccurate weather report- such a shock, I know) as the morning, though chilly, promised to stay pleasantly mild, and well above winter-coat temperatures. I was more than a little excited.

I think some primal instinct felt this coming. As the weather changed, so affected was my mood. When the days were constantly gloomy, threatening snow (that blasted four-letter word) and wind at every turn, when the days got darker and shorter, my mood got darker as well. I was easily irritated, frustrated with everything, quick to judge and unsatisfied with myself, my life, and everything in it. Just before this beautiful rare day of days, my mood shifted. I was listening to different music, dancing around my apartment, laughing, wanting to go out, visit friends, meet strangers, find a park and go exploring. (Due to recent trail-attacks, my park visit has been placed on hold until I can find somebody to go with me.) Something inside me knew things would get better, and it calmed my brain and body enough for me to start enjoying life again. I hope I can get this feeling to stick around once the good weather stops.

I am not looking forward to winter. I find no joy in blistering cold winds, deep piles of sludge-covered snow, and falling on ice every few feet. I dislike shoveling my car out of snowdrifts, leftovers from plows, or the snow somebody else dumped from behind their car. Defrosting my car is not fun. Defrosting my hands and feet is not fun. That burning pins-and-needles tingle that my toes, legs, fingers, and ears endure is not a pleasant reminder that I was in the cold, but I am now, in fact, someplace warmer. Sledding, skiing, snowball fights, snowmen... these are all terrible terrible ways to spend the winter. How is careening down steep slopes with hardly any control or protection considered fun?What's fun about getting hard-packed balls of snow and ice launched at your face? What is fun about icy slush accumulating in the tops of your boots, the wrists of your coat, and the collar at your neck? What's fun about that slush melting to drip and wiggle to your already-cold feet and sending shocking waves of cold down your back? What's fun about layering all your jackets and sweaters to be warm outside, to come back in and peel them off in sweaty layers that pile up at the door because comparatively speaking, indoors seems volcanically warm? This is not winter fun.

Winter fun is roasting marshmallows over big cackling fires in stone fireplaces, wearing sweaters over turtle-necks, drinking cocoa and looking at the snow through window panes lightly edged with frost. Winter fun is playing board games late into the night with friends, then retreating to a hot shower and curling up under warm flannel print sheets. Winter is watching old home videos and laughing at that awful shade of lipstick, and languishing in the nostalgia. Winter is a time to get to know your friends and family again, to rediscover yourself. To spend time reading a book curled up on an overstuffed armchair, or to pull out the old vinyl record player and see if it will work again. I firmly believe winter is largely an indoor activity.

I must admit, there are the days when I dig through my closet for my beat-up old ice skates, or the days the pull of nature overwhelms my dislike of the cold. Winter hikes are amazingly beautiful, still, and sparking, with crisp air and the feeling of being connected to the silence around you. Beaches in winter are beautiful. The water is stronger, the air heavier, and without the conglomerate of beach goers and sun-seekers, a rather tranquil place.

Today is a gift, sun-drenched and coat-free, with colder days lurking just beyond the brilliant blue sky. I intend to enjoy today as a tribute to the warm days, and I hope to look to tomorrow as an invitation to experience the winter wonder, instead of loathing the winter weather. Wish me luck.

Nov 3 is the day my dad died, and I'm across the state from him, my family, and anybody who knew me when he was alive. I'm terrified nobody will remember, like I'm terrified nobody will remember him.

Baby Steps

12 steps from the door to the stairs. 39 steps down. 17 steps to the car. A step forward. Two back.
167 steps out of the garage. 82 to class. Elevator- 4th floor. 19 steps to class.

Step, step, step, step.

326 steps to lunch. 8 steps in line. Smile, thank you, have a nice day. Step away from the counter. Step back, step back.

7 steps to the trash can- Lucky me. 0 steps to feel alone.

Step on, step on.

The Things We've Lost

I am losing Things. I am losing Autumn, I am losing music, perhaps even myself. I had originally though this idea to be quite liberating; now I'm not so sure.

Autumn used to be the season for magic, for crunching leaves, great round pumpkins filled with slimy strings and seeds for roasting. The air felt new, and it made me feel new too. Autumn forgave the other seasons for their harshness, and it forgave me too.

I am losing Autumn. Some force has taken it from me. The magic has gone. The leaves, usually brilliantly boasting Autumn hues, appear drab. The sky's infinite blue seems vastly empty. The wind does not feel new, it feels cold. I do not feel forgiven.

Music has served as my safe-haven for over a decade. No matter what emotion I faced, what struggle I was fighting, what task I was approaching, there was something to match my mood, my strength, my fear. Music has been a friend to me when no friends could be found. When i was confused, not sure even what it was I was feeling, I could find music that comforted me, and it allowed me to look backward and figure it out. Music was my fortress, shield, sword, tower, and dragon all in one.

Now I sit in realms of silence. I am no longer perpetually ensconced in music. My radio is silent, my playlist blank, instruments untouched. I don't even sing in the shower any more. More than my world, music has left my being. I don't feel it inside me anymore. In past postings I have made several mentions to how music affects my person, how my mood is altered or defined by music. And now there is silence. I grow restless with all stations on my radio, my computer, and my repertoire. I've mentally pushed "Stop" on my musical inclinations.

Perhaps that is how I've come to lose myself. The world around me holds no magic, no forgiveness, and without music I have nothing to grasp or relate to. I cannot find gaiety in my days, and therefore I cannot find any satisfaction in who I am. I've lost myself. I cannot distinguish my own thoughts and actions from those around me. I have no definition. I'm not a blank slate, instead more I am a faded slate- the defining features are still somewhat present, but no longer distinguishing who I am, a sort of tribute to who I was.

I'd once thought that losing one's self must be a liberating experience. A second chance, a way to rebuild one's self the way he should be, to discard or add traits and qualities, to sort the good from the bad, to weigh one's components and start anew. Unfortunately, this is not quite the experience I have encountered. Losing myself is possibly one of the most hauntingly tormenting things I've ever experienced. It changes everything, from sleeping habits to dietary choices, even the temperature of the water in my outrageously long showers.

I've always been good at losing things. I routinely misplace my keys, cellular phone, paperwork, books, and occasionally, my sanity. But now I'm starting to lose Things, and these Things matter. Somehow I have the feeling they won't turn up under a sofa cushion or in a drawer.

When you're more than frustrated, sad, or hurt, when your heart is sinking and your soul is screaming and writhing within you- do not worry. Breathe deeply, gaze upward, and think of nothing.

My patience is wearing thin,
As is my confidence.
But what to confide?
A fear, an insecurity. A wish.

To confide one's self to another,
To be seen wholly,
Faults and follies
Amidst one's triumphs.

If confidence reigned supreme,
I'd surely fail among the floundering.
Patience, though a virtue,
Does not come quick.

To be patient or confident,
Neither becomes me.
I walk the shadows,
My head bent in social submission.

Success, by definition, is a favorable or desired outcome. To succeed is to accomplish something, to achieve something. To make ones self worthwhile.



I am quite successful in the fine art of failure.



At an age where most of my peers have degrees, jobs, and families, it goes without saying they have long since left the nest. I, however, am living at home. With my mother. I have a minimum-wage part-time job I dislike, I dropped out of college my junior year, and I have a dog whom on most occasions is my closest friend.



I would chew off my own arm to go back in time. I laugh it off, play it off, calling myself, "a professional drop-out," and making empty promises to go back when "I know what I want to do with my life."



I am not a risk taker.

I want to lie on our backs and stare at the infinite beyond, watching stars glitter and planets shine. I want to feel the grass at my toes, your arm beneath my head; the heat from your body in contrast to the night air. We'd follow sattelites and airplanes, try to guess where they're both going.

What's in a rainbow? Of course, we all know the basic science of light and water vapor, and what happens when the two combine in ideal circumstances. But what do people see when they look in rainbows? Bands of color, streaking across the sky in every hue? Songs from Kansas, OZ, and Jim Henson? Wishes, promises, dreams, memories?

I see a little girl. She can't be older than six, in a striped-print sundress and pink plastic sandals. Her hair is the tangled remains of the morning's spiral curls, tousled and disheveled from wind and play. She is skipping along an evening parking lot, the summer light giving way to the bright iridescence of moonlight. Even the breeze is warm, without a cloud or a raindrop in sight. She is not alone.

Holding her hand is a man like none other. Decades older, in jeans with holes in the pockets, and shoes he refuses to throw away no matter how badly the water seeps through when it rains. His wallet is a thick bulge in his pocket, full not with money, but loaded down with mementos and pictures of his family. A mustache that tickles when he kisses her goodnight rests on his upper lip. A denim Hard Rock Cafe jacket seems ridiculous in the warm summer air, but the theatre may be cold, and he has his daughter to keep in mind.

They are singing. Or, truthfully, he is singing to her. A song reserved for bedtimes or the occasional off-hand moment when it just fits, like her small hand in his. A song about rainbows and diamonds, stars and the moon. The little girl is smiling, excited to be out in the glorious night, tugging impatiently on her father's hand. Her eyes are cast upward, at the glittering diamonds he is singing about.

What movie they were going to see I cannot recall. But in that moment, the world made sense. She was safe, happy, and loved. She was not alone, confused, angry, hurt or sad. She was a little girl, happily listening to her daddy sing her a song.