Enemies

None of this matters, but I've written it already, so here it is.

I have recently purchased two books with writing prompts / questions. 
One book has 300 prompts in general, the other has 642 "things to write about me"
After flipping through the latter, I have learned something about myself (and at not even a quarter of the way through):

People - presumably "everyday people", not necessarily massive influencers or celebrities - have enemies. 

I deduced this from the multiple prompts surrounding the topic. In example: 
    *    Your worst enemy writes his/her memoir. There's a whole chapter devoted to you. How does it begin?
    *    If you asked your first enemy to describe you, what would she say? (bold of you to assume it was a "she")
    *    List three people you consider enemies. Why so?

This is insane to me.

Now, these books may very well have been created for far younger people. In this case, I will say, the enemy thing makes more sense. Because at this "far younger" stage, your enemies consist mostly of the sinister wanks who always stole the good swing and the kid who wore their hair like you at your tenth birthday party.

However! If these books were not created for a particular age range, I find all the mortal enemy discussion very peculiar. (For those wondering; here are some prompts that I feel may be slightly inappropriate for the youngster audience:)
    *    What fad of your youth did not live up to the hype? Awfully dramatic for a youngster. Then again, so are "enemies".
    *    What are your rules of physical attraction? Have they changed over the years? Pardon??
    *    Describe yourself at three different ages. Well, one must be at least three different ages before one is able to write about being three different ages. 

 And if the prompts' intentions were for me to reflect on "enemies" of my youth, then what would it matter who they were? What would it matter what they would say about me? Furthermore: are we looking for what they would say about me back then? I hardly think anyone (including, but not limited to me) would care much about what my old enemies - with whom I have had little to no contact with for years, now - would say about me today. 

I can honestly say that I don't spend much time thinking about the people who I don't particularly care for. I don't care for them. Why would I think of them on my own time? I may think about them when they are around me because, regardless of my personal opinion on someone, if a person is physically around me I will think of them. Sometimes just in the same way one might think about the desk they're sitting at. A light consideration for the stapler atop it, etc... I do not try to not think of the folks who I don't particularly care for, I just don't. (Unless, of course, these people / this person could have a dangerous effect on me.)

I think about ghosts more than I think about "enemies".

I've gotten away from the point: Do adult people (let's say... people 20 years old and above) still have enemies?

642 Things to Write About Me assembled by the San Francisco Writers' Grotto,
                                                introduction by Jason Roberts

Hometown Adventures: Coffee Edition

 What is this panic that sets in us when we hear the words "Limited Time Only"? 
(Finite resources and/or time, you say??) It's similar to the reaction we give when faced with that question: "What would you do if you found out it was your last day on Earth?"

The idea is to "make the most" of what you've got when you've got it. The branch-off of that being, of course, that you will do this before you find out you've only got one day left. But hey - nobody's perfect.

I would like to think I am not one who falls victim to this attitude; this "Final Sale, Everything Must Go!" / "Get it While it's Hot!" way of life. I will get it once it is lukewarm, thank you kindly. Once the angry crowds have gone and I have decided that is is, in fact, something I actually want. (You won't find me out in the thick of Black Friday, if you haven't guessed. Catch me inside my home, how bout dat.) This isn't an exciting way to live, but I like it better than the alternative. However!

Upon recent meditations of skipping town, I have somewhat changed my tune. Since the very first weekend of this month (my last month in my hometown), I have made the decision to take myself on little adventures. Instead of spending time at my favorite spots, I have finally decided to branch out and try new spots. (Coffee shops, mostly. No bars. I am trying my damndest to stay out of trouble until I get to my new destination.) 

I am attempting to take advantage of living where I do for as long as I do. And at a nice, easy pace (as is customary for any Taurus worth their salt). And there's really no pressure, as far as I can tell, because I can always come back and visit. And this collection of coffee shops is more of a mere suggestion as opposed to a bucket list to check off. I figure if I've gone this long without them, there will be nothing lost if I "miss out". There is nothing to lose, in my eyes. Only the possibility of hammering out some therapeutic blog entries and - God-willing - another couple of pages in my latest story. (I simply can't bring myself to call it a "novel". "My latest novel". Ugh. Downright ugly.)

My home-state has miles to go in the way of accommodating the hungry, plant-based citizen, but at least the espresso has been good. And coffee shops, as a whole, are typically very cool, low-key places to visit, so they are ideal for someone like me. 

Sensory Time:
A favorite day of mine, the whole experience. Getting up early without an alarm. Easing into yoga in the comfort of my warm bedroom. Doing some light research online to pick out a new coffee shop / cafe. Popping into my car, Jasper, with the music playing me over to the next town. Maybe the windows are down and the summer scents fill the car. Or maybe the windows are up, the heated seat is going and the changing leaves fill the scene. 

I arrive at a place where I am unrecognizable. I snag an espresso (and perhaps a vegan snack) and find my way to a calm little space where I can tuck into my book or my laptop. The sounds of clinking silverware and demitasse sets. The occasional laughs between the staff, maybe one of them starts whistling along with the quiet music playing. 

I love the feeling of possibility and promise of the early drive. 

Okay let's finish this up.

This is similar to the feeling of visiting The Met coffee shop in North Conway. I wasn't able to get there very often (other than taxes and doctor's visits, if you do anything sparingly enough, it'll become enjoyable. A special treat). So when the magical apex of being able to afford the time and money presented itself to me: I would proudly walk down to The Met. There is something inherently adult about taking a jaunt down to "the coffee shop" on your own. Some kind of easy, beautiful independence. Perhaps it is the 90's-kid in me: watching Friends and seeing too many cop films where (between Axel Foley bars) the characters would always just be at the cafe. At the top of the scene. That's where you go when you're an adult. It is simply what you do.

Hopefully, I will be able to bring this attitude with me on my next adventure. You can tell a lot about a place by its cafes.

Impending Journey

 I am about to embark on a journey.

This entry will not be my philosophical musings on a topic. This will be my page to empty my thoughts and excitement onto. Much like a journal or diary. I am doing this because I remember stumbling upon some old (non-blogged) journal entries in my old acer pro laptop. 

The intention: I was given this acer pro laptop by my friend, A, for skyping purposes when I decided to move away for a job. 

The result: I typed out my honest-to-goodness thoughts for the first time ever. Putting every ounce of faith into my laptop's ability to require a password. Also hoping that I was not so predictable that my mother might guess said password. It was the first time I had ever thought honestly out loud. It was incredibly freeing and just what the doctor ordered. Especially at the time. (Also, my mother and I used this laptop, a pair of cheap speakers and our neighbor's wifi to stream our very first episodes of American Horror Story. Again: a godsend at the time.)

Reading the aforementioned journal entries (years ago) was so fascinating - to properly get a glimpse of how I truly felt and thought and what I was actually going through. No mixer, no sugar rim, no garnish. Straight up.

I at least got a kick out of the little things. The things about the North Conway Experience that I had forgotten with time. There's always something you forget. Some of these things are not written down / logged and are forever lost (and maybe that's okay / for the best). For everything else that was written down; I got to experience that ever-cool "Oh, that's right!" feeling. Many people might do this via photographs / albums. I move a lot (leaving little to no place for sentimentality in physical form) and am dreadfully uncomfortable with technology / the ever-dreaded phone switch-over (it only takes one bad experience to forever assume there is no safe place for photographs & playlists). And so, I write. In a laptop. because all it takes is: Charge laptop. Turn on. Enter password. Open doc. Write. Save. Keep laptop away from fire and water. Repeat. 

Now that I have changed the game a bit by adding my thoughts / journals to this site: I've got an extra step of back-up (if I am unable to keep laptop away from fire and water). If I need to purchase a new laptop: I can simply log on here. Of course there is the possibility that this site will somehow get f**ked sideways and/or the entire internet explodes, but this is less likely and also: if there is no internet, we've probably got bigger concerns than recovering my insightful and hilarious thoughts nine years ago on taxes.

Holy shit. Anyway. I am moving again. 

I am dreadfully excited about this. There are plenty of reasons why, but let's focus on the little things. This will be the first time I leave town without it simply being for a job opportunity. I have worked hard to tie up loose ends (and for everything else: I am finally allowing myself to let go and let god). It already feels like the smoothest transition I've ever experienced moving and I haven't even gotten to the moving part, really. It just feels different. I am simply drawn to the new place. There are no feelings of fear / irritation / panic / remorse / second-guessing... this simply is what I am doing and simply is the correct choice. There is no other option. Not out of desperation, but (finally) out of something more beautiful / organic / just downright cool. 

I have no idea what I am going to do down there for work, but it has never been an issue for me to find work (I recognize some of this is luck, but most of this is my absolute stubbornness and ability). I visited once and fell in love with the place. It feels sunny and safe, even when it's raining. It's beautiful and real. And not in that dollhouse-facade way that a resort might be or that North Conway absolutely was for its visitors. It's sustainable, not unrealistic. I feel comfortable there. Of course that could be the company.

My home town usually feels familiar and comfortable and controlled. Small enough to not be overwhelming. I understand it. Recently it has felt stale and uncaring and too familiar. Too small. Like a place I should get away from / the reason why I am not where I belong / where I should be. This place is starting to feel like the place I visit before finally going home. 

I am finally not devoured by worry of how this change will affect every single person who knows me. I have found - even for just briefly! - the sweet spot between being selfish and being wholly uncaring for myself. I have broken chains. It feels like that long joyride in your new whip. Windows down, arm out the side. Fresh, cool breeze rushing its way through your fingers. Sun warming your face. Killer playlist on blast. 

I would like to mention to my future-self: This last month was / has been rough. Friends / the community, the job, health / the pandemic. But it has been rough in a way that only solidifies that you have absolutely made the right decision. And a few sparkling gems were still to be found. A few beautiful people holding steadfast and/or a new person here and there left to surprise you in (simultaneously) the biggest and smallest way(s).

This is easily the happiest you have ever been.
So if things ever get foggy, I hope you find this entry and say "Oh, that's right!"

Being Good to Others vs. Yourself

 Is this a generational thing? Is it an adult thing? A human thing? Of this, I am unsure. What I do know is this:

It's complicated.

Forgive me if I have touched upon this topic in past blogs - I feel as though I haven't the time to check.

Picture this: you're in a bar with your buddies, some little puke comes up to your assemblage and spits some kind of nasty to one in your crew. It matters not if this is your best friend, sibling/family member, co-worker, casual friend, someone you just met... The instinct is to come to their defense, yes? Or in my case: catapult something you are convinced is scathing and hilarious (at least hilarious) at the offender. No second thought. It's clearer and more knee-jerk than instinct. Right?

Well why is it so bloody difficult to do this for yourself? In quite a similar / the same setting, even? Is everyone this way? Because I am nearly certain the majority (if not the entirety) of the company I keep feels the same way. Is it because we have a higher opinion of our loved ones than we do ourselves? Is there something in the back of our minds telling us that we do not deserve the back up that our loved ones certainly do? Or is it just that jarring to everyone when trouble comes our way that we will nearly always freeze and be unable to say anything for ourselves? This would certainly afford the air time for our friends (anyone, really) to say something / "come to our rescue".

On the other hand (you knew this was coming), if I was only able to stand up for myself and not others, I would surely whither away and die. If the missed zing opportunity didn't get me, the guilt would. This would also portray me as a coward. Something I actively am afraid of being! HAHAHA (had to). As for the other scenario: I would - at worst - be portrayed as the victim.

Ahhhh!!!! The plot thickens!

I hope I am absolutely not onto something, as it would make me positively ill to know that there is a very influential part of my subconscious infinitely fiending for a chance to be the victim. Although, for the record: I have to admit that it would be logical / make sense / is certainly a possibility.

It could be something as simple as: we love our friends more than we love ourselves. / We are more protective of our friends than ourselves. Which sounds noble and romantic but, in reality, could very well be unhealthy and problematic. (Unhealthy & Problematic: a low-key, low-angst E-girl / Indie crossover band for the ages. Or something.) But since balance is hardly ever - if ever - perfectly achieved and is arguably subjective, I suppose I would rather err on the side of friend-protecting than the other way around.

A Fate Worse Than Death

***this entry is heavily opinionated AND regarding sensitive topics AND is discussed in a possibly insensitive way and should not be viewed by anyone.***

Why does it feel as though our human society views death as this awful thing? More specifically: that literally anything would be better than dying / being dead?

Let's go through some examples (in other words: I don't agree and here's why):

Most of us have been taught / fascinated / horrified by remedies from days of old. One of these horrific remedies that truly sticks out to me is the lobotomy. For those of us who need a refresher: 

lo·bot·o·my

/ləˈbädəmē/

Learn to pronounce

noun

1. a surgical operation involving incision into the prefrontal lobe of the brain, formerly used to treat mental illness.

   "there was talk of performing a lobotomy"

First of all: if there's any talk of performing a lobotomy in your general vicinity; run.

Essentially: starting in the mid-late 1930's in the good ol' U.S. of A., civilians were coerced to get "fixed" by way of "professionals" jabbing them in the brain with a tiny, metal rod. Well, I suppose "tiny" would be in the eye of the beholder when the time comes to actually shove it - quite literally - in the eye.

Regardless. This lobotomy had quite a popular stint because EVEN THOUGH one would absolutely lose one's personality / artistic inclinations / sense of humor / anything and everything that made them inherently them, it was considered a better fate. A fate better than being (what people considered) unwell, I mean. And we can gab alllll day about the disgusting details of what was considered "unwell", but that is not what I have come here to ponder about. What I am trying to get at is this: 

Lobotomies essentially killed the individual it was performed upon. And yet if the people performing these lobotomies were asked why they didn't just kill the "unwell" / put them out of their misery (if they were going to treat these "patients" no better than livestock, you might as well come full circle), they would likely faint. For some reason, it was ingrained in everyone's mind (until the lobotomy, ha ha) that there was no contest; it was not an option to kill anyone, kill one's self, even have suicidal thoughts, but it was an option to have a bunch of mindless, empty, vanilla-mc-plain-wrap bodies droning around these Leave-it-to-Beaver 'hoods. 

Perhaps this was a rocky start. A squiffy example. Let us proceed with a slightly different slant:

It's just like our infinite battle against aging, or never-ending search for eternity. For some reason, even when individuals become catatonic, never to scientifically completely return again, modern medicine absolutely refuses to let anything natural happen. Now I have never been catatonic, so my opinion on this doesn't matter. But my opinion is that if I became somehow so mentally / physically traumatized that I completely lost any version of myself that I had ever been / ever wanted to be, I would rather not exist. I would pull the plug, myself, if I could. The day I suddenly need round-the-clock care, lose my independence / freedom to make my own daily decisions, am unable to freely and creatively think - the day I am no longer able to write creatively in the fashion I love to due to this fancied head-trauma is the day it's over, Rover. 

I know, I know; this is a slippery slope: should we take little Johnny out back and shoot him if he ever should break his leg or fall ill? In my opinion, no. This isn't even semantics. Because presumably little Johnny would still have his same personality and passionate drives (unless he is the world's most sinfully dramatic child).

Dear legal caretakers: If you have convinced yourself that I am able to communicate: ask me if I wanna live or not. If I am unable to communicate: feed me some arsenic pie, kill me off real quick and painless-like and let's call it a day, eh?

Anyway, just thinking.

Additional thoughts:

1.    human instinct to have hope: but what if this is the one case where the person does "pull through"?
2.    human inability to "let go": i'll just wait for another week, i'm just not ready yet
3.    some kind of religious influence: ...i don't have an example, actually, i know very little about this
4.    societal influence: doc: "if i let them die, i have failed!" patient's fam: "killing is heartless!"

These all just sound so bloody selfish. Who does this person's life belong to?? Why is this person not weighed in on the formula of reaction / when trying to figure out what to do with person's empty body?

Ugh.

Intimidating vs. Intimidated; who's at fault?

 I have been told I am intimidating to talk to / approach about certain things.

I know. I was shocked, too.

I have painstakingly built myself (ever-growing, of course) to be kind to others. To be certain I am approachable by being more accepting, less judgemental, good-humored, open-minded as my little brain can muster and try to be forever-patient. Because this is what I would want in a person who I had to break news to, who I had to ask hard questions, to whom I needed to help with a personal issue, etc... Turns out everyone is different and the person who I need may not be the person you need. 

(I'll grab the EKG.)

So while I am certain that I have succeeded in creating/becoming the easiest person in the whole entire universe to tell something to - to approach - in reality all I have done is create the easiest person for me to talk to. Which, if you think about it, is really nearly just as useless (if not arguably moreso) than not creating anything/wasting my time with this silly little project whatsoever. I don't need to talk to me - I'm me. I need to talk to others, if anyone. And vise verse. But if everyone is different / needs a different unique combination of things out of me, how am I to know what things to be? How am I to choose? Better yet: how am I to be everything?

Is it even my duty to be everything to everyone / anything to anyone? Well, in my opinion: no. First of all that's impossible. Second of all, I feel as though this is one of those Life Choices scenarios where you choose what to put your energy toward. And no, just because you are not dedicating your time / making it your entire life's worth to be something to a number of others, that doesn't mean you're a bad person. Well, it might mean that some others think you're a bad person, which is valid... I guess it's time for a well-placed "who's to say?".

What I am pondering on - whether I get an answer or not - is:

If someone feels as though they need to talk to me about something but they are too afraid to / find me too intimidating to do so: is that my fault? Or the other person's? Does it even matter? (Of course it doesn't matter, not really, anyway. But I'd still like to know.)

If it was the other person's fault, it would be because they - essentially - made a decision to not ask me / tell me whatever it is they felt they originally had to. That they were - in some capacity - unable to do so.

If it was my fault, it would be because I didn't make myself available enough to the other party. I was not considerate enough. Being considerate is very important to me. It is also a slippery slope. It is also one of those things that others will likely chastise you for not being as well as for being "too considerate" / a people-pleaser / what-have-you. It is also - as I have said - completely and entirely unimportant to know where "the fault" lies, on this one. Partially because it is mostly an opinion-base, partially because there are so many seemingly bigger things to worry about / focus on, etc... 

But that is the fun of having an OCD-mind: you fixate and you take infinity to process and it is all due to an unbridled need to know if something was your fault / if you were the one to blame. That way, you can not only loathe yourself for it for an inhumane amount of time, but also so you can work on it and correct it so that it (hopefully) doesn't happen again. 

Also: just coming from a spiritually-ever-growing being (human bean), I would absolutely love to keep learning and improving the person I am. And one of the reasons for the drive for exponential improvement is to ever-improve the company my loved ones keep.

The Trolley Experiment

 I have recently watched a hilarious and thought-provoking youtube channel podcast called "What you thinking, hun?" On this cast, the host presented the question:

    Let's suppose there is a train chugging toward a branch on the tracks - on the first branch: five people tied up. On the second: one person tied up. The train is rushing straight for the five people and they will surely perish, should the train reach them. Let's say you are in some kind of control room where you have the power to switch the train's direction and have it run over (and kill) the one person, instead. What will you do?

Now, first of all, let's get this out of the way: this is a sick question / supposition (not in the "tight, dude! sweet!" kind of way, but in the "oh, my godddd..." drawn-out, Mrs. Peacock kind of way). At first strike, I think "who has the time to think of these things??" but am immediately shot down from the thought when I recall the time my mother thought my OCD Rules were because I "had too much time on my hands", which certainly wasn't true. Then I recall any time someone (usually my mother again) will wonder how / why on earth I have come up with a certain thought / ponderance (not a word, but maybe some day it could be). It's simply because I think a little differently than that incredulous individual. No right, no wrong, just different.

And now that we've gotten that out the way: My next jaded-humanoid reaction is to be suspicious of the question-proposer and that there must be an inherently "correct" answer. That this person must be asking me this only because he has learned a riddle, found the secret-yet-in-plain-sight-answer and is now seeing if I pass the test. This reaction is gross, and I wish I didn't have it. It makes me feel stupid and like one of those people who have conspiracy theories just to seem clever when in reality they are a few shy and fight like hell to mask it. Sometimes sheep aren't the only sheep, eh?

So! Now that I've irritated and offended a decent chunk of people who are likely too insecure to digest most new information and/or thought due to their salivating need to find something to clap back at: Let's get to it, shall we?

As I understand: there is no right or wrong answer. This is simply a gear-turner, a social experiment, something of the like. And obviously this would be an incredibly unlikely scenario as well as one most (if not all) would be completely unable to prepare for. In other words: "You don't know! You weren't THERE!" as the control room person shakes a reporter by the lapels. 

I believe I would leave the handle alone (allow the train to run over the five). This is because - in my own, twisted, guilt-addled mind - one of my survival tools (living with detrimental disorders) is the strange and often inaccurate justification of my own actions and lack thereof. I have to make up my own rules or I will never make it to my next vacation (and I was planning on Hawaii!). In this specific scenario, I would think: "Well I didn't touch anything, at least I didn't do it" which obviously begs at least further argument. We all learned about sticking up for others in elementary school. See something, say something. But there is a fine line (with most things). Not to mention: I live a very active life of "Lesser of Two Evils". (I will keep smoking cigarettes because I like them, but stay away from hard drugs. Also, I will be polite when smoking and not blow it in other's faces / leave my butts on the foliage???) As such, I would argue that:

Me, watching something bad happen is less shitty than me making something bad happen.

To me, the number of people killed would make no difference in that scenario when we get down to the argument of consciousness. If a man killed one man on purpose, it wouldn't be "less bad" than him killing three. It's just "even worse" if he killed three. 

Of course, when you do get down to it - I feel as though the answers will simply come down to which strange self-soothing method you've come up with to clumsily justify yourself. 

Just Thinking.

***later edit***

I just realized - I never even got into the thought I had originally intended: Often times the individual being asked this question will ask: "who are the individuals tied to the tracks?" They will ask: "Is the one person tied my mother? Or a stranger? Are the five people tied criminals who committed heinous, unspeakable acts?" This is incredible to me. I did not have this thought and, upon further pondering, I must say; I don't think it matters. Sure, it may matter to you - it matters to me if my family is alive or dead more than it would, say, an unspeakably heinous criminal. But this mattering is closer to an opinion / subjective than it is an equalizer / deciding factor / scale-tipper of what is Right and Wrong. But perhaps the individual asking whether their mother is on the tracks or not is not interested in being Right / doing The Right Thing in this particular instance. In which case, I would say, is incredibly genuine / self-actualized of them. To realize (and admit!) so easily / immediately that they (realistically) would not give a flying fuck about the strangers on the track if it meant their mother was at stake / in peril. 

I must say, realistically? I may not be so righteous, either. Given the horrible opportunity, I would likely turn in favor of my loved ones. God knows I have in less-perilous situations.