the grinding of the wheel goes on

Brutal. Spent some time writing and doing edits on some of my chapters today and it's been tough going trying to find my voice. I see glimmers and sparkles of brilliance littered among boring old generic prose and I can't help but feel like my stories are a bit like a panhandler working a stream, sifting out the sand from the gold. I don't want my reader to have to do that. I want the reader to get caught up in a story that is consistent in tone and keeps them engaged, not having to work through the trash in order to get at something worthwhile, it should all be worth their while.

All of it.

But I'm stuck, going from second-person, to third to first and wondering which approach favors me (and my audience) most, and now I'm realizing that I have to take the first-person. My strengths are so obviously in first-person that I don't know why I am banging my head trying to write any different. And I realize that it's because of the audience that is making me so unsure of myself. It's not really personal when I'm writing to solicit attention. It's personal when I am writing to myself.

Then again.. it's the audience that matters more. Isn't it? I guess if art is subjective, it has to come from a place of meaning but at the same time, prepared for public consumption. I think of men like Henry Darger who achieved fame as the face of the Outsider art movement. He wrote a 15 thousand plus epic, along with dozens of paintings and have not shown or even attempted to sell any of what he's produced. It wasn't until he died when his small apartment was cleaned out, that anybody laid eyes on his work. Darger didn't write or paint for money, he did it for himself. He lived a humble existence, rooted in a fantasy of his own and he knew better than to capitalize on it.

Maybe he was embarrassed about it, I don't know, but I do know that people found it fascinating. Would they have been equally as interested had he formally presented his book and artwork? I don't know, and it's possible that Darger himself felt unsure of what he was doing. But he did it anyways, because he had to.

He wanted to. Other people be damned.

This dilemma has been a pervasive one for most of my life, where I have to choose between my own voice and the voice I use when I speak to an audience. Should I die tomorrow, maybe someone will come across this blog, my stories and will see a new me to appreciate more than the me I already am. I don't know. All I know is that I want to do good by what I do. Yet I still have trouble coming to terms with the idea of having a marketable product, because while I do have to eat, I don't want to see my work as being anything less than heartfelt. It's so hard to strike the right balance.

Anyways, I wish I could write a book that would be well-received in THIS voice. The one I am using right now. I like how I write these blog posts, where I am honest and forthcoming and not too worried about any adverbs, descriptive paragraphs, subjects, nouns, verbs, grammar mistakes.. It's so easy and effortless and it brings me a welcome relief from the rigors of having to write well enough to impress. I don't want to impress, and I know I don't have the technical ability enough to do it either, but I do want to share my thoughts and get paid for them...  It's such a mess going through what my head and heart has left for me to clean up. I guess I do want to impress people after all, but how? And how do I do it honestly without resorting to dance around for their amusement?

I don't know. I am such a contradiction. I love myself and hate myself equally at all times. I can't seem to draw forth the man I want to be and present to the world without some ugliness cropping up from inside. Maybe the ugliness is endearing in it's own way, but I am ashamed of it. I don't like feeling vulnerable whenever I pour my emotions out and yet, I need to take responsibility for them, which is not something I'm comfortable doing given how I seem to be in an endless tug of war with myself.

Well. Suck it up I guess. There is no other alternative but to keep hope alive.

Otherwise there's nothing left.

fly me to the moon

One thing I realized a few days ago that has persistently stuck inside of my noggin, is the knowing expectation of society for individual's to contribute. For some reason, I had come about to the knowledge that each of us absolutely has to produce something of value by our efforts in exchange for the right to survive. Whether it's working a hot dog stand, or writing a book, we are rewarded for our efforts and it is not an option to refuse this obligation of us. We are born into these expectations, of adding continual value to our environment and this realization really struck a chord with me.

Sure it seems obvious, common sense even, but I have never looked at a job in quite this way before. I have always thought that I was showing up at a certain time to perform certain tasks and off I went, without a look back. But now I realize that it doesn't have to be this way. I can offer the world value in terms of my thoughts. My ideas and writings each has potential in adding value to the world. I need to believe this more fully, knowing how much I loathe my job. I need to know that there are alternatives out there to how I make money, and writing is but one way of many.

But I have to write. I need to get better at it. Type, type type until these words coalesce into something I can market and sell. At the same time I think about the potential of earning a living from writing, I can't also but help think about how disingenuous it somewhat is. I don't like the idea of churning out a "product" where I share my innermost thoughts and feelings. I don't like the idea of charging people admission to my heart when I have it wide open, ready to receive whoever is interested in looking inside. I like sharing myself freely, I don't feel comfortable charging for it, but at the same time, this is really how the world works. You create something, you sell it. You hustle and connive and market and convince and conform, and cater to the demographic that you aim for and hope you get a reward.

Such monkey talk. I'd feel little satisfaction in having to press a lever to get a banana tumbling down the chute into my hands. I would rather... I don't know. I'd rather write for approval and appreciation. To know that my words were enjoyed, useful and contributed value to the reader rather than take advantage of them, leaving them to feel manipulated.

I don't know.. I guess I'm over thinking this sort of thing. On one hand, I know I have to write FOR an audience and not for myself as I do with these blog posts. But I would rather write for myself and let the audience determine itself. I don't like the idea of targeting a specific group of people, but rather ALL people who are interested are welcome to receive my words.

Ironic of me to write all this, being that this blog is completely private and unavailable for the public to look at. But I do have secrets that only I should keep within myself, and it is somewhat cathartic to let fly a burst of emotional energy through my writing.

That realization also, makes writing a novel tough. It's too structured. Too contingent on delivering a product of mass-appeal. It's too constrictive, too niche, too mainstream... I don't feel comfortable dealing with the dilemma of writing for fun, or for profit and I am trying to do my best to marry the two concepts together. To write for FUN and MONEY is what I am presently trying to aspire towards. I need to feel spurred on as I work on something structured, rather than feeling like a slave to it. I don't know if it's my lack of discipline in what I do, but I can't figure out my voice. My natural voice is in these blog posts, where I write without self-editting myself, where I freely let loose what needs release. I can't seem to find it in writing a novel.. I sort of have, but I don't know if that is the approach best suited to my needs.

It's a silly puzzle. Hopefully one day, I'll solve it.

regrets, I've had a few

Today I took it upon myself to write. I mean really, write. I had a copy of Stephen King's "On writing", Brenda Ueland's "So you want to write", my laptop, my tablet, my phone.

And I wrote a chapter. It was alright. Nothing amazing. But I was guilted into it by King's book who made me feel like if I wanted to write, I absolutely had to. Talking and thinking about writing only serves to prolong the frustration of not actually doing the deed, and I'm okay with that I guess.

But damn, after Jennifer blew off the pages I submitted to her over email a few days ago, I felt I really had to prove to myself that I could write something worthy of praise. Anything, and this sensation of wanting to prove her wrong carried over in my prose, which became a little more descriptive and flowery than usual.

Well, I think I made a dent but I don't think I've yet demolished the wall.

Looking over my blog last night after I posted, I couldn't help but see the same old me whining about the same old things for years on end. "I want to write. I want to love." and all the spiritual/religious talk of which I am still in fascination with to this day.

When will it ever end? When will my breakthrough happen?

I wrestled with the possibility earlier today thinking that I'm just not fit to be a writer. Even if I wrote a book, and I have, there is no guarantee of it being any good. And as I looked over what I had written in the past, I couldn't help but feel embarrassed about how inadequate it all seemed to me. Where was my centerpiece? My one chapter to show off to people? And I realized I didn't have this chapter, and that I've only myself to blame.

That is true. Only myself. If I want something badly enough, I need to push at it. I need to grit my teeth and buckle down and settle into the habit of pursuing a goal as doggedly as I can, no matter what is thrown at me. But I still get these doubts in my head. That I'm not any good. That it's a waste of time trying to pursue a career in this field and that my well of ideas is drying up.

I don't know what to think anymore. For so long I have held onto this dream of mine and I can't let it go, but it feels like I need to. I need to either surrender myself completely to what it is I want to do, or to give up on it altogether.

Writing this blog post, a small inner-voice squeaks out at me to keep going. To keep pushing on, but I can't help but feel like I'm an idiot for having once believed what I did. That I could make something out of myself, on my own steam and I find as the years pass, that the possibility of that happening is growing slimmer with each day.

A writer has to write. A football player has to play football. A musician needs to be playing his instrument, so why aren't I? Why is the goal more appealing to me to think about than the effort to get there? I mean I have to work at it. There is no other option, and a part of me feels like I've already gone over this before many times in my head and I realize that I am numbed to these self-criticisms. I am not spurred to write nearly as much as I would like and...

God damn it. Why bother? Why keep trying?

Those who keep trying, never fail. That's why.

I really want to believe that. I really need to believe that. If I can't write, if I have no talent to offer the world whatsoever, no meaningful commentary to share, then I am worthless. I have nothing. I may as well accept my place in line along with the mediocrity of the rest of us who work jobs that we dislike and indulge in trivialities, like getting drunk, so that we can forget about the dreams we have given up on.

I can't be that guy. But the temptation is still there. To surrender myself to fate and do only what comes effortlessly for me.

Thinking and dreaming.

Not writing.

Not anything else worth being practiced upon.

I am a dreamer caught in a nightmare of my own making.

And I hate it.

that which should not be said

Here we go. I've forgotten when was the last time I put up a new blog entry, but boy, am I way overdue for one.

In the past year, I have been stricken with a kind of intellectual disease, a religious fervor if you will, where I cannot help but consume all manner of religious and spiritual ideas to better realize the experiences I have had occur to me during this period. Everything from the Gnostic Gospels to Philip K Dick's thousand-plus page worth of mindfuckery entitled simply, "Exegesis".

I can't get enough. I can't stop reading. I can't stop watching documentaries on the subject either. It has consumed all interest that was once reserved for video games, flighty SF novels and films involving copious amounts of either gore, nudity or robots that shoot lasers from their eyes.

Because I am aware that this is the internet, I am reluctant to discuss the original impetus for this newfound motivation of mine to better understand my place in the cosmos. Not because I am afraid that someone will read this, but because I have reason to believe that there is something important going on with myself that needs to be kept private until I can first make sense of it. The internet never forgets, and while I do have the option of deleting past entries, I also need to be cautious in regard to data now being mined by the NSA and whoever makes up the Canadian counterpart of an intelligence-gathering organization. Should something ever happen, these words may come back to haunt me if there does indeed exist a database which has profiled me and added this blog to their repository. One can never be too cautious these days, and while common sense tells me that writing offline is what I should be doing, I cannot help but think that there is value in posting this on the internet. For some reason or another, I feel among my paranoia, a sense of duty and blogging these thoughts assist in realizing this. Don't ask me how or why or when, but it would not surprise me should at some point in the future, these words will be examined. Whether that will be to my benefit, or to my detriment, I can only wait and see.

It seems in 2009, a change occurred in me. I had experienced what is known as samadi. A Hindu concept of spiritual awakening where the subject becomes the object (at one with), and the ego gets pushed aside in receipt of a force that, in my opinion, could be considered as spiritual possession where your sense of autonomous direction gets pushed aside in favor of instinctual, or guided processes that appear to result in the appearance of coincidences resolving themselves within a larger framework. Or a higher purpose, if you should subscribe to the notion of pre-destination. It felt as if I was placed on a path that guided me towards greater understandings and richness of meaning, and throughout, I felt as if I were nothing but an observer to this guidance taking place.

In reading William James, "The Varieties of Religious Experience" I have come to skimming through much of the anecdotal of what is described, and instead delving into the meat and potatoes of James's conclusions on the subject. He puts forth criteria that is common among those having experienced a spiritual awakening, and I was none too surprised to find that I have met his definition of it down to each bulletpoint he has listed in this book. Now that I have affirmed the legitimacy of my experiences, I can only take it to the next step and ask myself, why? Why have I experienced what I did? While I am convinced I know of the reasons (according to what James postulates), I am not convinced of the external cause, namely God or some superior intelligence intervening on my behalf so that I could realize some form of divine wisdom which previously had been withheld to me.

I suppose the correct approach is to accept that it just happens. When one hungers enough for truth, it is shown and my bafflement is a result of asking for too much, all at once, where I cannot process it in the way I would like to. The human mind cannot contain the vastness of the universe. To know all that has ever been written, acted, or said. It is an impossibility for an individual to fully hold all that is worth knowing, within the limited properties of his mammalian brain.

Yet, it feels like I have realized truth. That I understand it, and that I have a duty expected of me to honor it. But I what I concern myself with now, is realizing how best to disseminate what I have learned in a format that is easy to read and understand.

So that leads into the book I have written. At the time, while in possesion of this "spirit" and being given heightened faculties and greater depth of perception; I had erroneously assumed the very best of what it was that I was writing, and to become convinced that these words were of extreme importance and had best be handled in as inconspicuous a manner as possible. I honestly felt that what I had written, would blow everything apart at the seams and that the reader would no longer be the same once my words pass into their eyes and into their minds.

Boy, was I ever a schmuck.

In reading what I have written, I cannot help but be both proud, and embarrassed at the quality of what I managed to exhibit. In all these years of craving to become a writer, I had at the completion of my manuscript, felt that this, at the time, was the very best of what I could do. That it had achieved what I originally aspired towards for the particular theme and structure of the story. A review of it, yielded holes and choppy transition. Lots of needless exposition and generally, a poor organization and understanding of the structure a good novel needs in order to become appealing to to the intelligence and imagination of both the reader, and the author. At the time, I was somewhat aware that this book wasn't perfect. I knew I could always go back and fix it up, smooth the rough parts over and that slowly, but surely it will come to as perfect as I could make it.

It has not. Six months later, it has its good and bad and I am at a loss for further inspiration enough to bring it up to the standards I would like to see it at. I am my harshest critic, and it pains me to think that I was able to suspend all sense of reason and taste on the basis that I was in "tune" with a higher power of some kind.

Perhaps I was. But it is this doubt that confounds me. Why is it that I accept the validity of my experiences, but not the result of these convictions? Shouldn't an enlightened person be able to write well? Shouldn't the book be immediately worth publishing being that I wrote it in such a heightened state of mind? What exactly was I experiencing, if not communion with the holy spirit? Or some spirit?

That is what troubles me at the moment, to accept the notion that while I did have something extraordinary happen, I cannot for the life of me understand why it was that the book turned out the way it did. It calls into question the possibility that I was not in communion with anything outside myself, but myself. Then should I accept that possibility, I had to try and understand the why of it. Why has my senses sharpened themselves? Why did I feel so grossly inflated in terms of perceptual acuity and if this was me responsible, how can I come to terms with it? How can I ever believe in spirituality, if I deluded myself somehow and that these experiences were not a result of some holy visitation, but a part of my mind that decided to flip some rarely-used switches and transformed how I perceived everything? How can I rationalize the irrational?

I suppose that is where I am at the moment. I truly believe that everything has a reason, and there is purpose in the minuscule and mystical ways of being. My faith pulls me one way, and my reason, another in this endless game of tug of war that I am caught up in playing. There is no resolution to be had and the struggle, the journey will always exist between truth and deception. There can be no confirmation of one side or another, save for what one's intuition accepts, and even that is a wild notion in of itself. To surrender oneself to intuitive understandings, is to risk loss of reason and rational behaviour. There must be a balance that I am comfortable enough to live my life with, and I am in the most uncomfortable place at the moment.

Throughout all my questions and doubts, I can only hold a few ideas sacred. Principles that can never be violated, and one of them involves that there is a God in the universe. A creator, and that it is my responsibility to be able to discover how it is that I relate to this being, and what role is expected of me. That, to me is inarguable. There is no doubt in my mind, that there is a greater intelligence out there that has created all of what we see and know. But what is my relation to it? What is my duty to it? And should I realize answers to these questions, what is my reward for placing trust in such a deity? Should I not expect a reward for surrendering my will to it? Because I truly felt as if I have, and the results were not as satisfactory as I would have liked them to be.

So then, what is the point? If all the faith I can muster, all the courage and strength in the world results in my living an unhappy, loveless life working at a job that I hate, then what good is having faith? Why should I persist in cultivating it? Why do I continue to keep trying, knowing that at some point, my efforts will be in vain?

No matter how hard I try, faith doesn't seem to make any difference other than to pull me further into doubt, into more questions that I feel apprehensive about finding answers for; and the ridiculous part of it all, is the idea that I still believe. I still believe, no matter what happens to me, I still believe that there is a God out there and that I am in his good graces somehow. Somehow.

Maybe I am only seeing the forest for the trees and that inevitably at some point in my life, my sufferings will be looked on as having been necessary for what it is that I want most out of this world.

Love. Just to love and be loved. Who the hell would say no to that request? Why would God? Why would I? And it seems that the more I struggle towards those two things, the more elusive they become, the more frustrated I get and the more hopeless I feel. Then I hit bottom, and I somehow pull myself out of the abyss using nothing other than faith, which is almost annoying in it's tenacity to latch on; and I go back to repeating the same patterns that I have been all my life.

The worst part of all this, is the awareness. The knowing. The shame and liberation that awareness brings has been of little service to me when at this stage in my life, I should have long realized the mistakes I have been making which has kept me from getting what I want.

What I need. And I am reminded of Buddhism, that all life is suffering and while I cannot help but agree and yet, I still believe it is possible to forge a better me out of these fires I have burned myself in. That against all odds, everything will be okay. Even if much of my life has proven little in the way of an evolving of perspective that directly benefits and improves my worth as a human being.

It's all such a fucking tangled ball of yarn.

Who else but me can fix it?

Who else but me.

Right?

the lies I live in

It's been a tough go of it lately in dealing with my depressive feelings and it's made even more so by my recent introduction to a new job.

There's something disheartening about being unable to connect with other people the way I used to. All smiles, jokes and laughter -- I was proud of the way I handled myself and looked forward to spirited conversation with the nearest person I could find.

No longer.

It seems like I'm chasing a ghost these days. The more I slide off the peak of my moods, the more I dream of the past, the more sad I get.

Because I remember how it used to be. In the same sense that a widower might, having lost the one she loved.

In a way, I'm grieving. On occasion I pound with balled fists upon the chest of my seemingly dead self, hoping to bring it back to life once more -- and it just lies there, motionless and looking up at me with these cold, dead eyes that I'm afraid to peer into.

I'm reminded at the moment of how much I love my melodrama. It's suited me well in the past. Both with writing and in relationships. With my ability to exaggerate, I was able to leverage it into a talent for story telling and it also functioned as a means to hone the edge of my feelings. I would feel emotion more intensely than the average person would, and I'd revel in that.

And that melodrama hasn't quite died yet I don't think. I see it in the words I am typing at the moment, words I've typed elsewhere and the occasional joke that escapes my lips all are drenched in this secret sauce of mine. I look at the topic title for this post and go, "huh. that doesn't quite pertain to what I'm writing about, but maybe it will reach that conclusion at some point."

It just seems like I thrive on drama and I wonder if in a sense, that has been my undoing. In addition to the continued deterioration of my capacity to hear other people well to hold a stable conversation without having to strain at their words.

But if drama is the problem I'm facing. That incessant need for wanting to make more of something than there really is -- then what would I end up being without it?

A soulless husk. A shell.

Wouldn't I be?

There's always something sad to remark upon when hearing stories of people who have reached great heights, whether personal or outwardly in nature -- only to have fallen down to a pit that they don't seem able to extract themselves from. Our society enjoys a good, poignant drama involving the human condition and I am a more guilty victim of this than it seems most are.

It's not that I care so much about the triumphs and failures of celebrities that I'll never meet who I read about on the cover of gossip rags while waiting in line at the grocery store -- it's that I care about the people that are close to me. Every one of their triumphs is a bit of a triumph for myself. Every one of their failures, is something that I feel partially responsible and saddened by.

I think some would call this empathy, and if that's what my condition can be described as, then I wouldn't argue against this particular bit of judgement.

Except, I don't know if it was just empathy that has sustained me through the best and worst of times. I think it was more than just sympathy for my fellow man.

I think it was something along the lines of respecting the natural order of things and believing in it enough to feel inspired by it.

I think I just had a lot of faith in the notion of there being a spiritual democracy of sorts that governed the world and interactions at large. That we vote unconsciously towards the world we want to live in and that a governing body would tally up these ballots and implement the change we wish to see.

But as I get older, I'm starting to doubt the existence of such a system being in place.

Maybe that's what depresses me most. Knowing that all the faith I might have in the world, is all for naught. That faith is nothing more than wishful thinking and that my sphere of influence is so minuscule that I may well be rendered impotent.

When I was a wide-eyed child looking upon this world with equal parts fear, awe and respect; there was a good deal of obstacles that stood in the way of this view of mine. That we are all one and the rules are fair as well as being open to negotiation whether it be through prayer, or devotion towards a particular cause.

In short, I thought faith alone was all I really needed. To believe in myself and that I wouldn't get fucked over for any of it.

Well, the years have eroded away such a naive notion and has left me with a great deal of uncertainty.

One thing I am thankful for however, is that I can still write down my thoughts in a fair amount of illuminating detail. I can still write. But that muse.. the muse is about as fickle as a mistress in the best of times and as conspicuous as a shadow during the worst.

I NEED to finish my book. My novel is still sitting at around 200 pages on chapter 30 and it doesn't feel anything close to being finished.

It's already been a year and a half since I started writing it.

I've been going backwards instead of forwards, mainly because of how daunting a challenge it really is to write a book. There's no passion behind these fingers of mine at the moment and when I think about how I managed to write 200 pages in the first place -- I'm reminded that I was under pressure to perform.

Maybe that's the problem with me right now. I'm not pressuring myself enough. I like complaining and talking about "writing a novel" more so than actually doing it. But it's not like I don't think my book has a chance and should be tossed out with the trash; I really do think it has a good shot at becoming something quite compelling.

It's just that.. I've lost either faith in it, or .. No, I haven't lost faith if I'm still continuing to talk about it. No, I think I've only .. no, I haven't lost faith in myself either.. So what is it? What's causing this blockage of my imagination? Why is my will not being done?

Maybe because I'm scared. Scared that all that hard work is going to amount to nothing. That it won't be appreciated. It won't make any money. And all I'll have is 300-400 pages of drivel that I've spent over a year and a half worrying and talking about.

I don't know. Or maybe I'm just scared of the work involved because I'm not assured of what the results of finishing it would be.

I don't fucking know anymore.

It's amusing to me how much I've been typing in this blog post when I know that applying this same amount of effort towards the novel would yield more productive results.

But that's a question I wonder about. Maybe my inner-most thoughts need to be exposed, examined and written down first before I can move on with the book. Maybe self-examination is the key to discovering the enthusiasm I've been hoping to reclaim.

God damn is this ever hard to figure out.

What is this post? 1,100 words?

Could've been half of a chapter already.

It's Sunday night and I need to prepare myself for work tomorrow morning. Where I'll face the usual difficulties in connecting with others and continuing along with my sullen self, watching imagination evaporate as I rip off insulation from piping for ten hours in freezing weather.

There must be a better way.

I might find it just yet.

kathy.

I guess I kind of have to.

This is Kathy, whom I had a relationship with last year. That picture was taken in my car on the way home from the flea market we've left.

I got her that Domo doll.

I still miss her and I don't.

I wish things could have been different.

chillingly compelling

My mind is going off on one of it's moments of pure introspection at the moment, and as I am thinking, making several observations of my life; I'm realizing that these thoughts will remain vaporous and likely will be forgotten should I not write them down.

That's a sobering reality right there, writing stuff down is what makes my thoughts permanent. Which gives them substance, and allows for future extrapolation, expansion and exploration of these ideas I'm having.

Why can't I get that truth through my thick skull? Why has my creative processes dried up and my love of writing rusting itself over like a hammer left outside for several years?

And as I think about it, I'm realizing it has so much to do with fear. Being afraid of letting myself go head first into something that will consume my attention and passion -- but not guaranteeing the success of its reception, or achieving a sustainable living by it.

I think those are my biggest fears, wasting my time writing. People write every single day on blogs, twitter, Facebook, message boards, short stories, long stories, technical reports, essays and a few have even written entire books. Not just one, or two, but dozens. Hundreds. Thousands. Some of them do it while they work full time, some even become successful.

That's something which troubles me to no end. Knowing the difficulty in producing something meaningful and then not being assured of it's success. It's kind of like spending a year of your life building a canoe that you hope will take you to a destination far greater and prosperous than the space you are presently inhabiting, but not having a map to really know where you're going.

Writing professionally, has terrified me, resigned me and now appears to have disinterested me just because I now am fully aware of how incredibly difficult it would be to achieve something of merit given the tens of thousands of other people like me who are hoping for that same pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Who really gives a shit about what I think? That has been the driving mantra behind my stagnation this past year. Who would truly appreciate what I hope to accomplish by my work? And more importantly, can I craft something worthy of being inducted into the public consciousness? Can I produce something of merit?

Can I do it if I push myself as hard as humanly possible? Do I have it within me? Is there something inside that will switch on and create something amazing? Do I believe in myself enough to pull it off?

Can I ever pull it off?

And that is where my insecurities come to light. My weaknesses are raw and exposed whenever I entertain such notions. I'm reminded of the moments in my past where impulsive behaviour and good intentions resulted in the birth of a  monstrosity that I am ashamed to acknowledge.

I speak of the two manic episodes I've had in my life. But I am not sure if they are topics I wish to address in this post.

I spend a lot of time consuming books on achieving your potential, how to win friends & influence people. Hawaiian Shamanism. What The Bleep Do We Know? Promethesus Rising. The biography of Aleister Crowley and the Satanic Bible. I have recently picked up two books that have piqued my interest. One is a compilation of essays/stories by C.S. Lewis which deals in morality and the other is The Art of Mastery by Robert Greene.

Why am I troubling myself by continuing to read these books, hoping for some flash of insight that will glue together the broken pieces inside and make me whole  when I know that I already have the answers that I seek.

I already know what to do and yet I fail to do it.

Plato's dialogue on Menos expressed the idea of remembering what we have forgotten as far as the process of learning goes. He postulates the vastness of wisdom to exist in a nebulous realm that can be accessed by every man, woman and child. Some New Agers describe it as the Akashic Records, a repository of all that was and all that will be. Others slap the label intuition on and argue that our subconsciousness sometimes reaches informed conclusions faster than our rational minds can -- if we should trust and recognize such processes.

That's been a big problem for me, ever since having these two manic episodes to know exactly what is genuine, sincere intention acting on wisdom; and what is nothing more than a fanciful exaggeration of my ego.

It's been so hard trying to separate fact from fiction that I am bewildered by it to the point that being non-commital is easier than choosing a side.

But perhaps, we should take sides. No matter how much of reality is subjective, maybe drawing a line in the sand and abiding by certain principles is the most effective way to be.

I don't know and yet, somehow I do know.

Goddamn you Akashic Records. Floating up in space somewhere, holding all the keys to the locks that I can never figure out how to open.

There have been so many books out there, so many competing ideologies and doctorines and theories that it's difficult to figure out where to stand on any of these. Or if I should have to. But living the life I've lived for so long, should have taught me the necessity of sticking by principles and yet I fail to carry forth a personal philosophy that elevates my sense of hierarchy in this life.

I realize by now at this point, the most accurate truth I can feel confident enough in stating -- is that I absolutely know nothing.

No matter how much I learn about a subject, there will always be someone saying, "but what about this?" and presents an argument worth serious consideration. There will always be a principle or fact that can be called into question and argued for or against.

So with that in mind, how can I choose sides? Why should I have to choose anything?

I'm sure had I subjected this problem to some other thinkers, I will receive a number of responses that offer multiple perspectives but nothing that can universally be agreed upon.

Atheists these days will snort at the idea of there being a God while Christians defend their faith.

Agonistics are ridiculed for not choosing a side, while Paganists are laughed at.

The sky may be black right now above my head, but it's a blue, sunny color over in another part of the world.

String theory may or may not be viable. Simulation theory may or may not be viable.

Black holes contain universes which contain other univereses that go onward to infinity. Yet, science have yet to present conclusive evidence for or against the idea of infinity.

Love is this intangible emotion and carries with it so many meanings that it can be difficult to settle upon just one.

Others say that love is nothing more than instinctual conditioning and is produced by a chemical secreted inside of our minds.

Many people claim selfishness to be the greatest of all evils, others would pronounce ignorance, and still others will claim selfishness to be paramount and others will spout that ignorance is "bliss".

One thing for sure is, nobody has all the fucking answers. Or everybody does, yet choose to ignore them.

So what do I make of all this? Should I or should I not draw that moral line in the sand and live a principled and structured life adhering to convictions of mine which may or may not be correct?

One thing that I am curious about, is the necessity of having convictions. We absolutely need convictions, rock-hard truths that enable us to allay our feelings of doubt and helplessness.

In essence, we deeply desire and require the need to live a life that makes sense. Even if it's just to ourselves and not others.

Yet, convictions are a byproduct of faith. Faith is essentially a suspension of disbelief and it walks hand in hand with conviction without becoming mutually exclusive to one another.

We need faith to survive.

Yet, where should we place it? How will we know that a certain idea or thought deserves to take prominence within our lives?

That is the great mystery to me.

With that tangent having been played out, I must return to my original thoughts.

Can I produce something worthwhile that will benefit both myself, and others? Even if it's purely for entertainment purposes? A well-told story.

I don't know. But I really want to.

Two hundred plus pages of Puer Aueternus: The Electric Messiah sits quietly in the corner glaring at me with the white of its eyes.

I love maybe 40% of it. It's some of the best stuff I have ever written.

And it sits there, uncomplaining but neglected. Like a loving pet that you simply don't have time to give the attention it deserves.

That's where my shame comes from. Part of it anyways. And this emotion has me locked in a loop of negativity that is so difficult to break through from.

Because I don't know if it's worth pursuing.

I don't believe enough in myself to know that it's going to be great.

I'm too ashamed of myself to feel confidence. And too unintelligent to know how to change.

Or maybe I just haven't found a compelling enough reason to push myself forward. It would have to be something inspiring that transcends the need for money, or admiration.

God, I'm so close to figuring out what it might be, but I'm not really sure of it yet.

To give the book away for free has crossed my mind more than once. That is a painless and benevolent action on my part. To just let my words find the eyes that can appreciate them without the barrier of payment.

But I would still be working a shitty job and living a sad, lonely single life.

I don't want to give up. If I'm still reading self-help books, then I know there's still something inside of me that is fighting to be set free.

I'm just afraid of what that might be.

the past is a stain

It's not going well. Since my time with Leah last November, I couldn't bring myself to dating someone new. Not until that wound had healed all the way through.

Well, last night I took a leap and went out with Karen whom I met on eHarmony.

I'll repeat, it didn't go well.

The initial meeting was okay. She had a nice smile, I felt comfortable but nervous. It was serviceable for about an hour until..

Four people crashed the party.

I'm still kind of.. amused by it. Basically, there weren't any other tables available and these four people asked to sit next to us -- occupying the entire table, on our first date. They apologized for it initially and when it was jokingly said, "I hope it's not your first date.." I had to laugh and confirm it was. The table went into an uproar.

After that initial revelation, these four people talked among themselves as they knew one another and had that chemistry established, but all I could do was nervously sip at my beer with Karen next to me and hoped she would finish soon enough for us to leave.

Well, it didn't go that way. She ordered another drink and struck up a conversation with the girl across from her.

They went on for a good hour at least and I was left holding the bag, Interjecting a few words here and there but ultimately not really doing much of anything. I gave her a hopefull glance out across the street and I don't think Karen picked up on the hint. Eventually, she really struck a chord with that one particular girl and I was excluded altogether from the conversation.

So, there I was, trying to keep my nerve while listening to these girls gossip and unable to say a thing. Once Karen suggested we go for a cigarette, a spasm of relief washed over me as I explained how much I sucked at being in groups -- particularly when I don't know a single person there. She said she didn't have any problems connecting and I nodded my head knowing that it wasn't anyone's fault really.

Except mine.

I guess with the time I spent away from dating, it really caught up to me how ill-prepapred I was to handle conversation. Group conversation more specifically. It doesn't help that I had hearing issues to begin with, but I didn't know how to integrate myself regardless of whether I was hearing every word spoken or not.

The chatter was mindless. I couldn't get interested about any of it.

And as I apologized to Karen and gave her a kiss, thanking her for meeting up -- I walked away wondering if this is how it is everywhere. That conversation for conversation's sake is commonplace.

It was disheartening for me to accept that it probably is. And that I might not ever be good enough at participating in these kind of get-togethers.

As I got home, I just kind of.. felt drained. Drained of life. Like.. Almost as if I accepted the void within me and wrapped myself up snugly with it.

It didn't feel reassuring at all. It almost felt like an infliction of shame upon my person.

But what other option is there? Quiet acceptance is better than self indignation isn't it? The more I allow myself to get angry, the .. Well.. Maybe anger is the proper motivator here, but how? How do I get myself more in line with what I would like to be? How do I bring myself to feeling good about the way I am and how my life is going?

I.. can't.

I always used to hear that things could be worse. That there are people in x country who are suffering more than I am and I should be grateful for what I already have. And that is true, in a way of saying "Boy, am I glad I'm not in a North Korean Death Camp" but.. it doesn't change the fact that I have a real problem that needs solving.

It doesn't change the fact that I am unhappy. First world problem or not.

Could I adjust my expectations to accept my life and my being the way they are? To make do with what I have and to not want/need things like a good relationship? A rewarding career? Loyal friends? A loving family? Money?

I could adjust. But should I? Should I settle for this? Is it even an option, or could I be more? Could I achieve more?

More importantly, do I think I deserve more in life?

Yes. My mind would speak. Yes, I do.

What fucking hurts most, is already knowing this but not being convinced that I can create a better life beyond what I already have.

If anything had damaged me most from my upbringing, it would be that twisted sense of entitlement my mother had fostered within me. The second most hurtful thing, was not being given direction. Not being believed in enough to think that my goals were realistic and worth striving towards.

No. It was, "you need to get a job." after graduation. There was no interest in post-secondary education within my family. The relationship  I had with my father throughout my mid to early-twenties, was non-existant. My mother was as clueless as I was, with what to do with securing my place in the world. The only person who spoke out, was my stepdad who got me into insulating. And even then, it was more like "post-secondary? pfft! you shouldn't bother. Get into the trades."

But, I can't keep blaming the past. No matter how it affected my life. No matter how much it still is affecting my life.

No matter how much I am haunted by it.

No matter how much I still think of this woman:

Even before Leah...

Before Lauren...

And before Michelle...

I had to have fallen in love with Tina.

And that's a whole other blog post.

I'm tired.. I'm done. 

At least for now.

First world problems.

the madness continues

So this happens to be the book I am reading now:

Yep, I have terrible taste in novels, that's not the interesting part. What's interesting is in the first few pages that I've read today, the name John Carter popped out at me. Interesting, I thought, because the protagonist in the novel I am writing happens to be Jack Carpenter or J.C. for both. So they have the same initials, no big deal. Novel is set on Mars too, right?

When I came home from work today, I loaded up NeoGaf's off-topic discussion forum and whats the first post on the page?

This

John Carter (of Mars) is a movie that was released in March of this year.

Synchronicity, got to love it. But really, what does this mean? Having dreamed about Alan Rickman and then coming across John Carter (of Mars) while reading a book written in 1979 that mentions a John Carter on Mars.. Well, that's coincidental.

It's things like this that makes me wonder what is responsible for such coincidences to occur. It's tempting to suggest that I am creating my own reality moment-by-moment and that time is not linear, or that something is guiding me towards a particular outcome or understanding -- but who the hell knows? I like to believe that I influence things on a non-physical/non-local level, where I attract related ideas and events to achieve some kind of outcome, and perhaps that is what is happening here.

Or maybe, I'm just reading too much into it. There is no question our minds can influence objects / ideas / persons / events on a subliminal level. But the real question is, to what extent and purpose does such influence hold? If one were to believe that things happen for a reason and that nothing is random, then perhaps a deeper understanding of the forces at work is needed before rhyme and reason can be given to such occurrences.

And because it's difficult, if not impossible to prove anything factual in divine intervention or the law of attraction; it may come down to personal judgement. That if YOU feel it to be true, then it is. Science can confirm the observer effect, that simply looking at a particle can influence whether or not it appears as a particle or a wave and when not observing such data, it could end up being something else altogether.

In short -- everything is a mystery, but one thing that seems blatantly apparent to me, is our capacity to create and attract things by sheer mind-power alone. And I'm really leaning towards the idea of non-linear time also. It just seems to make the most sense, despite little evidence to support such theories.

If only something more dramatic than Alan Rickman and John Carter would present itself, we'll see what happens in the next few days as I pay extra special attention to my surroundings.

Maybe things are more coincidental then we might think.

Alan.. Rickman?

It's been a while since I last posted, but I am feeling flabbergasted at the moment and ran over to post this. Two days ago, I had a strange dream. In it, I was searching for God and somehow thought that calling random phone numbers and asking for God would inevitably lead somewhere. It did, to a strange pre-recorded voice going by the name of Alan Rickman. It didn't specifically state it was "God" and it sounded very haltingly. Like a robot struggling to vocalize language that it wasn't fluent speaking in. In my mind at the time, I thought this was God. Upon waking, the name Alan Rickman went through my head and I didn't have a clue as to who it is. But it sounded very familiar and since it didn't seem worth pursuing via a Google search, I put it out of my thoughts.

Until today, when I randomly decided to watch an episode of Family Guy on Netflix. Episode 16 of season 7. What happens? In the first few minutes, a skit came up with an answering machine under the name of Alan Rickman. The creepy part? That same robotic voice was the one I heard in my dream. I'm not sure what to make of it, but this is meaningful in of itself. And it makes me wonder. I've been in a spiritual funk lately and feel myself becoming more and more distrustful of the idea that God exists. It's a terrible way to be given that I've believed in a higher power for so long, but I had to face the fact that I've never found compelling enough evidence to warrant believing in such a thing. But here it is, a genuine sign.

Alan Rickman.. is this guy?

Professor Servus Snape from Harry Potter? WTF?

I don't think I've ever watch a HP film in it's entirity, much less know who Professor Servus Snape would be and who plays him. So I dug a little deeper and scanned his filmography to see if maybe a certain film had left a deep enough impression for my subconcious to somehow dredge up.

Perfume: Story of a Murderer. I didn't like this film and I'm not sure if I even remember who Rickman played.

Rasputin (tv series) - This one is interesting, as I've long been fascinated by the mythos behind Grigori Rasputin (and his apparently 13" dong) -- yet, I don't remember having seen this.

And lastly, Die hard. In which I do remember him playing the villian, but I haven't seen Die Hard in forever.

So, to put things into perspective here, I've had a dream about finding God, only to end up hearing a robotic voice claiming to be Alan Rickman whom I believed was God and then two days later, randomly coming across a family guy episode that I have NEVER SEEN where the robotic voice + Alan Rickman mirrors my dream to a T.

Is that messed up or what? Either God works in mysterious ways, or my brain is seriously haywire and is pulling in bogus psychic information from someplace. Another inference would be that time might not be linear and I instead had a dream about watching this particular Family Guy scene two days before it happened. Who the hell knows.

Life goes on.

unreality

I'm stuck, spiritually and it's a horrible feeling to have.

Because, I can't accept anything based on faith these days, not after several personal experiences of mine point towards either a lack of a higher power, or an inability of mine to truly understand how to utilize/address it.

I used to say a prayer at night before going to bed. It didn't really feel like anything more than a habit I've picked up as a child and it was a way for me to hedge my bets on the side of divinity by directing my thoughts towards acknowledging it.

In time, I grew more.. demanding. I wanted real spiritual insight. Real revelations. Proof of this higher power that supposedly most of the population of Earth believes to exist. But the answers never seemed to come. Or maybe they have, but I wasn't able to discern whether or not it was true, or wishful thinking on my part.

That's the tragedy right there in any kind of belief system. Even among atheists. Because, as I've eventually figured out, the answers to life's questions are really a matter of personal judgement. There will never be any kind of concrete evidence that point towards one conclusion or another. Does God exist? Am I God? Or are we all but the product of random mutations in an otherwise chaotic and random universe?

Is there a purpose to all this? And where do we go when we die? Should a supreme being exist, what are it's demands? What is it's function? Are we alone in the universe? Or are there other civilizations that have reached a greater understanding behind the nature of creation?

Questions like these permeate my life in many subtle ways. From my career, to my dreams, to explaining what I have experienced in the past and to predict what I may experience in the future. All of my concerns have to do with determining the extent of my power and purpose.

Whenever I think about the shitty things that I have gone through, the heartaches in my relationships, the difficulty in letting go of guilt, of pain and fear, I have taken notice of several peripheral improvements that I have made in the lives of others as a result of my actions and thoughts.

For example. A few years ago, two good friends of mine initiated a threesome with me out of the blue and I reacted with a combination of disbelief, intense flattery, profound feelings of affection towards the girl involved and measures of anger, sadness and points in between.

In short, I gained very little in having to go through that situation -- or perhaps, I have gained a lot. I am not quite sure.

But one thing that I know, is that my actions likely changed the relationship between my friends Tina and Jeff. Not the relationship that I had with them, but the one they have with each other. Today, they are closer for having gone through what we did. What I did. Even if I didn't mean for it to turn out that particular way.

I look at my immediate family and friends and see examples of how my actions influenced and improved their lives. It's strange to admit, but I almost feel like I've given my life up for the sake of others. So that they do not make the same mistakes as I have. So that they "think" a different way as a response to having seen the way I reacted to certain situations. In short, I was the guy who willingly threw his heart out into everyone's lap if only to prove that unrestrained emotion is not something one should strive towards achieving. That sometimes emotion do not need to be acted upon, or spoken of, but rather kept close -- that making oneself extremely vulnerable is asking for heaps of trouble.

I dislike what I have become. But others are better for it. And thus, the spiritual crisis emerges.

Because, I try and figure out why it seems that I do not deserve the things I have wanted most in life. My belief system has usually been one of feeling connected to the world. To others, God and myself. That my thoughts would attract the things or experiences that I needed in order to achieve what I desired. I felt as if everything was a web, and that karma would eventually come to reward me for being honest about my feelings. To reward for me being true to my heart by not holding anything back.

Unfortunately, this does not seem to be the case. Perhaps I am short-sighted and cannot see into the future far enough to know whether or not my struggle will be given a peaceful and amicable resolution. So, at the moment, all I can do is to try and not let the sadness I carry within, consume my heart down to nothingness.

I must persevere. I must try.

Giving up is a sign that I relinquish control of my life to the whims of society and other people. To circumstance. And it's a terrible way to be. To not be able to care. To feel empowered enough to make changes and achieve success.

When I first started this rant, I had the thought in mind that I would slowly write in "facts" as I discover them. Facts that pertain to life so that I may have something concrete to believe in. Something like, knowing that my reaction to situations is of my own choosing. That optimism will take me farther ahead than pessimism ever will. Facts like knowing that I likely will never be able to prove the existence of a higher power and that I should find contentment with living in the now. To not put so much pressure on myself. But at the same time, I understand that pressure fuels motivation which can lead towards results.

So, I don't know what to think anymore these days.

Do I go with the flow and place my trust in something that I cannot confirm the existence of?

Should I strive to take responsibility for every single thing that's happened in my life and to transcend my shortcomings as best as I can without allowing for possible supersitutious nonsense that may or may not be true?

Just how important is belief in a higher power, anyways?

I don't know.

But I hope I find out someday.

too fast too furious

It's Wednesday, 12:30pm and as of now, I am 48 hrs into the fast.

I do confess however, that I broke convention and decided to have a cup of coffee this morning. No milk, cream or sugar. Just straight up as black as it gets.

But what happened after I took a few sips? My body started freaking out due to it getting a jolt of caffeine on an empty stomach. I felt my pulse rate go up within seconds and began twitching my leg to shake off the nervous energy that was being generated.

It sucked. That right there was coffee in it's purest form, I'm surprised to not have noticed the immediacy of it's effects before.

Energy-wise, I'm feeling okay so far. You would think I'd end up being a lethargic mess with a stomach rumbling like a dump truck along a gravel road, but no. It's surprising how much hunger really is more of a psychological sensation rather than a physical one. Granted, one a person nears the starvation phase and starts snacking on their innards, the body will certainly signal it's distress.

But as of now, I have zero appetite and I feel fine.

That doesn't keep me from dreaming about eating again. Of Ritz crackers, fried all-you-can-eat fish, pizza, hamburgers, coffee, popcorn, salty sunflower seeds, prime rib... (clutches stomach) ughhhh! Can't wait...

I think this experiment is providing me with a much needed perspective on food. To not take it for granted. And it's also emboldening me somewhat, knowing that my willpower to refuse food is somewhat a commendable attribute to have. Then again, it's partly because of my mother telling her co-workers that I'm fasting that is motivating me a bit more than usual. Last thing I'd like to do is quit on the 2nd or 3rd day and be made into a wishy-washy pansy.

Heck no, three days minimum and I'm shooting for Friday. That's five days in total making it just two more to go. Then I'll be popping off the lids on a few cans of soup and slowly working my way back to normal again.

It's still tough though, but it's possible. Fasting can be done. Although I haven't experienced any of the detox effects that I was originally hoping for, maybe it's just impatience and I need to hang on for a few more days. The benefits I'm experiencing at the moment is a definite increase in my lung capacity and a diminished need for sleep with more vivid dreams. That's about it, and I can't say I'm particularly thrilled about it.

Yet I am soldering on, two more days and a bowl of clam chowder will be waiting for me at the finish line. I'm super excited for it.

I never thought I'd ever say that about a bowl of soup.

But there it is.

the fast and the spurious

Excuse the grotestque image above..

So after a few days of deliberation, with the initial inspiration of this article as the impetus to foster my desire -- I have decided to attempt fasting.

Why? Why would a fairly trim fellow like myself resort to intentionally avoiding food for several days? It's because of the health benefits. It's because I am sick of feeling tired, burnt out and listless. I'm sick of the way my stomach rumbles noisily as it often does without any indication of why. I'm sick of feeling gassy, as if my digestive system is converting everything inside into giant globs of methane that I have to shoot out of my bum.

It's time for a reboot, and I think fasting might just do the trick.

So this would be day number one, and I suppose it would be a good idea to chronicle the emotions and physical sensations I've been experiencing so that I can track my progress and reflect upon it at a later date. God knows it's not for the benefit of any readers out there (there aren't any) and it will double as a diary to help explain how they've found my body face down on the floor clutching an open box of Ritz crackers (that I will have stubbornly refused to open).

I'm 34 years old and my system has been ingesting crap for the past.. 15 years if not more. Cursed with a sweet tooth and a love of greasy foods; this is my attempt to purge all of the garbage out and to get myself back to square one.

Today is the first day, woke up at around 5am and thought I was going to start the fast. But at around 9am, I was like.. "ughh.. maybe I'll just have these before it gets bad.." and I'd polish off the bag of sugar snap peas I had at the bottom of my fridge. Okay, now what?

Well.. At around 11ish that same morning, I'm thinking.. "hmm.. eggs wouldn't be such a bad idea would it? It should be considered 'safe' for my body." Being that I've taken to avoiding processed/sugary foods, I figured my reasoning allowed for the consumption of.. heh.. four eggs, three slices of bacon and a 1/4 of a chopped onion. Some fast this is turning out to be.

Then of course, a coffee afterwards.. God.. I loved drinking it despite the "rules" of fasting to be the avoidance of caffeine, tobacco and alcohol.

(sighs) It's not an easy thing to do. It's 3:30pm at the moment and the final tally so far has been:

1 cup of coffee
about 1 cup of sugar snap peas
a box of chocolate covered raisins.. (I know.. I know..)
4 eggs / 1/4 onion + 3 slices of bacon

So far, the fast is going great! I can feel changes in my body already. /sarcasm

I guess I kind of want to ease into it.. Now that my mind is set on fasting, I have developed a greater awareness of my appetite and consumption. It's not going to be an easy stretch to go for maybe.. 5 days without food and only juice -- but I'll try my best.

Giving up cigarettes... coffee... sweet stuff... brutal. I don't know if I have the constitution to survive all this and push myself down the road to better health, but I know that I damn well should try. It's the attempt that matters more than the result. The desire defines my intention, and the result is nothing more than a welcome surprise. Whatever it will end up being.

Perhaps I'll discover my third eye will open up and can realize my dormant ability to levitate three inches off the ground while squatting naked in a lotus position.

One can only hope.

perseverance

What a life. What a year. It's finally come about, 2012, the dawn of a forthcoming new age to occur on or about December 22nd of this year. My, how time flies.

The Mayans never did predict that it would be the end of the world, but rather the end of the age. The coming of a new consciousness. Their prophecy had nothing to do with doom and gloom, and interpretations abound among scholars and armchair cynics alike. But one thing they have in common, is that something is supposed to happen on or near December 22nd, 2012.

I sure as hell hope so. Because, I'm tired of all this. I'm tired of the way the world is. My heart is heavy and my feet drag as I get up out of bed each morning to face a new day. A same day, is what I'd rather call it.

The nice thing about having this blog for myself is that I can be honest. I can air out my dirty laundry and not feel the sting of inquisition or the feeling of being judged by others.

These are my thoughts, and mine alone.

So, with that said, I need to do my annual confession and round up of what occurred this year.

Thinking about the events have made me hang my head in shame. For myself, for humanity, for the world.

I mean, there's nothing out there that inspires hope anymore. I can't think of a reason for me to feel any better about my personal situation, or the general situation with society and the world as it is today.

It feels as if I have finally lost my faith. In myself, in society, in politics, people, God..

Growing up, I've always been resilient. No, I wasn't the type to withhold emotions and to keep my feelings in check, but I have weathered some violent emotional storms and have always managed to regroup and put myself back on the front lines. Faith was my weapon. I have always prided myself on being able to believe in the goodness of myself and those around me long enough to feel inspired towards reclaiming an optimistic perspective.

Well, after the year I've had, I'm not sure how I can manage to feel good about things anymore.

Leah is the first thing that came to mind as a reason for this attitude. Amy was another. Relationships with women seem to be the diving board into a pool of metaphorical shit to me. Whenever I think I've found a great person to be with and things are looking well with us -- the rug gets pulled out from under my feet and I'm right back to where I started. Alone. Single. And wanting.

Wanting. Needing? These are two different words, but deconstructing their meaning is illuminating. Want stems from desire, while need comes from necessity. Now.. Who is one to say what is needed and what is desired? Certainly you could argue that food is a necessity and love is a desire. But.. without the totality of universal knowledge and confirmation of our spirituality; we can only surmise what a human being requires and what it desires.

The sad reality, is that love is not a necessity. There are apparently people out there that have no interest in being in love. People that live in caves. People that are interested only in fulfilling their carnal desires. People that care more about money..

So.. love is not a need.

I feel a little choked admitting this truth to myself. Writing these thoughts down is like acknowledging the knife stuck in my heart. It's.. a personal torture for me to confess that it feels like I've given up on finding love.

I know it's not what I should do. I know I shouldn't be thinking this way. But I do. I am.

How much of what happened this year with Amy and Leah is my fault? This is the question that kills me most. What did I do wrong? And... my heart is telling me that I really didn't do anything wrong. But.. I still feel responsible. I KNOW I am responsible for things being the way they are. And how they've played out.

No matter the situation, every person has the choice to react the way THEY want to. That is the most basic right of every human being on this planet. We CHOOSE how we FEEL. Reading Viktor Frankl's "Man's Search for Meaning" only solidifies this thought. That no matter the situation, the torture either physically, mentally or spiritually.. We ALWAYS have this choice to decide how to feel about it.

Reading between the lines, I realize that this choice turns reality on it's head. In order to believe in the idea of hope, an illusion must be crafted. Which in turn can mean that a lie is needed in order to facilitate the desired attitude.

A lie.

Deception.

This is what bothers me most. To accept that we live in a world built on illusions. A world that runs off of lies. A world that is really very much subjective to the perception of each individual. That "life is what we make it". That the construct of the ego imposes a fictitious outlook on an given situation when filtered through our value systems.

Without such illusions, society would collapse. Mankind would fall. There would be little purpose in living other than to survive if one cannot construct a compelling enough illusion to motivate themselves effectively.

Reality is what we make it. This is a truth.

So, why can't I accept and construct the necessary illusions for me to find meaning and purpose in living?

I don't know. A lost of faith, I guess.

This knowledge in particular, maybe.

Living this much time alone and apart from others tends to heighten one's powers of observation. From this, I've grown uncomfortable with the idea of pretending. Of lying to myself.

An example would be to believe that I will find "the one" someday.

After all I've gone through in 2011, I don't know how it's going to be possible for me to hope again.

Let's start with the re-cap:

January to March I was with Kim. A relationship purely based on sex, to which was her idea to begin with. From this, I learned that great sex does not necessarily mean great emotion or love for the other person involved. I had also learned, that loving myself is the greatest aphrodisiac of all. Not in a narcissistic way, but in a "I'm comfortable, content and hopeful" way.

Later in April, I met Ashley. She was the shyest most quietest person I've dated. I remember reading her OkCupid profile and seeing things like: "waitress at a coffee shop" (Tim Hortons) and "writer" (less than a page of badly constructed nothingness). When we met at the movie theatre to watch Insidious, I felt my ego take charge. I did all the talking, the joking around, the teasing and it was nice hearing her laugh. But.. she hardly contributed anything to the relationship. I was hoping the sex might be good, but I ended up apologizing because of how reluctant she appeared going along with it, despite her assurances that she wanted to. I then later broke up, saying that I have a hard time with our conversations and that I couldn't see us going long-term. She got angry when I said that she's a really nice person.. I guess that's something other guys have also told her when they broke up. I felt like such an asshole after all this.. I shouldn't have slept with her. I shouldn't have gone past the second date knowing that she wasn't going to open up easily and that she was too young and inexperienced to have an identity of her own. 

I went out on a date with an older woman named Deanna that month. Nothing came of it and I wasn't interested in pursuing her and neither was she.

In April, I dated Slavie. She was a huge fan of science-fiction and loved Stargate SG-1. We met up at West Edmonton Mall and ugh.. nothing there. In fact, it was so uncomfortable hearing her wax ecstatic about some actor that she had met from the show. And then hearing her discuss her idea of starting up a Stargate convention in Edmonton. Stories of her past conventions and.. ugh.. I don't mind it when someone is passionate about something, but when she says I, Robot is the best Science-fiction film she's seen, and called Gattaca "okay" then there's problems. Apparently even the Matrix isn't as good as I, Robot. This to me is a deal-breaker. I don't mean to be pretentious about it but her tastes are much too superficial for me to feel comfortable accepting.

Dated Robin, she seemed very standoffish and .. different. After our first date, she agreed to a second and then changed her mind prompting me to badger her about not being emotionally forthcoming. I'm such an idiot.

Beverly was next, after I was all like "I'm tired of dating". She and I met at the zoo, and I was pretty sure she might be a transvestite given how deep her voice was. But I didn't notice an adam's apple. The best thing about our awkward date was the kiss we exchanged at the end. I don't know why I jokingly pursed my lips to meet hers, but it was nice to give her one. After that, we never saw each other again.

Vanessa was a girl who worked out of town for weeks on end. That one didn't go past the first date.

Nadine was a big one. At first she was resistent to talking with me on eHarmony, then she opened up and we had some great conversations. Then she scheduled a meet up with me that I accidentally slept through, and apparently her disappointment was such that she refused to meet me after that.

Courtney was another from eHarmony that I got along well through text. I was pushing for something physical with us and she seemed interested enough to come meet me at my house. She did, and I guess there was no chemistry there.

July had me going for a short while with Michelle. The playwright with big hair who wanted an open relationship. That only lasted for a bit until I realized it was a shitty way of being. Receiving a text from her saying, "I'm getting fucked in the ass tonight. Can't wait!" after asking her how her Calgary trip went, well.. that was all it took for me to stop texting her.

Shannan, the single mom I had dated in September was pushy about my not "talking enough" in our first meet up in Fort Sask. That didn't work out and it wasn't entirely my fault either. Her going through personal issues with her soon-to-be-ex husband didn't help matters.

Chantelle.. a mistake. Good text chemistry, not much else.

Amy.. whatever.. that story has been written on here already.

Amanda.. one date. One kiss.

Leah.. I can't even discuss her. My gut churns thinking about that relationship.

I can't even.. write this blog. What's the point?

I wish I could care enough to go into more detail. But I don't. Not now anyways.

I think the best thing that happened to me this year was NaNoWriMo. I managed to write a ton and it was a fun experience, but I don't care enough to try and finish the book I'm working on.

I got a new kitten, and I can't feel excited enough to talk about him.

I've lost my faith.

I need to find a reason for being.

I need to take time to think.

Maybe I should just let go. To just be.. but, I'm so tired of trying. Of trying not to try. It's just a circle looping onto itself.

The harder I try, the worst the fall.

Leah.. I miss you. And I don't.

Amy.. I miss you. And I don't.

You two killed what little faith I've had in relationships.

It just reminds me that maybe the purpose of my life is to make hypocrites of people.

I don't know.

I don't care.

Happy 2012.

I am a shitty human being

Looking over my blog and clicking at random posts, I've come to the realization that I suck.

I suck.

And I don't have a sense of humility within me.

There's a block that exists within my mind, that makes me egotisical, arrogant, self-centered.

I'm sick of reading about how much I want to find true love.

I'm sick of reading the posts where I ramble on mindlessly like I know what I'm talking about.

I'm tired of feeling sorry for myself, or trying too hard to write something funny.

Sure, being a character can make for interesting stories, but this is not the kind of person I want to be.

It feels like I'm missing something. Something important about myself that I haven't yet realized or been made aware of. But everyone else understands it on some level that escapes my understanding.

Maybe I'm just dumb. Or maybe it's something else. Maybe I'm over confident. Cocky. Insincere.

Whatever it is, I don't like it.

Am I commenting on my true self, or am I becoming aware of a flaw that must be overcome?

One of the things that I think it might be, is that I don't stop to consider my words very well. I don't put too much thought into the things that I say. In some of my posts, I feel like I'm expressing high school humor. In others, I feel excessively melodramatic that it erodes whatever it is I'm writing about. Like, it's not as sincere when it's delivered in a "know-it-all" tone.

I agree with that. I think that's what it is.

I don't "think" enough. I need to.. tap into my essence more. Into my true feelings.

Something is being masked here. I'm certain of it. Some kind of deficiency.

Insecurity is probably what it is.

I'm insecure. Unsure.

So.. this would be a trust issue I'm dealing with.

One that involves myself. And what I'm capable of.

That makes sense.

I have to think about this some more...

I need to change.

volition

The night is quiet at two in the morning. A lone motorcycle in the distance can be heard. It is cold in my room, but I only have myself to blame for that because I’m laying here, without a blanket and wearing only a thin pair of pajamas and a t-shirt.

My thoughts turn to Leah, the woman that killed what was left of my faith in humanity. I think of making her a mix cd, but decide against it yet I still move songs around on the iPod, putting them in the best order I can. My intent is probably to create a listening experience to mirror the short time we spent together. To encapuslate it. A kind of audio photograph for lack of a better description.

A breath leaves my body, making me feel uncomfortable to be made aware of. It’s a strange sensation to notice, something that I do thousands of times each day, yet alien just the same.

I think of my soul. How corrupted it is. How.. dirty it is. Not to say that it has been marred by acts of immorality, although it has -- but the dirt, the dirt of a life lived in fear, doubt, mistrust, hopelessness. It stains me in a way that makes me ashamed to get up out of bed each morning, and hesitant to sleep, for fear that I will not awake if I do.

On my right hand, is a hairband that I have found years ago. One summer, I was seized by the inexplicable urge to collect stray hairbands whenever I would spot one laying on the ground. In my suitcase, there is a pocket containing dozens of these things. All shapes and sizes, from the smallest loop that barely would fit around two fingers, to ones that glitter in the sunlight. At the moment, I am wearing an inconspicuous black one that is partly frayed, I suspect it is only a matter of time before it snaps.

The sound of traffic reaches my ears once again. Penetrating through deaf ears that are rested upon pillows, oblivious to the world. Ears that laid alone, or with other ears, attached to bodies that pressed close against one another.

Ears, like mine, are destined to be forever alone.

But I shouldn’t think that. As haggard and frayed my soul is, much like the hairband, it still refuses to give up. It still believes in something greater than myself. Something more. Something I have yet to experience, but I know on an intuitive level that it is approaching. For a long time, I used to think that such a feeling could only be called hope.

After Leah, I am not quite sure if it is hope I’m experiencing.

Or a delusion of my own making.

The loneliness weighs heavily on me. My faith is wavering. My trust is gone. My words are empty and without meaning. Everything I see, hear and do, feels like an exercise in futility. Like I am miming or mimicking the correct way to behave, knowing that at the end of the day, I will be in bed, tired and alone.

Alone.

Typing the word scares me a little. “Alone.” I say it out loud, my voice carrying a tone of sincerity. I say it again and it almost seems like a shirt hanging on the rack at a clothing store that I am considering to try on. Alone. Alone. Alone. I repeat, wondering if it suits me.

It does not. It never has.

My biggest flaw, is that I tend to live for others and not for myself. I don’t generate my own happiness very well when I am without a relationship. I need a projection, a defined individual for me to live my life for. Someone that occupies my thoughts, and I in turn. I call it my biggest flaw, simply because it’s not the right way for a person to live. To live in service or worship of another. True happiness is entirely dependent on how an individual perceives their present state of being. If they are content, then happiness results. If they lack, then sadness.

Lack. I murmur the word, feeling my tongue touch the roof of my mouth, trying it on.

It suits me well.

But lack, that could be considered an expression of discontent. One does not truly lack, as long as air enters their lungs. One lacks only when the ego is simply saying: “I want more than this.”

The ego. My arch-nemesis. I am torn between the things that I want and the things that I think I would need.

And I wonder, do I truly need them? I would like to say yes, I do, but I can’t be sure if I would feel complete once I acquire them.

I am unsure if I would start to become whole.

Just because, what I want and what I need; are two different things. One, is what I consciously desire, the other only serves to confuse rather than illuminate my understanding, simply because I am unable to really know what it is I must need. Air, water, food, shelter, clothing. Those are the basics. Relationships, wealth, power, prestige. Those are harder to determine.

Many years ago, while working at a job I hated, I used to tell myself that the only way to get to Heaven was to go through Hell. It made sense at the time, because greater appreciation comes from being given what you once lacked. Or perceive as lacking. Appreciation is an expression of gratitude. It is a certain type of satisfaction that can only arise from the lack thereof. A million dollars is not appreciated nearly as much by one who has billions than it would be to a transient who is living homeless on the street. Contrast is how we define the things we appreciate and identify what we lack, or desire more of.

There can be no darkness, if there is always light. There can be no suffering, if there is only joy. There can be no cruelty if there is only compassion.

And so forth. The contrast has to be there before a distinction can be made and a judgement earned.

This gets me wondering. Suffering, joy, cruelty, compassion are elements of behaviour and emotion. Suffering, is to experience a profound sense of discomfort, physically, mentally or spiritually. Joy, is the antonym of suffering. Compassion is the act of bestowing sympathy without selfish intentions involved, otherwise it would then be called pity. Cruelty, is the direct or indirect act of behaving with maliciousness towards another person, it is the opposite of compassion. The reason why I mentioned indirect, is that cruelty has many facets, but it all comes down to what the intention behind the action is.

The more I think about such things, the more I begin to understand what evil truly is. It is not cruelty, maliciousness, hate, bigotry or selfishness; it is all and none of those things. When you distill evil and break it down to it’s very basic form, you end up with a surprising result.

Ignorance.

To be evil, is to be ignorant.

Deliberately ignorant. Even unintentional ignorance, could be construed as an evil way of being.

Ignorance and indifference. Both require a conscious decision to make. When one chooses to ignore the plight of another, it is a choice that is being made. This does not necessarily mean action must be taken. It does not require any effort to be compassionately complacent and to keep a clear conscience.

But it is a decision that I find I must make.

When my heart swells at the sight of a beggar and I do not give any aid or assistance, that is not indifference. Nor is it ignorance.

When another person wrinkles their nose in disgust, and produces some pocket change; that is ignorance and pity working in tandem.

The difference between the two appears clear. Both are decisions. They may not have been consciously decided upon, but they are choices nonetheless.

I have made the choice.

History is full of examples of people demonstrating that the things we presume that we need, are inessential. There is a curiosity aimed towards those who remain celibate for many years by choice, or go without eating meat, or are content to live in a cave. Examples abound of people living meaningful lives without having to need certain things.

So then, is it a choice? It is. So what causes us to feel lack? Our egos. Our assumptions that we need certain things. They are assumptions, make no mistake about it.

What is it that we truly need? Abraham Maslow’s hierarchy of needs suggest the very basics:

Food, water, sex, breathing, excretion, homeostasis and sleep.

I do dispute listing sex as a basic need, however.

Up the level, once those needs are met, we then have the need for security. That we can be assured of our future survival. Our health, employment, food, wealth and so on. Reasonable.

Then comes friends, family and sexual intimacy. Very curious that Maslow would list sex again, as a third-level need.

Self esteem, confidence, respect of others and yourself. That’s the next level.

At the very top lies morality, creativity, spontaneity, problem solving, lack of prejudice and acceptance of facts. Again, those are apparently crucial needs.

What is interesting to me, is that Maslow has forgotten the most important need of all.

Purpose. We need to have direction in our lives. To go towards a goal. Whether it’s securing your property, or having sex; we all need to strive towards something. Purpose should be right at the bottom, alongside water and sleep. A life lived without purpose, is not a life at all.

The very top of this pyramid, listing morality and such, have to do with self-actualization. The fulfillment of your purpose. Or the expression thereof of striving towards it, so I suppose it is accounted for.

But what of those who have not discovered their purpose? How is one to achieve their fullest potential when they are unsure of what to do?

That’s the puzzle. You cannot be given purpose, you decide upon it. What prompts a decision to move towards a specific endeavour? Your personal sense of worth, your values, your interests, goals, notions of morality, values.. All of these add up.

Still, parlaying one’s potential into making a living is not an easy thing to achieve. Most people do not end up the way they’ve imagined themselves to. Dreams are dashed and many choose to accept something less in exchange for something more.

Usually, this comes in the form of security. A well paying job and a family to look after beats out deciding to become a writer, or a farmer. There are risks involved and for many, the less the better.

I’m not sure where this tangent will take me to, but it seems like I’m approaching some level of clarity in just typing this.

Maybe, it’s all about risk. How far are you willing to go, to achieve your dream? What would it take to get to where you want to be? And can you sacrifice everything in order to make it come true?

Maybe that’s the answer. Assuming you have a strong interest pointed in a specific direction...

A writer must write. Constantly. He must love language, stories and is able to feel passionate about what he does, when he does it. He must know the rules of writing, using correct grammar, punctuation, spelling, et cetera.

It all comes down to how determined you are. How many successful people exist who can claim that they didn’t really work hard to get to where they are at? I’m sure exceptions exist for those born with a silver spoon in their mouth, but for the most part, it truly is up to the individual to achieve their ends.

But.. How far is one willing to go? How much is one willing to sacrifice?

I think the answer is clear.

Everything.