caught off guard and frozen by light
came sudden a dash and unnatural flight
hurled through leaves, then onto the ground
writhing, unable to right myself—bound
as shock overtakes me, and struggle for breath
I’m pounded to pulp for a “merciful” death
Showing posts with label my life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label my life. Show all posts
Saturday, October 6, 2012
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
"From Flustered Love To Lustered Love"
or "What A Difference A Work-Week Makes"
I love my wife.
I've known that for over six years. But with the near ceaseless bombardment of each others company, carpooling day-in and day-out, since August 4th, 2007 (yes, that is actually the date it all began), we’ve worn on the others nerves for far too long, and that bright, glorious luster of love seemes to have diminished somewhat over time, tarnished by the continual wear of ridesharing.
It's like the slow, incessant flow of water working it’s way through stone; the softest of things eroding the hardest of things: it takes a long time, but it’s effect is evident, and at times, blindingly brutal.
We each needed a holiday from the other. We both knew it and looked forward to it. But as that day grew nearer the gravity of the arrangement began to weigh on me, and my exuberant anticipation quickly waned. A few days before we parted it suddenly dawned on me: for the first time in a long time, and for an extended period of time, I would not have my charming and incomparable companion by my side. That day of “freedom” I had been so eagerly awaiting was fast approaching, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
Ticket’s bought. Pick-ups arranged. Promises made.
I reassured myself: it’s only a few days; I’ll be fine, she’ll be fine, life would go on as usual; besides, we could still talk on the phone, that’s nearly as good as talking face to face.
I was mostly right.
It was only a few days, but that didn’t seem to matter nor make it any easier—one day was quite enough, thank you very much. Both of us were, in the grand scheme of things, fine, but I felt...off, as if some vital part of myself was missing, and she, at the very least, was cold and didn’t sleep well with no one to cuddle (I kid—I know this was no cakewalk for her either, but it's not my place to speak for her). Life did go on as usual, but it seemed wanting. We did talk on the phone, but it was certainly no substitute for having her physically with me.
That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy myself. I did. But, she never left my thoughts, and there were countless moments I wished she was there, experiencing what I was: the wonderfully wacky family fun, the splendid sights and stirring sounds of nature, the relentless rain...oh, the rain!...and the tasty treats I continuously stuffed into my insatiable cakehole.
But more to the point of this whole experience, I found myself reliving situations alone with a great deal more grace and patience than I remember having with her, and I was overwhelmed with guilt upon this realization. The minor delays and foibles that everyone cause and possess were magnified in her and always seemed to touch on my last nerve more than they ever should have.
I’ve been an intolerant ass. I’ve been a impatient jerk. And I apologize for my shortcomings, and vow to do and be better. She deserves it.
In her absence, I’ve rediscovered the boundless love I’ve had for her from the beginning, in all it’s brilliant glory; it has slough off the oily veneer that’s accumulated over years of endless, and occasionally careless handling, and has restored it to it’s true radiance.
Yes, it stinks that it took what it did for this epiphany to manifest itself, but I’m delighted things unfolded the way they have. I think we could all use a good kick in the pants like this from time to time to truly appreciate what we have. It’s too easy to get caught up in minutiae of day-to-day life and lose sight of what’s important.
Go out of your way to show someone you care about that you love them—saying it is easy.
I love my wife.
I've known that for over six years. But with the near ceaseless bombardment of each others company, carpooling day-in and day-out, since August 4th, 2007 (yes, that is actually the date it all began), we’ve worn on the others nerves for far too long, and that bright, glorious luster of love seemes to have diminished somewhat over time, tarnished by the continual wear of ridesharing.
It's like the slow, incessant flow of water working it’s way through stone; the softest of things eroding the hardest of things: it takes a long time, but it’s effect is evident, and at times, blindingly brutal.
We each needed a holiday from the other. We both knew it and looked forward to it. But as that day grew nearer the gravity of the arrangement began to weigh on me, and my exuberant anticipation quickly waned. A few days before we parted it suddenly dawned on me: for the first time in a long time, and for an extended period of time, I would not have my charming and incomparable companion by my side. That day of “freedom” I had been so eagerly awaiting was fast approaching, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
Ticket’s bought. Pick-ups arranged. Promises made.
I reassured myself: it’s only a few days; I’ll be fine, she’ll be fine, life would go on as usual; besides, we could still talk on the phone, that’s nearly as good as talking face to face.
I was mostly right.
It was only a few days, but that didn’t seem to matter nor make it any easier—one day was quite enough, thank you very much. Both of us were, in the grand scheme of things, fine, but I felt...off, as if some vital part of myself was missing, and she, at the very least, was cold and didn’t sleep well with no one to cuddle (I kid—I know this was no cakewalk for her either, but it's not my place to speak for her). Life did go on as usual, but it seemed wanting. We did talk on the phone, but it was certainly no substitute for having her physically with me.
That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy myself. I did. But, she never left my thoughts, and there were countless moments I wished she was there, experiencing what I was: the wonderfully wacky family fun, the splendid sights and stirring sounds of nature, the relentless rain...oh, the rain!...and the tasty treats I continuously stuffed into my insatiable cakehole.
But more to the point of this whole experience, I found myself reliving situations alone with a great deal more grace and patience than I remember having with her, and I was overwhelmed with guilt upon this realization. The minor delays and foibles that everyone cause and possess were magnified in her and always seemed to touch on my last nerve more than they ever should have.
I’ve been an intolerant ass. I’ve been a impatient jerk. And I apologize for my shortcomings, and vow to do and be better. She deserves it.
In her absence, I’ve rediscovered the boundless love I’ve had for her from the beginning, in all it’s brilliant glory; it has slough off the oily veneer that’s accumulated over years of endless, and occasionally careless handling, and has restored it to it’s true radiance.
Yes, it stinks that it took what it did for this epiphany to manifest itself, but I’m delighted things unfolded the way they have. I think we could all use a good kick in the pants like this from time to time to truly appreciate what we have. It’s too easy to get caught up in minutiae of day-to-day life and lose sight of what’s important.
Go out of your way to show someone you care about that you love them—saying it is easy.
Friday, October 21, 2011
There once was a boy named Bobby...
My childhood is gone—
no, not in that sense.
In my daily life:
in the things I do,
the people I see,
the places I go,
the music I listen to,
the food I eat;
those remembrances that come in a flash:
gone.
Not all of them, of course,
but far too many.
Bits and pieces, here and there, come flitting into my mind,
like dropped Polaroids purloined by the wind,
of singular moments—
snapshots of things long past—
a spark, igniting incendiary grey matter,
quickening the image to action,
playing out what had played out.
But, that’s it.
Most things are just, gone.
Most of my life before school.
Most of my life during school.
Most birthdays.
Most holidays.
Most of the time with those now past.
Most things are hidden,
unless something extraordinary stirs them from their slumber.
I did those things!
I can remember doing those things,
but often can’t remember the things themselves,
more, the feeling of doing them.
There’s a vagueness to my history.
I know I had a life.
I know I’ve lived.
Where has it gone?
Why is it hidden?
Is there something within these things I don’t want to confront?
Or have they simply left me?
My mind can feel void,
and I don’t know why,
and it's disconcerting.
The child in my head does exist:
I’ve seen him in pictures,
heard about him in stories,
and he occasionally comes to me from within myself,
but he can seem more abstract than absolute.
I want to see him, freely, again.
I want him to show me what he’s done.
I want him to tell me what he’s seen.
I want him to introduce me to those he’s met, whom I can’t meet again—
those with nameless faces, or faceless names,
or those I’ve loved, but only now have a sense of.
I want so much, but have come to expect so little,
and I don’t disappoint.
no, not in that sense.
In my daily life:
in the things I do,
the people I see,
the places I go,
the music I listen to,
the food I eat;
those remembrances that come in a flash:
gone.
Not all of them, of course,
but far too many.
Bits and pieces, here and there, come flitting into my mind,
like dropped Polaroids purloined by the wind,
of singular moments—
snapshots of things long past—
a spark, igniting incendiary grey matter,
quickening the image to action,
playing out what had played out.
But, that’s it.
Most things are just, gone.
Most of my life before school.
Most of my life during school.
Most birthdays.
Most holidays.
Most of the time with those now past.
Most things are hidden,
unless something extraordinary stirs them from their slumber.
I did those things!
I can remember doing those things,
but often can’t remember the things themselves,
more, the feeling of doing them.
There’s a vagueness to my history.
I know I had a life.
I know I’ve lived.
Where has it gone?
Why is it hidden?
Is there something within these things I don’t want to confront?
Or have they simply left me?
My mind can feel void,
and I don’t know why,
and it's disconcerting.
The child in my head does exist:
I’ve seen him in pictures,
heard about him in stories,
and he occasionally comes to me from within myself,
but he can seem more abstract than absolute.
I want to see him, freely, again.
I want him to show me what he’s done.
I want him to tell me what he’s seen.
I want him to introduce me to those he’s met, whom I can’t meet again—
those with nameless faces, or faceless names,
or those I’ve loved, but only now have a sense of.
I want so much, but have come to expect so little,
and I don’t disappoint.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Something's Amiss...
Something happened to me on our trip to Puget Sound.
There doesn’t seem to be a particular moment I can pinpoint as the cause, but I’m definitely not the same, and Gina’s noticed it, too.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m still the same lovable smart-ass/jack-ass (and I use “lovable” loosely—”tolerable” my be more accurate for most people), but I seem to have developed a more outgoing/amiable air when dealing with new people (and, yes, it seems to be exclusively with people I’m meeting for the first time: waiters/waitresses, cashiers, business owners, etc.). I also don’t seem to care as much about how others might perceive me. Granted, I generally haven’t cared much about what people thought of me—as long as it was something I wanted known to the few people I know—but, for the majority of the population, I want people, “strangers,” to know, and to be able to glean as little information about me as possible (says Figbert McGilly).
For as long as I can remember I’ve tried to keep the details of my life under tight wraps, and it’s not strictly confined to the nobodies of the world. Llike most people, there are certain things about my life that my parents, siblings, or wife will never know; things that I’ve freely—and cautiously—shared with others in confidence. Before you jump to any conclusions, no, my life is really not as interesting or seedy as the previous statement might imply. My personal life’s been pretty mundane and inconsequential (sheesh...this sounds like the makings of a good old fashioned mid-life crisis...let’s hope not).
My point being that for most of my life I have, until recently, done a fairly good job at closing myself off to most of the world, and, in doing so, have not only kept potentially wonderful out of my life, but often come across as curt and cold—or so I’ve been told. Yet since I’ve returned, I’ve noticed myself chatting it up, joking around, and being all-around more pleasant with people. And, since I’ve returned, I’ve also loosened up while out in public, because I’m not as concerned about what people think—yes, I am a dork and a fool, and not nearly as smart as some think me to be, and that’s okay (insert Stuart Smalley joke: here).
Yes, I’ve been told I need to loosen up for most of my life.
Yes, I know it is/was good advice.
Yes, I am/was listening.
Yes, it’s a lot easier said than done, especially for me. However, I seem to have unwittingly made a step in the right direction, and, after careful consideration, I think I know how this whole ordeal started:
IT WAS THOSE DAMNED ISLANDS!!!
Specifically Lopez and Salt Sprint islands. Those islanders were so freaking friendly, courteous, accommodating, and nonjudgmental that I think they actually wore a hole in the social shield I’d worked so long and hard fortifying. That’s when I can remember letting my guard down—and it just got worse and worse as the trip went on. I was powerless to resist; they did it so nonchalantly that I never even saw it coming, and, frankly, didn’t even notice it had been done...until it was too late.
So here I am, a changed man (man-child?), if ever so slightly, and I must confess: I like it. Part of me hopes it extends into my private life as well, but I haven’t noticed much change on that front. Maybe it’ll require another life-changing trip, which I’m all for—the sooner the better. But the best news about this entire situation is that you can “teach an old dog new tricks.” People can change, as stubborn as some can be, and that gives me hope. And, at least for me, that’s as good a thing anyone could ask for.
There doesn’t seem to be a particular moment I can pinpoint as the cause, but I’m definitely not the same, and Gina’s noticed it, too.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m still the same lovable smart-ass/jack-ass (and I use “lovable” loosely—”tolerable” my be more accurate for most people), but I seem to have developed a more outgoing/amiable air when dealing with new people (and, yes, it seems to be exclusively with people I’m meeting for the first time: waiters/waitresses, cashiers, business owners, etc.). I also don’t seem to care as much about how others might perceive me. Granted, I generally haven’t cared much about what people thought of me—as long as it was something I wanted known to the few people I know—but, for the majority of the population, I want people, “strangers,” to know, and to be able to glean as little information about me as possible (says Figbert McGilly).
For as long as I can remember I’ve tried to keep the details of my life under tight wraps, and it’s not strictly confined to the nobodies of the world. Llike most people, there are certain things about my life that my parents, siblings, or wife will never know; things that I’ve freely—and cautiously—shared with others in confidence. Before you jump to any conclusions, no, my life is really not as interesting or seedy as the previous statement might imply. My personal life’s been pretty mundane and inconsequential (sheesh...this sounds like the makings of a good old fashioned mid-life crisis...let’s hope not).
My point being that for most of my life I have, until recently, done a fairly good job at closing myself off to most of the world, and, in doing so, have not only kept potentially wonderful out of my life, but often come across as curt and cold—or so I’ve been told. Yet since I’ve returned, I’ve noticed myself chatting it up, joking around, and being all-around more pleasant with people. And, since I’ve returned, I’ve also loosened up while out in public, because I’m not as concerned about what people think—yes, I am a dork and a fool, and not nearly as smart as some think me to be, and that’s okay (insert Stuart Smalley joke: here).
Yes, I’ve been told I need to loosen up for most of my life.
Yes, I know it is/was good advice.
Yes, I am/was listening.
Yes, it’s a lot easier said than done, especially for me. However, I seem to have unwittingly made a step in the right direction, and, after careful consideration, I think I know how this whole ordeal started:
IT WAS THOSE DAMNED ISLANDS!!!
Specifically Lopez and Salt Sprint islands. Those islanders were so freaking friendly, courteous, accommodating, and nonjudgmental that I think they actually wore a hole in the social shield I’d worked so long and hard fortifying. That’s when I can remember letting my guard down—and it just got worse and worse as the trip went on. I was powerless to resist; they did it so nonchalantly that I never even saw it coming, and, frankly, didn’t even notice it had been done...until it was too late.
So here I am, a changed man (man-child?), if ever so slightly, and I must confess: I like it. Part of me hopes it extends into my private life as well, but I haven’t noticed much change on that front. Maybe it’ll require another life-changing trip, which I’m all for—the sooner the better. But the best news about this entire situation is that you can “teach an old dog new tricks.” People can change, as stubborn as some can be, and that gives me hope. And, at least for me, that’s as good a thing anyone could ask for.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
I found my thrill on Blueberry Hill!
By "Blueberry Hill," I mean regular old dirt hills, not far from home...hills in Long Beach...who knew!?
And by "thrill," I mean actual thrills from riding my beloved mountain bike furiously up and down said hills. Well, slowly and somewhat painstakingly up them, then from swiftly to crap-in-my-pants-fast down them.
It's been a very long time since I've rode on a trail, and I've missed it dearly: riding on the pavement is no bueno...it's a little too boring for me.
Granted, it's not much as far as mountain biking goes. It sorta feels like one of those multi-"roomed" hamster homes, connected by a tube: I can go up and down in a few places, but I'm frequently riding in circles and experiencing my "thrill" on the same drops. Still, it's far and away more enjoyable than peddling on a paved bike path.
As with most bike outings, Gina joined me, but she took her time safely ushering her bike up the hills...until she reached the summit, and there was nowhere to do but down. Unfortunately for Gina, she wasn't very well acquainted with downhill biking and the speeds that accompany it, and we're talking about solid, paved ground. Doing so in the dirt and loose sand and closely flanked by stickery, scratchy bushes was a bit too much for her at first...annnnd...by "at first," I mean the first 10 minutes. She hemmed and she hawed, and she grimaced and she squirmed, but she eventually made her way down without harm.
The first hill was the toughest. Though only about 7-8 feet tall and not terribly steep, it was still much more sheer a drop than anything else she's approached before, and the path didn't simply continue on into the horizon like the bike paths of yore...and by "yore," I mean the past week or two we've been riding. Instead, it allowed for about 15 feet of travel before heading long into the dry, uninviting California brush.
The first strategy was simple enough: she agreed to follow me down as I went before her and only needed to guide her bike along the same path I led mine; this happened several times with me going it alone while she remained perched atop the hill.
Then we moved onto strategy number two, which involved her backed up to get a "running" start (she was afraid if she wasn't going fast enough by the time she started her decent she would lose control of the bike). She attempted this several times only to stop just before the drop, then stared at me with sad puppy-dog eyes.
In the end it took me bracing her from behind (so she didn't roll down another much steeper hill, backwards) and literally propelling her toward the perilous precipice. And wouldn't you know it, she made it down in one piece, just like I had been telling her the entire time.
"That was the hard part. The rest is easy compared to that," I said without having actually ridden it.
As we started down the much less steep, but considerably longer hill that led to the bottom, I quickly realized that I'm going quite a bit faster than I had anticipated. I gently apply the brake to slow my decent when I hear Gina coming up quickly behind me — both her words and inflection indicating she's going too fast for comfort and gaining speed, despite braking. Releasing my breaks (trying to get the hell out of the way) I let gravity pull me ahead of her, and promptly stop once I reach the bottom, just off to the side of where I know she's heading. As I turn around, I see her panicked but obviously relieved face wincing as she hits the final bumps in her path, until she too comes to a hault. With quickened breath she tells me, "I think this is an acquired taste...I'm definitely a water person." I laughed, gave her a kiss on the cheek, told her how amazingly well she had done and then started on our way back home.
I'm proud of my brave wifey...she done good.
And by "thrill," I mean actual thrills from riding my beloved mountain bike furiously up and down said hills. Well, slowly and somewhat painstakingly up them, then from swiftly to crap-in-my-pants-fast down them.
It's been a very long time since I've rode on a trail, and I've missed it dearly: riding on the pavement is no bueno...it's a little too boring for me.
Granted, it's not much as far as mountain biking goes. It sorta feels like one of those multi-"roomed" hamster homes, connected by a tube: I can go up and down in a few places, but I'm frequently riding in circles and experiencing my "thrill" on the same drops. Still, it's far and away more enjoyable than peddling on a paved bike path.
As with most bike outings, Gina joined me, but she took her time safely ushering her bike up the hills...until she reached the summit, and there was nowhere to do but down. Unfortunately for Gina, she wasn't very well acquainted with downhill biking and the speeds that accompany it, and we're talking about solid, paved ground. Doing so in the dirt and loose sand and closely flanked by stickery, scratchy bushes was a bit too much for her at first...annnnd...by "at first," I mean the first 10 minutes. She hemmed and she hawed, and she grimaced and she squirmed, but she eventually made her way down without harm.
The first hill was the toughest. Though only about 7-8 feet tall and not terribly steep, it was still much more sheer a drop than anything else she's approached before, and the path didn't simply continue on into the horizon like the bike paths of yore...and by "yore," I mean the past week or two we've been riding. Instead, it allowed for about 15 feet of travel before heading long into the dry, uninviting California brush.
The first strategy was simple enough: she agreed to follow me down as I went before her and only needed to guide her bike along the same path I led mine; this happened several times with me going it alone while she remained perched atop the hill.
Then we moved onto strategy number two, which involved her backed up to get a "running" start (she was afraid if she wasn't going fast enough by the time she started her decent she would lose control of the bike). She attempted this several times only to stop just before the drop, then stared at me with sad puppy-dog eyes.
In the end it took me bracing her from behind (so she didn't roll down another much steeper hill, backwards) and literally propelling her toward the perilous precipice. And wouldn't you know it, she made it down in one piece, just like I had been telling her the entire time.
"That was the hard part. The rest is easy compared to that," I said without having actually ridden it.
As we started down the much less steep, but considerably longer hill that led to the bottom, I quickly realized that I'm going quite a bit faster than I had anticipated. I gently apply the brake to slow my decent when I hear Gina coming up quickly behind me — both her words and inflection indicating she's going too fast for comfort and gaining speed, despite braking. Releasing my breaks (trying to get the hell out of the way) I let gravity pull me ahead of her, and promptly stop once I reach the bottom, just off to the side of where I know she's heading. As I turn around, I see her panicked but obviously relieved face wincing as she hits the final bumps in her path, until she too comes to a hault. With quickened breath she tells me, "I think this is an acquired taste...I'm definitely a water person." I laughed, gave her a kiss on the cheek, told her how amazingly well she had done and then started on our way back home.
I'm proud of my brave wifey...she done good.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Me Time
Anyone who knows me knows I’m not really a people person. Sure, I can interact with people in a fairly normal way, but if it’s with those I’m not familiar with (or comfortable with) it’s usually forced, slightly unnatural, and frequently uncomfortable. Those of you I do feel more comfortable with get a more real me, but still a watered-down, more socially acceptable me. And those of you I feel very comfortable with get the real, unfiltered and often extremely brash (as I was recently described) and annoying me. Which leads to me why I’m writing this: I really enjoy “me time.”
By “me time” I mean time alone, even if not really alone, to do whatever the hell I want, preferably whenever the hell I want to. I find that, even if I’m surrounded by people (especially people I don’t know), I can pretty easily tune them out and, if possible, will try to physically get away from them as soon as possible, so it becomes impossible for me to interact with them. Because, when it comes down to it, sometimes it’s easier to get to happy when it’s just me, myself, and I.
When I’m with people I don’t know, I am very aware of how fake I feel, as if putting on an act to get through the usually forced (internally or externally) socialization, and for people I really couldn’t care less about, which seems like a lot of misplaced energy and effort on my part. When I’m with others I’m more comfortable with, while more like myself, I’m still holding back and feel stifled, which also makes me uneasy and very aware of how I’m acting. And, even when I’m with the few people this world I can really let loose and be myself around, I easily start to get on my own nerves, because I’m, again, very aware of how I’m acting, and not only aware of how others may be perceiving me, but how I’m actually seeing myself from their standpoint, and I don’t much like it. So, it seems that no matter who I’m with, there’s a point at which I don’t care for how I’m acting, or feeling about how I’m acting, and it’s been like this too much of the time...which is why I prefer to just be on my own from time to time.
Yet, lately (actually, for quite some time now), “me time” has been an exceedingly difficult thing to come by, and I feel like it’s beginning to wear me down and get the better of me. I like my friends (what few friends I keep), but all too often I don’t like how I am around them. I love my family and, sometimes, there aren’t many things I enjoy more than spending time with them, but it comes back to me not liking how I am around them. And there’s no one I love more than my wife and nothing I wouldn’t do for her, but I’ve noticed my fuse has been getting shorter and shorter when dealing with her and I occasionally find myself not wanting to do things for her as they seem to take away from the phony “me time” I’m trying to pull out of thin air wherever and whenever I can. But I can’t ignore my wife, nor do I want to—this goes for my friends and family as well.
My patience for most everything is worn thin and I don’t like how I’m reacting to the world around me. I don’t know if this can be fixed with the “me time” I’m missing or if this is a symptom of something else entirely. Despite how it may look, I hate annoying people, let alone hurting those I care about, but sometimes I feel so damn fed up with everyone and everything that my frustration seems to erupt without me being able to contain it. I really miss my me time, and am reminded of how much I truly do miss it on those rare occasions I get to enjoy it. For everyone's sake, especially my ever-patient wife who has to deal with my crap the most, I hope that I can get more of it and pray it helps ease my aggravation.
I realise how completely selfish this all sounds, but for someone who’s never been keen on socializing to begin with and who has always had and relished time to myself, it’s been a very difficult and “painful” transition. I’m not even sure how much sense I’ve made throughout this diatribe, but writing it out at 1:00 am, alone, with the wife asleep, has helped vent some of that unwanted anger. Then again, it’s 1:00 am, and I’m tired, and I need to get up for work in the morning...not ideal “me time” here.
I’m not looking for pity or sympathy. If anything, this is my crappy way of explaining to the people in my life why I’m as ornery as I am and that I’m sorry for it (especially my poor wife). And who knows, maybe I’ve always been this hard to deal with regardless of how much “me time” I’ve had at my disposal; maybe I’m just a grumpy son-of-a-bitch (not a reference to my mother) who’s never completely happy with the way things are—I, for one, hope not.
(I can hear the faint sound of my wife calling me “Emo” already.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)