6. Eye Contact: Write about two people seeing each other for the first time.

i'm not one for eye contact.  i think looking into someone's eyes is like staring at the sun.  there is something precariously dangerous about it.  at times, it has to do with the other person; and at other times, it has to do with me.

there is a book that i loved called "till we have faces" by c.s. lewis.  yes, while he is most well-known for his children's books, and secondarily for being a christian apologist, he was also someone fascinated with, and i daresay in love with, the pantheistic traditions of the greeks.  in any case, "twhf" was a reinterpretation of the myth of cupid and psyche.  the title comes from a statement by the protagonist and narrator, orual, who asks, "how can we meet them [the gods] face to face, till we have faces?"  this statement somewhat captures my problem, the problem of confronting others when one does not have a face of one's own.

some think that the inability to hold eye contact arises from some sort of falseness.  in one sense, i think this is true.  but it is not "lying", in the sense of speaking a specific falsehood.  it is rather (for me at least) the sense that ALL is insubstantial, that any claim i make of myself is smoke and mirrors...  and that there is the attendant fear, ever present, that someone will see right through me.

i find it easier to speak by looking at some obscure corner of the ground, and tracing the patterns with my eyes, as my words summon structure from the void within me.

***

it is nevertheless a special thing when people's eyes meet, in seeking to create a bond.  there have been times in the past when, despite myself, my eyes have been drawn to another, like compass needles helpless to swing, under invisible direction.  just before being caught, my eyes would always turn away, perhaps playing the game of looking in the complete opposite direction, as if by pretending a sort of symmetry of observation, i were absolving myself of the crime of my preferential gaze...

it would be a dream of mine, a flutter of the heart, to be caught, and for the glance to be returned in kind...  sort of like a hand reaching out across a void, and fingers brushing for an instant in the heart of that emptiness...  and then for the hands to reach out, to hold each other, to form a bridge across that nothingness...

but i don't think it really happened much in real life.  and if it did, i probably just "made it up."

5. Food: What’s for breakfast? Dinner? Lunch? Or maybe you could write a poem about that time you met a friend at a cafe.

this is a pretty unfocused prompt, but okay...

for breakfast, i don't really recall eating anything.  i got up this morning, and instead of eating breakfast, lynn and i laid down on the sofa upstairs together and watched "looper" on her ipad...

in fact, i think the first meal we had today was when we went through the drive through at mcdonald's.  i had a double quarter pounder with cheese meal.  it wasn't spectacular, but it was good as a burger: a bit on the salty side.  the bag with the fries toppled at one point (i was driving the car), but i still got enough of them, in handfuls, to make it worthwhile...

at taiko practice this afternoon, one of the women in the early (beginner's) class made gau for chinese new year's.  i thought this gau was excellent: good consistency, with a flavor that was composed of not just the brown sugar (i guess) that usually makes up gau.  there was a sprinkling of coconut flakes on it that added just the right texture and taste to it.  really good!

we went shopping at don quixote after taiko practice.  aiden decided that he wanted curry, so that's what we bought.  at home, lynn made it up: chicken with curry on rice.  and that's what we had for dinner...

sorry for the brevity and terseness of my response.  i suppose i'm not really into this prompt...

***

as for a poem about "that time you met a friend at a cafe..."  i can't recall such a time.  i usually use the "cafe" (i.e. starbucks) whenever i need a place to work, alone.

there were times in the past, like when i was in california, when i would work at a "cafe" (i mean, do work at a cafe), and have this feeling of longing making a slow burn within me.  actually, this sort of has a tradition that goes back to college days...  especially my pathetic senior year.  i recall going to the snack bar at baxter hall at odd hours of the day, and ordering something like a toasted muffin with butter on it, and a snapple drink, and just sitting there to work.  no one would ever see me.  no one would ever come up to talk to me.  i know i had a secret yearning that someone would want to talk to me, but no, it never happened.  and i would just dig myself deeper and deeper into isolation...

those were particularly dark days for me.

when i recall my past, i realize that i have, for long periods of my life, walked in the shadow of depression and loneliness.  it is difficult to get out of it.  no one, after all, wants to know of your sadness.  and when you're there, well, that's pretty much all that you are.

there is no sympathy for people who are trapped like that.  there's no understanding.

i think the one thing good about that time is that it gave me a sort of perspective, a kind of grim and dark humor about things.  and (i hope) it taught me to appreciate the company of others.  and (i hope) it taught me to empathize with loners and outcasts.

i somewhat hated (and maybe still do hate) people who "had it all together."  it just seemed so - fake, and far removed from my reality.  there is/was a truth in my brokenness that could not be systematized or mainstreamed, and the "completeness" of certain people seemed a denial and an affront to everything that i was...

...so i guess i was always looking for someone to be as broken and outcast as myself.  i hoped we would recognize each other...  feel each other's sharp and jagged incompatibilities and recognize them for what they were...  (and it would've been a plus, at the time, if SHE were japanese, with a nice body, and a sort of gothic sensibility... hahaha)

oh well, i think i sort of strayed off the topic, but...

4. Dancing: Who’s dancing and why are they tapping those toes?

i don't really understand this prompt...  am i dancing?  no, not currently, and rarely in general.  i'm just not a dancer.  i suppose that at one point, i liked to pretend i was dancing.  i would go to dances at my college and just do whatevers.  oftentimes it would involve slightly injuring my partners...  when there even were partners.  i had this sort of high-stepping thing i would do, slamming my feet into the ground...

i recall once when i went to a dance in santa monica, one with some young drama?  dance? girls.  and there was one wide-eyed girl who seemed at times interested.  i didn't really dance, but instead just sort of shifted my weight back and forth, trying to do my taiji stuff or something...  at times, i wonder what would have happened that night if things were allowed to proceed...  it's rare that things are open that way.  i mean, i have so many hang ups, and not many people are ever interested (or appear interested)...

so...  i'm really not good at dancing.  i like to think i am.  i like to close my eyes and just move to the rhythm.  i tend to like songs that are faster, that have a good beat...  not a square beat, but something a bit off...  and it helps if i resonate with the lyrics and message of the song too.  if any of these qualities are not present, i would almost rather not be on the dance floor.  it just sours my mood.  maybe i'm picky or something.

i used to like nin music.  techno.  but i didn't have the privilege of going to real raves, where free love and stuff were rampant.  the place i went, people mainly went to dances to stay warm and get drunk.  there was very little art and spirit and love to it.  and, frankly, now that i have the objectivity of time and space (hawaii), i realize that the pickings were pretty slim there anyway.

so...  i don't know how else i am supposed to answer this prompt.

well, i like dancing with people i love.  it's fun to see people get into it.

so again, going back to this strange prompt...  who's dancing, and why are they tapping those toes?  well, I am tapping the toes.  more like slamming on them.  it's me.  the terribly clumsy, enthusiastic dancer.

Writing prompt for 1/28

this is from a different writing prompt site.  just trying it out.

Ode to a playground: A place from your past or childhood, one that you’re fond of, is destroyed. Write it a memorial.

Let me think of a place from my childhood...  well, there once was a sort of playground on the courts near where the Waipahu Recreation Center is today.  I recall my grandmother leaving me there every now and then.  There really wasn't much there, honestly.  There was this tall "lookout" thing, which would NEVER be allowed nowadays for liability reasons.  I suppose you could climb up it (there were no ladders, or anything), and sit or lie at the top beneath shade...  But the thing that I really remember about it was the sound.  There were these holes in the metal pipes that formed its four support pillars, and whenever the wind blew, there would be this eerie whistling sound...

So I suppose there was that place...  some other images I recall from my childhood, all in passing, were this church.  I've seen it recently, so I know it still exists.  It was a Christian church of some kind, with a lot of open glass windows...  It looked like it came from the 50s, or at least my conception of the 50s...  beach boys music.  Bright blue skies.  The window of a Woolworth's store.  A bar called "Sloop John B."  All of these things in that day glow reality, with faded pages...  With people who all seemed blonde and tanned with tousled hair and eyes somewhat squinty from the sun.  All with broad smiles on their faces...

In many ways, that reality is gone, though whether it is because I have grown up, or because those places are physically gone, I'm not so sure.  Of course, my grandmother's house in Ewa Beach is still around, but I have no access to it; haven't had access to it in many years.  Right now, it is closed up (fenced), and my Uncle Masao who runs the place is either never home or is inaccessible.  Regarding that place, which, though not a playground, served as the background for most of my childhood memories...  I miss it dearly.  I remember those hot, quiet rooms.  The refrigerator that was always stocked with drinks for me.  I remember the Japanese radio station always blaring, with the kitchen windows open, with plastic bags suspended from the glass jealousies (to dry them); the flies buzzing, my grandma always standing at the cutting board, cutting something.  My grandmother always had time for me.  Whenever I had something on my mind, or she had some wisdom to impart to me... she would sit me down, hand patting my knee to hold my attention.  And, no matter what, I think I would always feel better about life...

I also remember the yard.  The uneven paving stones, the endless potted plants.

The bathroom, with the old sink, everything a kind of cyan blue.

The mirror at the end of the hall...

The room that was intended for the dog (Coco) and the matting on the floor to catch his piss.

Just some fleeting memories of a place that is now gone.

test twine posting

Zork I: Forces of Krill

3. The Vessel: Write about a ship or other vehicle that can take you somewhere different from where you are now.

this vessel that takes me some place "different..." well, first of all, where would some place different be? because, in my present cynical perspective, anywhere you are is precisely the same, because you are there. it would almost have to be different in the sense of being someone else. and not just someone else, but someone who is liberated from this current state of being. i know, i'm sounding buddhistic, but i've lived long enough to understand the feeling of being pursued by- i'm not sure what to call it- desperation? despair? unhappiness? and it is that which i have sought to escape all my life. different places, different times, different people- yes, in some small way, they have made a difference... but in truth, the circumstance of entrapment is always the same.

i would say that a "different place" (i.e. the place i would want to be) would involve a narrative where there was a progressive march towards a definite, desired destiny... although, maybe that sounds a bit too "fixed." actually, i sort of like destruction's escape: to always go up and out... and nowhere in particular. that sounds intriguing. maybe i would want to carry a door with me wherever i went, so that i could just walk through to the place i wanted to be. not just places i'd already been to, but places where i wanted to be. i guess like a teleportation door... and perhaps it could not just go anywhere in space, but also to places in time...

but in all places, i would travel as a sort of mendicant. i would learn everything i could about the world. i would stay in one place long enough to understand it, and then move on... there is a secret yearning in my heart, and i would follow it to each successive interest.

where would i go first? well, because i have a thing against pure escapism, i think i would use this door to help me to gain information on this whole hate movement in this country, and in this world, and attempt to undermine it, humiliate it, embarrass it, destroy it... and then, once that were done, then i would try to find other ways to help the world.

so... going back to the vessel... for me, it wouldn't be a "ship," it would just have enough room for me to pass through, a portable door.

2. The Unrequited love poem: How do you feel when you love someone who does not love you back?

i suppose there's a certain sadness in me whenever i've "loved" someone who didn't love me back. of course, most of the time, i'd have to say i was more infatuated than in love. that is, it was a kind of love-from-a-distance thing. and perhaps i never really even wanted to be close to that person, because if that person ever did get close (i.e. reciprocate) then it would destroy the illusion i had of that person. it's funny; oftentimes, i would actually have this fantasy of dying for that person. it was an expression of this idea that, again, the existence of the infatuated person would cancel out my own existence...

this morphed into a lot of different compensations or versions. i read don quixote, and all that talk about chivalric love, and i'd laugh and think that it was so ridiculous. but in many ways, it was exactly what i did. i would long for people, but then have this certain giddy happiness at being "denied" (most of the time, no one even knew how i was feeling, btw). it was almost as though the infatuatee was in this separate heaven where everything was perfect and right, and i was in this purgatory just biding my time...

maybe i don't understand love at all. or at least, it's not love in the sense that others feel it.

i have always felt so thoroughly unworthy of love... maybe also respect. i have always felt so thoroughly despised. but again, maybe it was simply so i could remain a secret. an unknown factor. the hidden weapon.

i was never very close to people. but when i have been close, i.e. friendly, it has always felt dangerous. i'm not good at maintaining barriers, especially with people who have dared to enter my distant "gravity field," and for those that have been friendly to me (women that is), there was always the temptation to completely eclipse that distance... in my twisted head, that always meant intimacy (as if that actually solves anything).

nowadays, love is strange to me. i mean, not true love, the love that i feel for my wife, but that head-over-heels romantic type of love. even in fantasy, i don't believe it. or rather, it is so removed and incompatible with my present mindset that i can't even conceive of the possibility. i can't imagine a person who would ever express interest in me, at least not in a way that my defenses would not coopt. i think in many ways i'm impregnable. or completely dense.

as i get older, the possibility of "romance" (i.e., that trill and thrill) is ever more remote. i am an old man, and am happily, loyally married. and no one would be interested, no one could be interested in me. so...

love, the romantic sort of love, is only in memories, and even in memories, only existing as some kind of hollow echo; an unfulfilled promise.

well, i don't know what else to say on this topic...

writing prompt 1

so i'm trying to establish a routine that will keep me writing. as i mentioned YEARS ago probably, i am trying natalie goldman's method of free-writing. this is more stream-of-consciousness sort of writing, which attempts to bypass the editing mind. it's beneficial (i THINK), but it has the problem of being disjointed and fragmented, and largely unfocused. in order to practice a more focused aspect of writing, i am also going to use this blog to address writing prompts. right now, i am using a site called 365 creative writing prompts to supply the prompts. we'll see how this goes.

1. Outside the Window: What’s the weather outside your window doing right now? If that’s not inspiring, what’s the weather like somewhere you wish you could be?

right now, the weather's fine. it's a bit cool, which, for hawaii, is like in the 60s or even 70s. although it did rain earlier today, the streets are dry now. the only wet parts are on the grass (that's why i had to wipe down my dog's paws after we came in from our walk).

the sky is clear (at least as far as i can remember). the moon's a crescent. it's not yet the thinnest crescent, which (my wife always points out) is my grandmother's moon. it's supposed to represent my grandma because her smile was thin and bright, like a cheshire cat's. it's supposed to be a sign of good luck, like she's watching over us.

the air is pretty still. it isn't like the way it's been over the past weekend, with gusts up to 84 mph. the winds pretty much scoured the yard. it's funny, though; i suppose our yard is so congested with trees and plants that the wind gets split up and dispersed, and ultimately, nothing really gets blown around too much. the only things i noticed blown over were the black plastic garbage bin (which was empty at the time) and the conical wire planters.

i can't see directly outside the window at the moment, because we have it shaded up (the blinds drawn). but i know what's there. there is the little garden path that i planned out and planted so long ago. now, a lot of those plants are full-grown. there are a couple of strawberry guava trees in the front. then, there is a pink kokutan plant that has essentially grown into a large flame shaped tree. its leaves are large, and very different from what i consider to be the true kokutan plants, which have more rounded leaves. (in fact, i kind of doubt that the pink flowered one is a kokutan at all). i recall at one point, a lot earlier in its growth, how there would be a lot of ants on the kokutan plant. aphids too. but it seems to be doing very well right now. maybe too well, in fact.

across from the kokutan is a bottle brush tree. we once had a bottle brush tree in our yard, when i was growing up. it occupied the more shadowed part of the house, the side that was closer to kamehameha highway... actually, now that i think about it, there were probably two of those trees. there was another bottlebrush tree on the sunny side. i remember those trees attracting a lot of bees, because of their red "bottle brushes," which i suppose contain a lot of pollen. nowadays, those trees don't seem to attract a lot of bees; rather, i notice birds like the mejiro feeding off of those flowers.

i just had a memory regarding the bottle brush tree on the shadowed part of the yard. i remember trying to save a baby mejiro bird. i'm not sure if it was a baby, actually, as all of those types of birds are pretty small. but i tried saving it by (i think) feeding it with banana water. ultimately, it didn't work. i tried to make a little grave for it, and i believe i buried it beneath that bottle brush tree in the shadowed part of the yard.

... going back to my yard: after the bottle brush tree, there is a black pine tree. i remember it starting out so very small. now it is pretty tall, and it has a lot of dried needles. i wish it looked better, but i'm not sure how to prune it or train it so that the needles grow out in a nice pattern.

i'm skipping over a lot of the junipers. and oh yeah, there is one more round kokutan. i say it's round because i've kind of trained it into a ball.

the path is dirt, with 3-hexagonal paving stones. at one point, i tried to plant a sort of mossy ground cover. i forget what it was called. it took for a little while, but then it started to die away...

the yard is quiet. i wish more people would walk through it. it contains a lot of the same plants that my grandpa used to plant. in fact, a few of those plants are transplants from my grandpa's yard. i like to think that i'm carrying on my grandpa's traditions by growing those plants...

oh well, i suppose that i've pretty much addressed this prompt.

tonight my belly rumbles and boils...  a euphemestic way of saying i have the runs.

i attended judo with my son.  i was tired.  we haven't been going regularly; in fact, we basically skipped out all of last month.  so when it came time to do wind sprints, i kind of died at one point.  i suppose i could have- SHOULD have- kept running.  as one of the older people, i suppose i'm supposed to set an example for the kids...  but gods, i was heaving and my lungs were burning.  and did i mention i was tired?

earlier today, we had a teacher's workday at school.  which meant we had training seminars.  the morning one was good, but i was falling asleep in the afternoon one.  i honestly don't know what the point of the afternoon one was.  i suppose my attitude wasn't particularly good, but it seemed as though the instructor, who i seriously doubt implemented some of this stuff in the classroom, was just talking to fill time.  i could be wrong.  and i feel bad for imposing my critique on her; she seemed well-meaning.

***

as work begins, i'm not sure how much energy i can devote to some of the routines i've tried to establish in the beginning of this new year: reading, writing, drawing.  i still want to, and i will give it all i've got...

there was something i wanted to say...  oh yes, i somehow thought about one of studio ghibli's first animations: graveyard of the fireflies.  i kept hearing the theme.  it makes me want to cry, to protect children, the innocence of them.  i find that this feeling is in direct opposition to this other side of me, which i'm becoming more and more aware of: selfish, lustful...  i think that for most of my life, i've tried to maintain the former perspective or stance, of being a "brother," a protector, a self-sacrificing and gentle soul...  and there was this myth in my head that when i died, i would be redeemed somehow, and rewarded with everything that was denied me in life.  it's ironic, because even with the reward, it wouldn't be the same as enacting or actualizing the desires of that other side, which, frankly, is a lot about conquest.

in fact, a lot of my struggle is about reconciling fundamentally irreconcilable opposites.

***

i had an image in my mind of the side of our old house in Mililani: the wall, where we stored stuff like wood, where our old dog Jackie used to live; near the sandbox that turned into a mud-pit, where i got my first case of pinworms...  near the planted section of ferns, where the roaches used to have their city; and where our two later dogs ("owned" by my sister) Limu and Poki would wander through late into the night...  near the bottle brush tree.

there was the high wall on that side, and beyond it, the house of our neighbors.  i remember the twin girls that used to live there, jean and jan.

not sure why that image appeared in my head, but it did: pretty distinct.

the gaze of the other paralyzes.  that is its nature.  in the face of the other, we shrink, we shirk...  in darkness, we grow unbounded by our limits, but within light, in the eyes of the other, we suddenly have a finitude, and, in fact, we shrink away from our potentialities.

***

i felt a tension...  i feel a tension.

there is a state of being broken.  of feeling on edge.  and accompanying it is a perpetual tension...  i am not certain why this is so.

to clarify: i have been paying attention to my different modes.  one involves drifting comfortably over surfaces.  another, which oftentimes closely approximates or mimics the first, and in fact, probably depends on the first (or supports the first) involves "putting everything in its right place."  with regards to this second mode, i recall times when i was in elementary school when i would arrange all of my pencils in my school box just so, and would even be frustrated when the natural jostling about would disturb their perfect symmetry...  related to this: once, in college, when a woman walked across campus to "study" with me, and lay on my bed talking about how "tired" she was, all i could do was continue my studies, because that was what i was supposed to do.  it was an opportunity that i honestly didn't see or even think of capitalizing on at that time.  again, it all has to do with this second mentality or mode, which crystallizes me in a prison of steel.

a third mode involves the poetic existence, or at least, my approximation of it.  it has a certain attitude to it, and, as i mentioned, a certain tension.  it involves brokenness: wearing clothes that have holes in them, wearing an expression that has a near sneer on it...  speaking obtusely and frankly...  there is a rebelliousness implicit in it, as though the second mode has highlighted the contradictions implicit in all existence, and that i am forced to take this stance, because to be "artistic" and true automatically requires a kind of ejection and rejection...

i don't know if there are other modes of existence, but those are a few that i can categorize.  i have drifted in the first two modes for a long time.  it is rare (and probably not sustainable) for me to exist in the third.  the third, by the way, contains or allows passion.  TRUE passion, not the routinized passion that i embody today.  true passion in the sense that it is destructive, nonsystematic, perhaps anti systematic.  it doesn't give a fuck about tomorrow, or reasons why; it simply is, and does.

***

i'm trying to understand these, and also the way my mind/heart remember (or fail to remember).  i suppose this relates to my modes of being too.  the systematic mode sometimes remembers (although oftentimes memory does not play into the "system" because so much of what occurs in life is nonassimilable, or irrelevant); but even when it remembers, it does so sketchily, it mutated the memory to fit into a container.  the anti-systematic mode sometimes remembers, although because it is so thoroughly unsystematic, it only remembers "surfaces" and impressions.  i don't know how or why i cannot reconcile the two, but my relationship with my past is often- problematic.  i either don't recall, or i can't feel.  or both.

so, while i have been consistently "practice-writing" per natalie goldberg (yes, i'm on that track again), as before, i find that sort of writing is not fit for any sort of publication or even re-reading by myself.  it is mostly stream-of-consciousness stuff.  it rarely gets deeper than any momentary and fragmentary thought that passes into my head.  this always inspires frustration in me, and reflects a general problem in my life: this idea that there IS no story "existent" within me, that there is no shape or landscape that i can "express."  this means that any narrative that i construct would be wholly contrived, and what i've found is that i am not a good "contriver."  as it is, writing stories is an artificial process, and produces an artificial construct; how then, if there is no skeleton, no core, upon which to hang these rags and curtains?

ANYWAY, i figure that blogging is a good intermediary step.  while probably NO ONE reads this, there is this idea that someone does, or that potentially someone could.  and with the introduction of even the possibility of another, there is an immediate imposition of structure to my words.  i used to write about this sort of thing back in college.  i always wondered about the "ordering" of the world, not just the real world, but also the world of consciousness.  i (like many philosophers) primarily were motivated to understand this point because of their frustration with the world-as-ordered, especially because it came with a lot of existential guilt.  understanding how the conscious world-as-ordered formed would, they believed, help to free them from this guilt.

ANYWAY (as i have a tendency here to go off on large tangents)...  that's what i'm trying to do here.

***

i watched a great movie yesterday.  it was called "a monster calls."  it's about a young, imaginative, artistic boy (or should i say adolescent, not a boy, not a man) with a mother dying of cancer.  it deals with a lot of the anger and frustration and grief and, most importantly, guilt, that lies festering within him.  he calls out to a "monster", a giant humanoid that springs out of a yew tree that the boy can see atop a high field (graveyard, actually).  the monster visits him at 12:07 (i still almost come up with reasons for that particular number) and tells him paradoxical, ambiguous stories that have muddled (and multi-layered) interpretations.

it was a great, wise, touching movie.  most notably, i loved the use of the stories, which the boy (and the viewers) interpret on the surface; various interpretations, including how to deal with an imposing grandmother, or a "good start bad finish" father.  ultimately, though, the monster, like a zen master, is using the stories to point to the boy's own unresolved issues, particularly his guilt.  this guilt comes out when the boy is forced by the monster to tell the fourth story: his own particular nightmare.

***

i often wonder if there is a secret wound within me.  i seek it out.  i debase myself continually (because i do think that there is a lot of hate within me).  but there is a point where i lose focus.  and nothing comes up.  that is the key: that the "answer" wells up something within you, something forgotten, perhaps, or denied.  i don't think (or know) if i deny much of anything.  there are things i've realized about myself that i won't even disclose here, to this "fictional audience."  things that i was at first ashamed of, but slowly started to understand were just necessary parts of my being.

humans are complicated creatures, after all.  (this is something the monster says).  we are not all good or all evil, but mostly something in between.  i am so.  there are evils within me too.  but, (and this is something that the monster also says) what is important is what we do.

NEVERTHELESS, even though it is important what we do, we still need to face and confront and set free all of the contradictions within us.  if we don't, it's as though we are tethered to the ground, with a hefty knot holding us back from everything.

i have always felt confined.  i want liberation.  writing, drawing, everything are means to that end.  THIS is a means to that end.

there is an ancient, nameless guilt  it has pursued me across space and time, and still manages to find me...

i kept hearing the words (or rather the tune) to that song by the weekend...  and it morphed to other songs, like the one from arianna grande...  whoa, i am dating myself, because later when i read this, i will look back with sadness upon what has passed.  what used to be quaint, the background, is now irretrievably gone.

there is a critique from certain people, a judgment.  and the judgment imposes a slick, sheer silver wall that is impossible to climb or influence.  you will NEVER measure up.  in the face of that, i fall apart, i doubt myself.  there are so many things which i neglect, simply by existing, and this makes me feel like that...  then, in my mind, i run through a checklist...  i suppose that my son worries me the most.  but last night, i ran with him, and we sort of had a heart to heart.  he is so open and positive when i speak to him.  i love that within him.  sure, he has worries and anxieties, but he still paints them with such brashness...  in this, he is unlike me, who am simply a mass of worries, a ball on wound up tension.  when he spoke of becoming a teacher, there was a feeling of reassurance within me.

i have wondered, perhaps since the beginning, at the irony...  of how we can be so cruel to ourselves, so judgmental, and yet, extend such warmth and mercy to others.  it's not, and it never has been, about them "measuring up".  i suppose that i have ALWAYS held that misgiving within myself...  but my son proves me wrong: how he unabashedly moves out into the world, mess or no mess, incomplete or no...  he has a bravery that i admire.  and people (including me) seem to like that.  i love that.  why is that?  why is that allowed (thankfully!) but it can never apply to me?

is there someone that acknowledges everything?  i used to think of this as a lover, but there is no lover with the patience and space within their heart to accommodate all the shit that i have to offer.  that's something i realized real quick.  a lover comes to you with their own needs and wants, and it is simply a happy coincidence that those are met, temporarily, and imperfectly, within each other...  and you still have to be strong enough to stand, with all of your own internal contradictions...

i am sad, crying on the inside.  there is no true comfort in this world.  everything passes away.  nothing meets the ideal that you, fleetingly, set for it.  everything falls apart...  in such a world, to stand.  that is the miracle.  in this moment, i love my son, for what he can do.  i will support him, as best as i can.