Saturday, May 19, 2012
Marsilani Chronicles: it has been a while since my last posting. well, ...
Marsilani Chronicles: it has been a while since my last posting. well, ...: it has been a while since my last posting. well, this is not really for my nonexistent readership as it is to chronicle the slow and strang...
Marsilani Chronicles: hey.allow me to articulate a problem (one that i...
Marsilani Chronicles: hey.
allow me to articulate a problem (one that i...: hey. allow me to articulate a problem (one that i have referred to ad nauseum). what if, deep in your heart, there was a vicious and relen...
allow me to articulate a problem (one that i...: hey. allow me to articulate a problem (one that i have referred to ad nauseum). what if, deep in your heart, there was a vicious and relen...
Monday, October 24, 2011
it has been a while since my last posting. well, this is not really for my nonexistent readership as it is to chronicle the slow and strange changes that occur within me over time...
currently, i feel as though i am in a bad place. there are a few enormous stressors in my life, such that i feel i don't get enough sleep, and yet, i can never get enough done. i feel like a body of flesh that is meant to suffer between moments of respite; an unfortunate locus of -whatever- that is where blame and trouble tend to be drawn towards...
i envy those with a regularity in their lives, those who can sleep and who have interests that they are allowed to follow. they are real, integrated people, who have a space for themselves. i find that i am little more than disconnected snapshots, a life passed through a shredder, and the bits and pieces i find in the dumpster are what i try to put together to find an identity.
i envy those for whom life is a continual move towards bigger and better things. for me, the simple things still offend...
i love, i love, i love. love is that wonderful pull towards some other greater whole. my children, my wife, those whom i spend so little and diminishing time with, they are everything to me. the peaceful home we have established. and yet, i feel an alien to them at times, they are walled off from me and my unrelenting concerns... the stresses of life are sometimes blows to my chest and abdomen, and make my smiles with those i love seem forced, hollow, coughing.
i long to sleep. i long to forget for a time, just long enough to return renewed. but sleep comes rarely, and too shallow to allow me to drown and resurrect.
i pray to god in abject moments. i no longer forget him/her, because calamities occur in every blind moment. i feel suspended by a faith that does not offer respite, but continually stretches me to each successive challenge.
friends? do i really have any? someday, i will die, and leave people the task i left unfinished, to assemble some fiction of a self, and a narrative of a life, all dissatisfactory. they will wonder what to say. they will wonder what was missing now that i was gone, or, more precisely, what used to be present. i still often wonder what it is, who it is, that is present with each passing day: a certain reluctance, an inevitable tumble into the fray. that is all i really am, that is all i will ever really be?
currently, i feel as though i am in a bad place. there are a few enormous stressors in my life, such that i feel i don't get enough sleep, and yet, i can never get enough done. i feel like a body of flesh that is meant to suffer between moments of respite; an unfortunate locus of -whatever- that is where blame and trouble tend to be drawn towards...
i envy those with a regularity in their lives, those who can sleep and who have interests that they are allowed to follow. they are real, integrated people, who have a space for themselves. i find that i am little more than disconnected snapshots, a life passed through a shredder, and the bits and pieces i find in the dumpster are what i try to put together to find an identity.
i envy those for whom life is a continual move towards bigger and better things. for me, the simple things still offend...
i love, i love, i love. love is that wonderful pull towards some other greater whole. my children, my wife, those whom i spend so little and diminishing time with, they are everything to me. the peaceful home we have established. and yet, i feel an alien to them at times, they are walled off from me and my unrelenting concerns... the stresses of life are sometimes blows to my chest and abdomen, and make my smiles with those i love seem forced, hollow, coughing.
i long to sleep. i long to forget for a time, just long enough to return renewed. but sleep comes rarely, and too shallow to allow me to drown and resurrect.
i pray to god in abject moments. i no longer forget him/her, because calamities occur in every blind moment. i feel suspended by a faith that does not offer respite, but continually stretches me to each successive challenge.
friends? do i really have any? someday, i will die, and leave people the task i left unfinished, to assemble some fiction of a self, and a narrative of a life, all dissatisfactory. they will wonder what to say. they will wonder what was missing now that i was gone, or, more precisely, what used to be present. i still often wonder what it is, who it is, that is present with each passing day: a certain reluctance, an inevitable tumble into the fray. that is all i really am, that is all i will ever really be?
Saturday, June 18, 2011
hey.
allow me to articulate a problem (one that i have referred to ad nauseum). what if, deep in your heart, there was a vicious and relentless hatred of who you were and who you are. as a result of this hatred, everything and anything you did and everything and anything you tried to become had at its heart the motivation to somehow escape or alleviate or change the mind of this hatred. but because this hatred was not specific, it was impossible to convince it of anything.
there were ways to temporarily escape or alleviate this hatred. if you did something new and exciting, or went somewhere new and exciting, or met someone new and exciting, then, for a time, you seemed to lose that hatred, or it lost you, and, for a time, things would be innocent and happy. but inevitably, something bad would happen, or, for that matter, nothing bad would happen at all; it didn't matter, because no matter what, you would find yourself in the same place again, confronted and dogged by this relentless hatred.
sometimes you would find reason to believe that the hatred actually came from outside of yourself, from other people, perhaps. and perhaps you were right, that other people did dislike, or actively hate you (although more often than not, it was more that you were "below the radar" and "beneath contempt"). that still didn't change the fact that that external hatred was merely a patina, a superimposition, of a more fundamental hatred.
as a result of this hatred, it was difficult for you to have a clear and positive sense of self. everything you were and are, after all, was motivated by the need to somehow escape that hatred. there was very little that you actually understood to be you, or by extension, yours. if anything, your one desire was for rest, for an end to the chase, for a measure of peace...
i am writing using a rhetorical "you", because i think it COULD be you, although, for all intents and purposes, it is me.
it is always only me.
***
there have been people that i have loved, and loved deeply (loved more than life itself), but for a person who hates himself, what does that mean? it only means, perhaps, that one loves the world relatively more than the impossible-to-love self. and that, even in moments of great sacrifice, is probably not authentic love...
i have made mistakes, and proved myself inauthentic time and again. and i have said sorry, and tried to prove how sorry i was, by destroying myself time and again. and the world has picked up the pieces, and found a temporary place and use for me, so that it could pretend that i belonged time and again. but it always happens that that place vomits me up again, over and over and over. this tumbling awkward existence, this relentless exiling.
***
sentiment is a glue made of tears.
it is intended to pretend emotion, life, and a soul, when the person who hates himself is always confronted by the deadweight reality that he has none of these things.
***
allow me to articulate a problem (one that i have referred to ad nauseum). what if, deep in your heart, there was a vicious and relentless hatred of who you were and who you are. as a result of this hatred, everything and anything you did and everything and anything you tried to become had at its heart the motivation to somehow escape or alleviate or change the mind of this hatred. but because this hatred was not specific, it was impossible to convince it of anything.
there were ways to temporarily escape or alleviate this hatred. if you did something new and exciting, or went somewhere new and exciting, or met someone new and exciting, then, for a time, you seemed to lose that hatred, or it lost you, and, for a time, things would be innocent and happy. but inevitably, something bad would happen, or, for that matter, nothing bad would happen at all; it didn't matter, because no matter what, you would find yourself in the same place again, confronted and dogged by this relentless hatred.
sometimes you would find reason to believe that the hatred actually came from outside of yourself, from other people, perhaps. and perhaps you were right, that other people did dislike, or actively hate you (although more often than not, it was more that you were "below the radar" and "beneath contempt"). that still didn't change the fact that that external hatred was merely a patina, a superimposition, of a more fundamental hatred.
as a result of this hatred, it was difficult for you to have a clear and positive sense of self. everything you were and are, after all, was motivated by the need to somehow escape that hatred. there was very little that you actually understood to be you, or by extension, yours. if anything, your one desire was for rest, for an end to the chase, for a measure of peace...
i am writing using a rhetorical "you", because i think it COULD be you, although, for all intents and purposes, it is me.
it is always only me.
***
there have been people that i have loved, and loved deeply (loved more than life itself), but for a person who hates himself, what does that mean? it only means, perhaps, that one loves the world relatively more than the impossible-to-love self. and that, even in moments of great sacrifice, is probably not authentic love...
i have made mistakes, and proved myself inauthentic time and again. and i have said sorry, and tried to prove how sorry i was, by destroying myself time and again. and the world has picked up the pieces, and found a temporary place and use for me, so that it could pretend that i belonged time and again. but it always happens that that place vomits me up again, over and over and over. this tumbling awkward existence, this relentless exiling.
***
sentiment is a glue made of tears.
it is intended to pretend emotion, life, and a soul, when the person who hates himself is always confronted by the deadweight reality that he has none of these things.
***
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
this morning, i had a dream that i was riding a yellow motorbike to work. i was kinda late. i recall passing the jack-in-the-box in pearl city, and then parking at some auto mechanic shop. for some reason, i got distracted, and, next thing i knew, my bike was gone. the mechanic shop turned into some old dilapidated house. i went into the house, which was filled with old broken screen windows, and peeled green painted walls. it was a haunted house. i remember at one point helping a pair of japanese girls carry a television out of the house. i was walking outside, and i was barefoot, carrying the tv. i had to stop, because i saw a dead cat in the moist ground, and it was surrounded by large pink maggots, "disco rice." i didn't want to get the maggots on me...
***
i want to feel human again.
people like myself don't need much. just a word of conversation, a recognition that you are a person, alive inside the cubicle of your assigned role. i don't want much more than that, but if i had that, i feel like i could survive. i feel as though, with that, i just might make it.
***
***
i want to feel human again.
people like myself don't need much. just a word of conversation, a recognition that you are a person, alive inside the cubicle of your assigned role. i don't want much more than that, but if i had that, i feel like i could survive. i feel as though, with that, i just might make it.
***
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
trichiasis
my son has an ingrown eyelash in his right eye. trichiasis, they call it. i sit beside him, urging him to stay still, as i fold the offending lashes with a moist q-tip, and then press a towel with ice on his swollen eye. i have considered pulling the lashes out, but the mere sight of sharp tweezer edges sends him in a panic, so i have opted for this quieter, gentler method. it is actually the way i would prefer, even though it requires more time and patience on both our parts.
meanwhile, the sky has been unstable, occasionally hooding us like a sweater, trapping the moisture until we gasp the thick air, and occasionally, with a strange mix of fright and relief, breaking open with grumbling cracks and letting fall the rain of reluctant but inevitable rage. under this background, i drift through the uneventful events of my life, emptying myself in my duties, holding secret plots for better tomorrows. on occasion, a lightning strike will pierce even my closed eyelids, and, like a strobe light or the flash of a camera, cut this moment out of time. something, i suspect, is trying to irritate a reaction in me. in the grumble and window-shaking thunder, it seeks to disturb.
but i keep my eyes closed, nose to the grindstone. i, after all, have opted for a quieter, gentler method. even though it requires time. and patience.
meanwhile, the sky has been unstable, occasionally hooding us like a sweater, trapping the moisture until we gasp the thick air, and occasionally, with a strange mix of fright and relief, breaking open with grumbling cracks and letting fall the rain of reluctant but inevitable rage. under this background, i drift through the uneventful events of my life, emptying myself in my duties, holding secret plots for better tomorrows. on occasion, a lightning strike will pierce even my closed eyelids, and, like a strobe light or the flash of a camera, cut this moment out of time. something, i suspect, is trying to irritate a reaction in me. in the grumble and window-shaking thunder, it seeks to disturb.
but i keep my eyes closed, nose to the grindstone. i, after all, have opted for a quieter, gentler method. even though it requires time. and patience.
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