Stay At Home, Dad.

Stay At Home, Dad.

Alright, here’s something petty, perhaps something petty enough to warrant a Petty Report. The thing is that my dad, an old white man, has refused to Stay Home during “The Virus.” And now, after realizing that he must, he has essentially held his good behavior hostage for some of my writing. He’s made a deal with my brother as well, but I do not know exactly what it is that he (my dad) is getting from him (my brother). What he’s “requested” from me is one essay for each week that he “behaves” and stays home, piddles around the neighborhood, goes nowhere non-essential, which is nowhere as the material needs he needs may be delivered, etc., and no expenses. Yes, he requires extensive medical care, but none of them are urgent in nature; they are chronic.

So, if he just stays inside and listens to everybody about how he just needs to not be so stubborn and selfish, then he would simply do the right thing. Instead, he wants something in return. Again, like aforementioned, I do not know what he is getting from my brother, but what he wants from me is writing about this goddamn virus! He wants to know what I thought about it as it was all ramping up; he wants to know what I think about it now as we’re in the throes of it, and he greedily wants to know what I will think about it once it all has died down. I have no idea how many essays this will turn into as there are no knowns at this point, but I am to send them to him on a weekly basis every time he’s a good boy for a whole week. OMFingG. My father is a child.

And I’m his child, so I have no other option than to be petty about it, to almost refuse his wishes to teach him a goddamn lesson about stubbornness. But then, I’m just being stubborn. Ugh. And yes, I am well aware of how my “problems” are not real problems.

When the mind wanders …

When the mind wanders …

I’m about to sit in silence for the majority of this entire day as I read and write and contemplate my life. Why? Because I must. Why? Because, lately, every day I have been having to deal with shit that I’ve never had to deal with before these days.

Everything is new but not necessarily shiny. Everything is different but not necessarily unfamiliar. Everything is challenging but not necessarily overwhelming. Everything is overwhelming but not necessarily unmanageable.

And all at the same time, I must continually remind myself that, “Everything is nothing.” And ultimately, I’m alone in this world.

These American bootstraps are made of rubber.

It’s that great ‘ol American Dream of These United States—individuality—to be able to do and pursue the thing(s), the life(ves) that I want/need/must obtain in order to be and feel fulfilled. And I must achieve all of these things on my own, and if I’m given any help along the way, I should be grateful.  Am I being treated poorly, or am I just being insecure? At eight in the morning, these thoughts cannot be brushed aside.

I know what I’m supposed to do; I know where I’m supposed to go, but the how seems to be the bit about which everyone knows very little. How?, they ask. You do!, they exclaim. But what?, I ask. Whatever you want!, they exclaim again. But how do I figure out what I want?, I ask. Ask yourself what you want to do!, they exclaim. And then do!, they exclaim again. And again, the how is lost.

Nobody wants to hear you.

I hear them say. Over and over I am pummeled by the reality that not only do I not matter, but also, it’s impossible to matter. Who, honestly, matters? You reveal your own importance by creating that importance, but to create one’s own importance reveals a true lack of it (one’s importance).

A sphere being pulled by one hundred thousand tiny suction cups, away from the center, outward, stretching the film of the mind suspended at its core. Pop—the perfect pinging petite pop of a tightly held thing set free—pop, pop, pop, pop, POP. All she wants is to run away. But where will she go and truly be happy? She knows there is nowhere. She knows there is no one. She knows that when all else fades and all else fails, alone she will be when her alive self becomes dead. 

The mind is not a palace it’s a cage. But within the minds of others is where I feel trapped. The perception, the perspective on a perception that all must be … translated.

When the mind wanders, where does it go?

A Few Things About Friendship

A Few Things About Friendship

After a year-long global excursion of procrastination, the lifemate and I have settled back into (we’ve been here for about four full months) our home state. Honestly, we’ve sort of been dreading this arrival due to the fact that there are simply too many people to catch up with, reconnect with, etc., etc., &c. Today marks the fourth day of March, and I’ve already had social engagements with people from my past every single month this year, AND April and July and October already contain bookings. I’m not trying to reveal how vibrant or lame my social life is, what I’m trying to reveal is the thing about friendship. Whether or not I am capable of such a feat (writing about the thing about friendship, not the having of friends) still remains unknown, but alas, the day is Wednesday and that means that I must write to this here Report.

The friend I saw yesterday, for Arbitrary Day, is a very old friend, someone I have known since before I was aware that I knew them (for the sake of the triviality of gender), i.e. our families are friends. I have not seen this friend since late 2012, just before my parents moved out of my “hometown” and the summer before I was to leave for Seoul for the next five-to-six years. They are a dear friend, and the strange part is that I was never super close to her when we were young. We shared a lot of the same extracurriculars (even traveling to South Africa for the same opportunity at the same time but being parted into separate groups), and we got along well, but close is not how I would describe us. I do not hold any of their secrets, nor do they hold mine, and yet, we are so very close simply because we share so many frames of reference, and we know a lot of the same people.

And that’s the strange thing about friendship because I also have a very new friend to whom I have grown very close, very quickly, and I feel so much closer to this person than I do the friend I’ve known all my life, and at the same exact time, I know that the old friend can be relied upon in a way that no new friends really can. All of this probably also has something to do with the thing about time, and the thing about time is something about which I basically know nothing. So, there’s that.

And then there was the friend who fit snugly in the middle. I have known this friend for a little over ten years, and we have been through some shit together. This friend, therefore, I realized fell in a category all their own: a person with whom we are close and with whom we are long-term friends. Meaning, our closeness has the same amount to do with how long we’ve known each other and the actual closeness of our relationship in present time.

I was not expecting to learn something like this from a small gathering of friends, old and new, for a small (too big, after one couple cancelled due to illness) dinner. It was awesome to feel all the feels I felt toward the people in my life. I’m both excited and daunted at the prospect of 2020 being an emotionally charged year filled with the re-connection and new connection of old and new souls. I’m already feeling burdened by the task of being a good friend to those with whom I feel especially bonded. But so far, it’s been worth the effort.

About From-Scratch Bread-Making

About From-Scratch Bread-Making

So, I have this internet friend (and I only use this term because we have not seen each other, in person, afk, since … 2007) with whom I’ve been communicating lately, and she’s fun. She’s also incredibly insightful, in that she is my “Meme Queen.” She’s basically the only person whose memes choice really hit me in the face, and I love them. One of the memes she posted a few months ago had something to do with when friends begin bread-making, they’re definitely depressed. Obviously, she devirginized me of this meme, and I lol’d pretty hard until I had myself a good think.

The thing I enjoyed most was that this perception of people who make bread from scratch being about how depressed they are, and I responded by saying that it totally makes sense, because the making of homemade bread requires time, and most people do not have a lot of time, so if you’re unemployed or underemployed, there’s a really good chance you’re feeling underutilized, useless, etc., and this feeling combined with the act of bread making is what made the meme hilarious to me. And honestly, I don’t remember now if it was a meme or just someone’s tweet, and honestly, I don’t really fucking care cause that’s not the point.

Anyway, the point is that I checked myself. I had to contemplate how I felt, how I feel now when I want/decide to make some bread. For instance, this morning, I woke up feeling a bit exhausted (still from the day before, which is a story unto itself but that will not be addressed here, at this time), tired, drained, and overwhelmingly sad. I, personally, would not define these feelings as depressed as I know why I am feeling these feelings, but I also know that I was inspired to make a fresh loaf. It’s 0900 in the morning. There’s something about a fresh-baked, homemade loaf of bread that I know will satisfy me, comfort me on some level, and today, I am feeling the need for that comfort.

So, although, I do not agree that everyone who begins making bread from scratch is depressed, I am thoroughly grateful that this friend brought the perception to my attention. I do not wish to deny my from-scratch-bread-making proclivities so as not to appear depressed; that’s not it. Instead, I am truly grateful that now, every time I make or want to make a loaf of bread, I check-in with myself to see how I am truly feeling. And that is a great gift, a small nugget of a reminder to see how you’re doing.

But … ?

But … ?

So, I have this friend/acquaintance/old-school buddy from my college days, and she posted a strange Story about how she receives phone calls, and on the other end of the line, speaks some male creep who tells her that they’ve been masturbating to her boobs. Of course, I do not imagine that she will find this particular piece, but it is possible, and so, if you are reading this, friend, just know that I don’t really care that you posted; I do really care about the sexual nature of your harassment/abuse, but I just have a few confusions revolving around this circumstance.

Firstly, obviously, where are they finding these pictures of her boobs? Second, who are these guys who have her number and can reach her so easily? Third, why does she pick up the phone for numbers she doesn’t know? Fourth, the phone used in the story was a desk-top, office phone; like, how? Since I did not feel the need or desire to ask her all of these things, which perhaps was the smarter, better action, I messaged by saying, “At least you’ve got great boobs,” to which she replied with zero appreciation for my comment. I’m not upset by this, of course, we are not close; we are internet close, which reminds me of some other Report I need to write up soon with regards to closeness, but that’s not here cause it’s over there.

Nevertheless, I attempted to explain myself, but now I find that I just don’t really care simply because there are too many unanswered questions that cause too much confusion about how I should be feeling about this particular circumstance. Obviously it sucks; obviously it’s terribly terrible; obviously it’s completely unnecessary and clearly makes her feel bad, BUT … so much of our reality is solely based on our perceptions, and to me, a shift in perception, a shift in perspective helps to make the world less terrible. Yea, sure, you can’t live in denial about the shit you’re going through, but you can broaden your view on the shit that happens on the daily and see the larger picture … the broader picture that accepts that there are a lot of creepy men out there, and so, it’d be worse if you were also unattractive. Yea, of course, it’s petty.

My point is not to disregard the shit that my friend’s going through with the creeps who keep calling, but why do they know her number? Why does she answer the phone? Why has she not spoken to anyone who can actually do something about it if it’s been happening at work? My point is to point at the fact that complaining about shit is not doing anything about the shit that’s happening. Complaining is futile. If she was really offended, she wouldn’t be sharing it on her social media as a Story, she’d be doing something to make it stop. Or at the very least, she’d could Story about what she’s doing to make it all go away. Since that is not the position she took, I responded in a much less serious manner … I joked about it, cause to me, social media, especially the Stories feature, is not a serious platform. If she had texted, I would’ve taken the issue seriously and responded seriously.

I suppose I’m writing all of this, now, in my own self-defense because I’m afraid she’s never going to talk to me again. But again, not really the point, and yea, not really anything new. People find me harsh, and I do not disagree. And it’s not so much that I feel bad about this whole situation, the problem is that I think I offended someone over the internet, an internet friend, but I don’t actually know cause she didn’t tell me that I’m an inconsiderate hag; she didn’t communicate anything. Lame. Oh well.

Until the next Petty Report …

 

Trust Me

Trust Me

Lately, I’ve been learning a lot about myself due to circumstances that I’ve created (but this is not about the circumstances). Unfortunately, most of these lessons are less than savory. Mostly, I’ve been confronted with these two ideas: Love and Trust. Both of the platonic variety (my sexual love life is on point with a Body Buddy the likes of which my world had never known before and of whom my world will never let go). Platonic love is a whole other story, and it requires almost more trust than sexual love because there are fewer ways to express that love, especially when—with regards to platonic love—saying, “I love you,” is usually inappropriate. But really, this is not a thing about love for it is a thing about Trust. And trust is not one of my stronger suits.

The thing about trust is that there are no guarantees, which is not the same as faith because faith requires the acceptance of ignorance. Trust requires the testing of facts against the words and actions that are to be trusted. Trust requires that you bet on the good. Trust demands that you sit in the unknown. Trust is built over the course of a long, steady test of words and events. The unrelenting need for proof that what someone says is what they mean and who they are. And this does not even include the keeping of sensitive information. If I had a metaphor (no matter how terrible), I’d share it.

My situation revolves around the simple trust of a young friend. Obviously, I cannot go into the specifics of the situation, as that would thusly make me untrustworthy, but I do not think it wrong to write about them (as the gender-neutral pronoun) in relation to myself under the terms of discovery. I know that I am trustworthy on many accounts, however, this does not mean that I will not break the trust of my young friend simply because I do not know what actions they will consider to be breaking their trust. I have more than a few inklings about what I can and cannot do, but mostly, I do not know what sorts of little things will cross their line.

The situation, more specifically, however, revolves around my development as a trust-worthy person. I am in constant fear that they will no longer trust me because they find me to be unworthy of their trust. And at the same time, I am also a bit fearful that I will end up heartbroken in the end. But all of this is on me. That is trust. Moving forward, carefully sharing and revealing ourselves to those around us who seem to care. Whether or not they care is not our issue. We trust and are handled (positively or poorly) by those to whom we give our trust, and we grow and become more enlightened as a person who trusts and is rewarded for that trust. Or that trust is broken, and we are enlightened through the feedback we receive when we learn, for certain, that a person cannot be trusted.

I have someone who delicately and gently holds me in my vulnerable state of trust and intimate love, but that seems so easy compared to the platonic love of friends. Cause … like … what if they don’t like me as much as someone else? But there are many different types of love and friendship and intimacy. They all, however, require a solid, strong, secure foundation of trust. Without the vulnerability of floating alone in that unknown space proves difficult at every stage of a relationship. Lest not forget, however, that the other person is also floating about in the unknown. And so, I suppose that the real gift is simply being given the opportunity to trust another human, and in turn, you might both win through the knowing of each by the other.

On Niceness

On Niceness

Why is it so difficult to do good, to be good? Why does it seem as those it goes against our very nature to do good? Why is everyone so caught up in their own shit that they cannot even see other people much less treat them well? Why does the sun shine so bright? Why can I sometimes not hear the birds chirping? Why, when the obvious thing to do in a moment is just to simply be fucking nice, do so many people opt to be assholes? Even in the smallest, tiniest, most insignificant moments, people choose to harm rather than uplift. Is it really so difficult to be nice?