I seem to be rediscovering something warm, bright. I am trying to reconcile two lives I have lived into a newer, stronger life. Like someone just home from Vietnam and trying to reconnect with people, people who won't be able to understand where he has been and what he has done, I am trying to reforge my identity into something that will reconcile the old and the new. Confused? Me too. So much has changed, and is changing still. Nothing is certain anymore. This has been a really, really long year. But, I look around and realize, I am still here.

And I feel good. My God, I feel good.




I'm slowly creating something at myspace. I may completely move there, or I may just use it as a separate means of networking. We shall see.

www.myspace.com/hardcorepoetic

I have nothing new or exciting to tell you. You'd best stop reading now,because whatever comes after will not stimulate you.



No really, stop it.

You see, if you keep reading this, I'll feel obligated to put forth something creative, insightful, entertaining. And thats too much pressure; I can'thandle that kind of responsiblity. I mean, my God, where do I get off thinking that what I write is worth your attention? Who am I to consider mywords an important source of . . . something.? After all, what if you get nothing out of this? What if you come to my blog, expecting to be enlightened, informed, and all you find is complete drivel? What if mywriting becomes a complete waste of your time? I can't have that on my conscience! So stop reading this instant.




Seriously.




Cut it out! This isn't funny!




Enough already!




Hey, you know what . . . just who do you think you are? Expecting me to perform like this. Expecting me to write something worthwhile and interesting. How dare you!? How dare you put this pressure on me! Where doYOU get off? Huh? With all these expectations and lofty goals. Don't hold meto your unreasonable standards.



I don't have to put up with this.



This is harassment.




Stop it.





Stop it!




Ok, I'm done.





No really. I'm stopping now.





I'm stopping.





Now.





Now, for real.





Goodbye!




. . .




. . .




You know what? I think I'm gonna keep writing. Just to spite you! Yeah!Thats right! I'm gonna write and write it's all gonna be CRAP! And you willjust have to sit there and keep scrolling until you waste who knows how much time trying to find some kind of value in this. Talk about an existential quagmire! I told you to stop reading. I tried to stop you. But it's out of my hands now. You can just deal with it. I've got miles of weblog philibuster ready to suck you in and never let go.



Damn straight.




You can't stop now can you?




You're hooked.






What, you think you can outlast me? Well, I've got all the time in theworld.




Soooooooo much time.





Lots 'n lots of time.




Yup.

Time.




. . .




Actually, I've got this thing in a few minutes so I'm gonna have to cut out. It's been fun though. I know you wanted me to keep writing and all but I'vegot a life of my own. I mean, I kept going just to keep you happy but this really isn't healthy. You can't look to me for all of your online needs. I think you might be becoming obsessed. I'm worried about you.

I want to be a writer. BUT, I have absolutely no confidence in my ability to write. And so I don't write. It is merely a dream, a fantasy. My life feels like a complete waste of time. One of these mornings I will wake up and realize that I’ve suddenly become 40 years old and nothing I’ve filled my time with really mattered. Ok, I do write a little. And I write most smoothly, most fluidly, when I’m writing depressing, cynical, rambles like this. In other words, I write best when I’m writing something no one would care to read.

Have I perhaps lost the belief that the written word can change people, effect people? Well, what changes and effects me? Life experience. That was easy. Well then, should my writing be born out of life experience? Sure. But, what must I do to more fully live life so that I can write? . . . Hmmmm. Good question. Whatever it is, I’m worried that I won’t be able to do it. My life simply feels like I’m . . . oh geez, nevermind. I’ve been over and over this. It gets old.

I I remember I had a big imagination when I was younger. Where did that go? Perhaps I just have to exercise it more. Do people who have to rely on writing exercises and workshops really ever become productive and consistent writers? Bestsellers? Literary elite? Or is that the path of the wannabes? Maybe you have it or you don't.

Maybe I don’t have to write, per se. Maybe I just need to create, to accomplish. When I was working at Kinko’s I didn’t have the desperate, blasé feeling that I have right now. That could be because my job consisted of routinely accomplishing new and different tasks in a variety of ways. Every day, I had at least four or more finished products completed, and as many more moved to new stages of completion. Every day had a new batch of jobs (although there were always those that took several days). I filled my off-work time with enjoyable pursuits: fantasy baseball, computer games, movies, music, books. Aside from the fact that I had very little non-work social contact (which did leave me very lonely, I will admit), I was happy.

But now, inside of work and out of it, I feel like I am accomplishing nothing. This may be the root of the problem. All of my days seem horribly short, although that may be due to the unfamiliar sleep schedule. But, even adding things like bowling and slamming back into my life doesn’t seem to be enough to fill the void, the aimlessness. Perhaps, writing really is the answer. It would seem to be the easiest solution. There must be a few stories to tell inside me, somewhere.

My God . . .

I forgot how much working SUCKS!!!



. . . aaaaand it's Nap Time.

The urge to write comes for me at two times. One, when I have recently been inspired by something I have heard read to me, or something (even better) that I have experienced, and Two, when I am bored and have absolutely nothing in my head to write about. Ideally, I should take the latter times, those bored times, and instead of trying to write, try to live, try to recruit some experiences for inspiration. That rarely happens.

So lets pose some honest questions here. Why do I bother writing? Well, I think of the scene in Fight Club, when Tyler asks the two members in the back seat of the careening car what, if they die right now, will they wish they had done before they died. They don’t hesitate. One says “paint a self portrait,” the other says “build a house.” I put myself in their position, and what comes out of my mouth is “write a book.”

Now, I expect that my answer would change if I were to actually write a book (oh, and my desktop-published poetry chapbook doesn’t count), but lets deal with the current answer.

Inside of me, down in the place where desire and motivation and the other vital pieces of who I am mix around, what will it take to make me achieve? Because honestly, I do not see myself as an achiever. I am a wisher, a dreamer, a mass of unsorted potential that may never be put to use. This is distressing. I believe that the life I live, the way I interact with people, is of much greater importance than whether or not I write a book. But this is also distressing, because I am so often antisocial, so often unsure if who I am is who I should be, and so often scared of the responsibility of committing to people, even in friendship. As a general behavior, I am so often convinced of my inabilities that I don’t even try. And this, in turn, hamstrings my willingness to live life to the fullest, and, in turn, my ability to write.

So what do I do? I will be 27 in two days. I am obsessed with failure, and it is destroying me.

Two posts ago, if you recall, I said all I want for Christmas is a job.

Well, I got one. And not the animal control job, either (although they did offer me that one, but I got the low-down on it in the interview, and trust me, it would NOT have been a mentally healthy job for me). Instead, I got a job that perfectly fits the needs we layed out six months ago. I'm the recieving guy at Price Cutter supermarket in Siloam. It's perfect. Only 30 hours a week (even if they are morning hours), my weekends free and just the right wage.

So, it's Christmas Eve. But it doesn't feel like Christmas Eve. Not to me, right here and right now. And tomorrow won't feel like Christmas Day either, I'll bet. I can't say why for sure. But, it doesn't matter. What matters is that God waited until Heather and I were on the verge of complete brokeness, until I was ready and willing to accept a job that I knew would be bad for me, and He answered prayer. He orchestrated things to his liking (i.e. my applying for a job at a place that the very day I applied had a position open, and it was a position that I have experience in) and, depsite my sense of desperation, was faithful to me.
To punctuate just how desperate we were, Heather and I are still going to have to borrow money to get us to my first paycheck. But we know that we can pay that money back within a couple months. And it feels good to know that. Finally.

Merry Christmas.

I feel blessed tonight.
I got to go see/hear The Listener (a.k.a. Dan Smith) at the City Coffee Co. tonight. He is one of the people who forces me to appreciate rap. It was a weird experience all around. This one event (a free pot-luck!) pulled together so many of the JBU alumni still living in this area - some people I hadn't seen for years and, in some cases, had no clue they still lived around here. Vance, A.J., Paul, Caleb, Dave and Melody, Ben and Vinny, Casey and Tracy, Libby and John, etc., etc..

Dan's rap is truly artistic. So different from most of the mainstream, unsubstantive crap. And it's odd for me to view him as an artist, now. I can still remember him and half the rugby team getting into the shower with me my freshman year. He was a meathead rugger, not a writer/performer. Fascinating.

The opener, Jamie Clayburn, played a type of music like an electronica U2. He performed most of his set with 2001: A Space Odessey silently running on a sheet behind him (though a music video, done by the brilliant Vance Reeser, accompanied the last song), and then Dan played his set with infomercials running behind him. The visual effect on Clayburn's set was stunning, the effect on Dan's was distracting (though humorous). Both of them used Ipods to back themselves up musically. Dan said he had the flu, and I suppose that may have affected his comedic timing a little, but his in-song energy was captivating. This was his final show of a 58-day, 58-show national tour, most of which he performed in peoples homes! Impressive.

In other news, Heather and I are moving. There is nice house accross town with our name on it. It is smaller, the rent is higher, but, unlike our current house, it's not falling off it's foundation and it won't cost an arm, a leg and three heads to heat (all praise the wood-burning stove). Plus it has a fenced back yard for Tigger to run in - he already loves it.

I'm trying to view this move as a step forward, not a step sideways, but my brain, as always, fights with me to make it so. At least Heather and I were able to come home and invest our coffee-high into packing. In the microcosm of this move, thats progress. And that will have to suffice for now.

****sigh****

Still fat. Getting fatter. Still not caring enough to deal with it. At least the cravings have decreased. My appetite is simply bigger than it's ever been. But I seem to have plateaued. My stomach muscles still hurt. My back is still killing me. And my moods are much more moderated.

And all I want for Christmas is a job. Even . . . . .*sigh*. . . . . a job with Animal Control Services (I interviewed today). Any job is necessary at this point. We have to survive.

Moderated moods or not, I'm already fighting serious depression over this job (and I haven't even gotten it yet). It pays amazingly well, but requires a lot of commitment, and I know I'm going to hate it.

I might as well resign myself to never being happy. I peaked in college, and even that wasn't so great. I don't know what it takes to feel fullfilled, but after so many years I still can't find it.

I am fat.

And this is distressing because less than a month ago, I was not fat.

Thanks to my new medication (which, unfortunately, is moderating my moods quite well), I have gained almost 20 lbs. in 3 weeks.

I feel SO disgusting. I'm like a pumpkin on legs. My face has plumped. My back has gone into complete muscular revolt. I am constantly bloated. My stomach muscles are strained and screaming. AND YET. . . my head continues to tell me that I am hungry, always hungry! And so, since I have no self-control whatsoever, I keep eating and eating and eating!

And so I am fat. Fatter than I've ever been in my life.

Big. Huge. Round. Thick. Overwieght. Big-boned. Plump. Tubby. Chunky. Fatty. Corpulent. Stout. Portly. Porcine. Stocky. Chubby. Pudgy. Stodgy. Rotund. Roly-poly. Heavyset. I've got dunlop's disease - my gut dun lops my belt. When I sit around the house, I really sit around the house. I fell over and rocked myself to sleep trying to get back up. I broke my leg and gravy poured-out. When I stand on a scale it says "to be continued... ." I went to the beach and was the only one to get a tan.

As if life wasn't freaking hard enough.

Ways to know that you are not normal:

#1 - It is 5 a.m., you have not slept since yesterday, and you are in your kitchen eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that you are proud of yourself for having just made.

and you forgot a napkin. Oh crap. The kitchen is so far away. Oh no, sticky keyboad buttons.

And sticky mouse.

But it tastes SO GOOD!

I hate feeling like ranting is pointless.
I hate feeling like I have no words.
I hate feeling like 10 months ago, someone took away the old me and replaced it with something deranged and unstable. I hate realizing that I fit a demographic called "mentally disabled."

I hate believing that I am incapable of working a real job again.

I hate being "broke."

I hate not being able to go to concert after concert.

I hate feeling pointless.

I hate feeling like a nobody.

I hate feeling narcissistic for wanting to be "somebody."

I hate feeling that my relationships with friends have become the by-product of entropy.

I hate feeling that my life will one day look like a parade of missed opportunities.

I love the sound of thunder at 3 a. m.

Heather is giggling in the living room. She is discussing her future as a Mary Kay consultant with our friend Jami, from whom she would be learning.

Mary Kay. My wife.

As if you had to ask, it's about the money.

Well, not entirely. There is also an entrepenuerial spirit inherent in Mary Kay - much more than I had previously understood. Heather has too much independance inside her (although it was forced there by her asshole parents, I can't help but love her for it) to not want to do something where she can make her own hours (and her own amount of hours) and be her own boss. This is not a pyramid-format selling scheme, and Heather has had positive experience with every MK product she has tried (very little of which has been make-up).

I'm all for it, I just think this isn't the best time. Once her thesis is done, she could easily begin supplementing our income by $500 -$1000 per month from low-stress work.


Meanwhile, I'm a leech.