This is the sound of those murderous drums
The marching of footsteps
Lost – Annie Lennox (2008)
I’m feeling lost. Maybe a bit trapped.
I’d love to write it all off as a case of post-holiday, mid-winter blues (and maybe that is what it is), but that would be pushing into denial some issues that I have been shoving into the furthest, darkest crevices of my mind ever since I became aware that said crevices (and said issues) existed.
I sat on the couch and watched reality television for the better part of the day yesterday. Me, my dogs, a blanket and some coffee – enthralled with the likes of Bridezillas, home makeovers, and how not to murder your spouse. I enjoyed criticizing the lives and actions of others in the safety of my living room. The irony of this was not lost on me. If the camera had been turned around, with the shoe on the other foot, they would have found a lot about my life equally ridiculous and distasteful. And then I would have been the object of scorn and derision. But then I think that is why reality television exists; so we can feel better about our own lives.
I woke with the best of intentions that day. I have three friends I have been meaning to call in order to reconnect with and salvage what might still remain of our friendship. But I couldn’t do it. I hate small talk. Avoid it unless I am face to face with someone and chose to engage in such banter rather than make us both suffer in silence. That’s part of my excuse. The other part probably has to do with the fact that I am not much of a friend. I don’t enjoy socializing like most people, or at least I don’t adhere to the norm. If I fail to see a reason for such interactions – if there isn’t something in it for one party or the other – then I also fail to see the point of getting together.
That makes me a friend of convenience. I hate feeling put upon. I hate feeling obligated. Guilt is something that I have built up immunity to, for the most part, although it continues to rumble around there in the background, coloring my perceptions and moods.
The year ended oddly. I had three sexual encounters in a row that left me wanting. The sex was bad, or odd, the people not to my liking or I, not to theirs. It happens. I also had a lot of offers that either didn’t work out for one reason or another – mostly issues of timing – or that I surprisingly turned down for one reason or another – mostly due to matters of convenience, timing and an unwillingness on my part.
So, in spite of my efforts to get into the holidays, to meet my social commitments (I did), do the family thing (I did) and follow thru with those things I promised to do (I did), December ended up being sort of a bummer of a month. Which means as I look at the next two months, I don’t see much to get excited about. I dread it.
Today is one of those days when my past seems so deep and murky I could never get to the bottom of it or through all of it. And if I did? I don’t know what I would want to do with it. Self-examination at this point feels like an exercise in futility.
I did play piano. I found sheet music for a couple of songs I wrote in 2000 and 2001. Playing them, they felt like they belonged to someone else… and in a way they do. I even went so far as to drag out my old Janis Ian songbooks and muddle through a few of my favorites.
That put an end to my pity party, though. I know I just need to get over myself; to see the humor in… something. Probably the humor in my own self-absorption. How adolescent. Of course it seems that my goal of late has been to live the life of a juvenile sexual delinquent, so what do I expect?
I’d love to make some changes in my life, but I am stuck. There are practical matters that supersede my personal desires.
And then there is a matter of honesty. I am not a very honest person. Haven’t been for… well, forever. My childhood was spent determining the best ways to get away with things and to exist on the peripherals of society all the while trying to draw as much attention to myself as possible. Maybe it was one of those situations where I was just dying to be caught and stopped, you know, like an addict who keeps acting out in atrocious, obnoxious ways in the hopes that someone will rescue them from their downward spiral. I just got too damn good at being sneaky for my own good.
I am an expert when it comes to being sneaky. And self-deception. I think that is another one I can cross off my list as done. To death.
The promise of a new year will do this to me; get me thinking about what I should change. That’s probably true for everyone on some level. I approach the new year as if it is an opportunity for redemption, as if all my past transgressions (which pretty much sums up my past as a whole) could be wiped away if I just concentrate on being more honest with the world. But I know it doesn’t work that way. That’s why the past becomes this thing you live with… this thing you bear knowing, it’s familiarity cradling your body in one of it’s clammy talons while you struggle to free yourself of… your self.
Odd how one’s past becomes the strange bedfellow you were proverb-ily promised.
I guess that’s why so many people keep moving forward. I did. I used to. I was always running away from the past. I did my best to remain at least a few steps ahead of it. For a long time that could be measured in a matter of shows. I always made sure that I had my next theatrical production lined up so that I did not have to deal with the fallout or the lack of artistic merit of the one I was currently working on. I’ve done that with jobs, too. And friends.
I keep meaning to pick up that phone, you know. To make an effort. There’s nothing I really need to fear. Except, perhaps, that they won’t be there to answer.
I thought today might be the day I go online and update all my profiles on those hook-up sites that I frequent. I was thinking I would just blank out the body of my profile and write in its place: Temporarily out of stock. Please see rest of catalogue for similar item.
But then I figure that would last all of a week before I would recreate what I had there before. And those pictures. Most are from this summer. I stopped taking photos in August. I really should take some new pictures or just get rid of the ones that I have posted.
I do plan on continuing to work out. But I know that I need to change up my routine. I have plateaued and need to challenge my body more. I’ve been watching infomercials explaining just that. I think that is part of the reason that I am feeling so down. Lack of interesting activities. I would love to be one of those people who cross country ski – but I am just not feeling the outdoors much these days. Too bitter cold. I’m just not feeling that fucking hearty. My soul is not ready to embrace the threat of frost bite.
That said – I will probably just end up watching television again today. Tomorrow I have to go back to work. That is depressing, too – but if I wake up really early, I generally I have a good chance of getting my ass out the door, in the car, and on my way to work before I wake up enough to agonize too much about my fate.
Well, I thought writing this all out would make me feel better and it has. A bit. Enough to contemplate something other than sitting on the couch all day.
I think I will make myself another cup of tea and reconsider my options.
One of the things I need to decide is what I want to do with this blog this year. Last year it was all about sexual energy and experiences (well, 90 percent of it) and I did manage to post something once a week (pretty much) with a total of 52 posts for the year. I was thinking about doing a serial novel, but I could see myself falling terribly short and losing interest in such a project. The two novels I started writing back in 1995 still haunt the back of one of my closet where they share space with the boxes of navel-gazing lyrics, volumes of yawn-producing journals and tons of completed scores for musicals that will never see the light of day or stage.
I wonder who I want to be this year. It will be some variation of who I was this year, I am pretty sure. But I could be wrong.
OMG! – I bet this is why I am currently stuck reading adolescent literature. Seriously – I am reading books that I then pass along to my thirteen year old niece. In fact that is what this whole post kind of resembles, doesn’t it?
The ramblings of a thirteen year old, self-obsessed, slightly delusional girl.
Well, at least I’m making an effort to get to know myself. Kind of a waste, though. Being an adolescent girl is not exactly what I had hoped for.
Still, Harriet the Spy has always been one of my favorite books. After reading it in seventh grade(!) I began writing in my spiral notebooks, capturing my observations and opinions about other people for the first time. I remember when I went through therapy the first (of three) time(s). Journaling came easy to me, because I’d been doing various versions of it throughout my teens, via song lyrics and notebook doodlings. I spent the 90’s obsessed with writing songs, and thanks to Noteworthy Composer I was actually able to score and print them. And share them. And record some. And perform some. That all ended in 2005. About the time I started doing this blog. So you see, I am still that precocious 7th grader scrawling in my spiral notebooks – offering up half-baked theories, ill-informed opinions and shoe-gazing adventures.
Maybe this is the year I take up enter the world of competitive masturbation. I think they carry it on ESPN.
Or maybe this year will be the year I discover how a middle-aged man copes with the realization that in spite of all his best efforts he is in reality a thirteen year old girl.
Well… you can’t say I don’t have my work cut out for me. You also can’t say my life lacks a unique bent. But then, that’s me in a nutshell: uniquely bent.