Posts Tagged ‘ Reality? Check.’

Revelations of Madness…

Posted on February 17, 2009

Finding Reality?

Finding Reality?

I have been so stuck. My brain buzzes wildly yet I am entirely incapable of completing a written rendering of a single reflection.
I believe I am guilty of mentally monitoring and considering the consequence of actually articulating these opinions. I am fearing judgment. And it is wholly paralyzing.

It is not my intention to be disrespectful, but sometimes the truth is thoroughly disrespectful.
When the truth is, in fact, true, it often manifests in the form of total dishonesty.
I attribute this to the fact that “honesty” requires a human intermediary for conveyance.
And I don’t believe humans are biologically programmed to be truthful.

I woke up feeling inexplicably broken hearted today.

Three consecutive nights of negative-energy sleep, (where one expends copious amounts of effort tossing about, and experiences few tranquil moments of actual rest) and I just feel somewhat rejected.

By my bed. By my body. By my mind.
My mind is certainly the root of the problem.
I wish I could find an “off” switch.

So today, I am allowed to freely hate and be openly angry.
Because when you wake up and feel like you’ve just participated in some crude seven-hour dance-a-thon, you are given carte blanche to be disgusted by everything around you. And I am.

I’m fucked up over timelines right now.
I’m thinking that there has got to be a better way to say that.
Admittedly, I have recently been researching this topic for an alternate purpose.
I swear it started out rationally enough.
I hadn’t aimed for self-imposed mania.

But the can is open and the worms are everywhere and I think I’m either onto something or completely certifiable and the line is so thin that it is impossible to deduce with any certainty, which is closer to reality.

I think I was born with a something of an infinite sadness. In more sentimental times, I’ve identified it as a “heart problem.”
And while this may sound unnecessarily dramatic, it does feel like an apt portrayal of my affliction.
I mostly avoid dealing with or openly acknowledging it, because it’s actually pretty disheartening to admit that for the better part of three decades, I’ve known that even my most blissful moments have been tainted with an overarching melancholy.

I used to think it was a sense of foreboding.
A bit of a presentiment or hyper-awareness of the inescapable crash.
I’m not so sure about that anymore.

Now, I am considering the possibility that this feeling, this almost intangible but ever-present void, could be a sub-conscious effort to realign with another plane. Another version. Another path. Einstein himself concluded that time is not fixed, it expands and it contracts. And, time has a vertical dimension. There are many “lanes of time” running simultaneously and multiple possibilities existing in any instant, subject to our conscious and intentional choice.

What if our most “inane” desires and “rubbish” dreams, are not nonsense at all?
What if instead of writing them off, we regarded them as intuitive indicators or directives towards that which might allow honest contentment?
What if that thing or person or idea, that we’ve perhaps “moved on” from, but deep down have never “gotten over,” is less “symbol of insanity” and more “suggested route on a map?”

It is said that single-birth babies, who are actually the surviving half of a twin conceptions (such as Vanishing Twin Syndrome), have been known to have a deep and unrelenting sense of grief due to the loss of their counterpart.
The kicker is that most cases of “vanishing twins” occur within the first eight weeks after conception.    Before we even qualify for “fetus” status.
So, if our dead sibling with whom we shared some amniotic fluid for short while can haunt us, why is it implausible that our restlessness or inexplicable internal constraint couldn’t be a symbol of some grander Universal discord?
Tabula Rasa? I just don’t buy it.

I think it’s fully plausible that by the time we are “born,” we already exist on other planes.                      We’ve already set about another path.
Maybe, our flashes of future and past, and those strange, foggy memories are just helpful hints being passed on by our concurrently existing selves.
Negative feelings could be symptoms of a “tugging” from another timeline.
Those times when you just don’t feel “right,” and easily chalk it up to stress?
Maybe those are actually chemical signals…but we rarely see them as such.

And on dreams…
Should I honestly believe that these “hallucinations,” created by a massively underutilized brain, and manifested in Technicolor through your subconscious are “meaningless?”
I am not suggesting that the answers are simple.
I don’t believe the “Dream Meaning” leaflet in the grocery store checkout, which correlates things like “tooth loss” with “anxiety” or “powerlessness,” holds the solutions, but I simply cannot accept the perception that dreams are devoid of all meaning on a grander scale.
While most dreams are forgotten in those first post-waking moments, what about the others?
What of those full-scale, IMAX style, Holy crap, in-your-face epics, which haunt your mind for years into the future?
Could they be your alternate reality crashing against your current one?
Is all that latent content begging for reaction?
I have fluently spoken languages and written full songs, lyrics, and music in my dreams…in spite of minute details like not possessing the utilitarian knowledge to do any of these things.
At least not in this version of my existence, but could I have been borrowing from another “me?”
Maybe dreams are the equivalent to a brainstorming session for all the timelines…
An open forum or symposium where the best of all realities are free to opine and suggest without fear of critical rejoinder.
I’m just suggesting that it’s possible.

As humans, we use approximately 10 percent of our available brainpower.
Ten. Percent.

But perhaps, we are using some or all of the “leftovers.”
Maybe the rest of our brains are being borrowed by other realities.
And maybe, this is where certain seemingly dissonant thoughts and memories are actually developed. Then, those which are deemed useful in another timeline are sort of fused and muddled in, with the operational knowledge and thoughts in that correlating plane.
The “suggestions” sort of, merge and try to appear natural within the environment.
And each second, we are subconsciously assessing and choosing to indulge or disregard them. And each time we do, we continue to either follow our current path or move towards an alternative…

Or maybe, I just really need to sleep…

Madness is to think of too many things in succession too fast, or of one thing too exclusively” ~ Voltaire

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“I want to feel that again…” A Continuing Tale of Discontinued Desire

Posted on January 27, 2009

Just not gonna sound like it used to...Just not gonna sound like it used to…

“I think he’s going to break up with me,” she weeps.

This sentence actually takes a solid 3 minutes for her to communicate amidst shallow gasps for air, tear-filled halting and hysterical hiccups, but for our purposes, I thought I’d give you the benefit of the upshot.

I mentally search for the verbal balance between “reassurance” and “reality check.”

I am once again listening to the sad chronicle of my broken hearted friend, Lady Earth.
I am also making a conscious effort towards increased compassion and empathy.
“Well, what do you want or need him to say?” I gently ask, “What would make this better?”
Her answer doesn’t surprise me.

“I want him to tell me he’s sorry. That I’m his best friend. That he can’t see his life without me. That he loves me. That he’ll try…”

I wish she wanted the couch. The couch I could help her with.

Making someone feel something that they simply do not feel… hmph.
Sadly, there is nothing anyone can do to reinstate emotion gone AWOL.

I contemplate her situation and find myself running through a litany of my own futile attempts to manipulate people and situations.
Ugh, I swear it was like meeting the Ghost of Absurd Actions Past.
I cringe in the face of the memories.

To be fair (to myself) and not allow a crazy spiral into the abyss of self-loathing that the rehashing of mortifying thoughts can cause, I remind myself that to “desire” is human.
In some religions, desire is the considered the divide between “human” and “Deity.”

I suppose, in the religion of my own mind, desire is a blessing. I thrive on that internal pinging which reminds me that I’m a bit off course. That I’m not fulfilled. It’s like sonar for the soul.

The sonar just gets really fucked up when it encounters foreign objects. Like other souls. It gets confused. It wants to ping and guide and dictate the course for everything and everyone within its functional radius. Soul sonar can be pretty self-absorbed…it doesn’t recognize that Others have their own path.


I attempt to reason my way out of this…for her, of course.
We are in a perpetual struggle, from birth until death, to get back there. To feel as good as we once did. Even if it wasn’t actually that good, for the mind has a funny way of glorifying the past.

We are born and desperately reach for the first breath of life. We struggle and suddenly feel the relief of the oxygen seeping into our lungs and tissues and vital organs and we spend the next 80 years chasing that breath. It’s probably good that we don’t remember how amazing that first breath felt, for I’ll just bet that an inhalation has never been as gratifying as that initial gulp.

We move through the tunnel of childhood and peek our heads out at the end and we glimpse Oz. Everything is new. Everything is unusual. But it’s scary. So we rush about trying to assimilate and make it feel normal and then complain about how mundane life is.
We wish we could see Emerald City as we had when we first emerged from the tunnel. Before we were scarred. Before we were forgotten or left behind.
Before. Then. Not now.
Still, we try. To revive the mutual amazement.

We fall in love and see the amazing beauty in anOther. We long to incorporate pieces of that person’s extraordinary facets of being into ourselves and we hope that they see us as equally intoxicating.
But occasionally, amongst all the incorporation and assimilation, we stop exploring the “extraordinary” facets within ourselves. We become wholly entrenched in our mate. Sadly, our Other also sees this and the equilibrium of mutual stimulation is thrown perilously out of whack.

And then suddenly, you’re gobsmacked by reality and you’re friends are giving you corny nicknames like “Lady Earth” and blogging about you. Sigh.

Essentially, my sweet Lady friend lost herself. She quit her important-ish career. She became cash-dependent, attention-needy, and high-powered-telescope-style focused on her relationship and forgot exactly what made it “cool” and “challenging” (in the positive sense) in the first place. Her Other, however did notice the change.

I don’t mean to seem like I am placing blame solely on her. There is never a single defendant in the Court of Broken Promises. We are all guilty. We are all at fault. We all wandered down the path that led to here.

We deserve to feel gratified and validated, but we cannot ignore the way “Today” looks. And the reason “Today” and “Yesterday” have different monikers are because they are not, in fact, the same.
Ignoring that fact and hitting the mental “Repeat” button on that track entitled “Days of Yore,” may invoke emotion in you, but will just annoy someone who is “over” that tune.

I pray that there will peaceful and expedient resolve for my friends. I pray that she realizes that she cannot forcibly make him see her as he once did.

And I pray that I’ll remember to re-read this musing the next time I am tempted to take “What Is” back to my mental General Store and exchange it for “What Was…”

“Thou art to me a delicious torment.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

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Confessions of Fear

Posted on January 5, 2009

Probably my second favorite...

Probably my second favorite...

I’m not actually scared of death.
I’m not actually scared of my OWN death.
However, (deeper confession):
My single greatest fear is the end of mankind as a whole. Like apocalyptic, Nostradamus, 2012, earthquakes, fire, famine and flood type of shit.
Thus, I refuse it.

I simply block any “information” of this sort from entering my consciousness. People have said it’s a control issue, an explanation that frankly bores me to tears, but could possibly have a bit of merit.

Please, we all know that we are sitting on a rock hurtling through an uncharted abyss, and at some point, there is strong possibility that it may crash. But thus far, I haven’t seen any Exit signs (and we all know that’s the first thing I look for), so I’d rather not entertain these possibilities. Why bother? Can’t do much to stop it.

The Spouse recently asked me what I would do if I knew I only had two weeks to live. I made a supposedly “in-jest” comment to the effect of “been there, done that… I believe they called it 2005.” And promptly changed the subject.

Here’s the rub- I was actually not joking at all.

Yes, I would make sure everyone knew I loved them and all that jazz, but the truth of the matter is, I would buy every drug within a 30 mile radius and proceed to do them all with reckless abandon while unapologetically committing 6 of the 7 deadly sins (except wrath, for I’d have no use for wrath whilst having so much fun), over and over until I gave up the ghost.

Which leads me to people who sincerely use the phrase “Live for Today” (most of whom, ironically, are in 12-Step Programs.) Really? Honestly? You’re lying. You don’t mean that. I would like to MEET the person that truly “Lives for Today.” The entire concept is fatally flawed. You wouldn’t recognize me if I lived only for today. Trust that.

Perhaps that is why I am forever egotistical. Analytical. Self-assessing. The depths of my own imagination and theories on “how” and “why” and “what-if”, are not nearly as chilling as indulging an idea that “tomorrow” is a fantasy.

Still, I have been a bit alarmed lately with my overall state of being. I’m restless. Literally. Symbolically. I need to do something to alter said state, but am wholly paralyzed. What the fuck am I waiting for? To KNOW? Know what? That it’s ending? That it’s beginning? Theoretically, should it matter? Shouldn’t my actions be the same, regardless?

Further, I have less than zero desire to get old. Call me vain, but I want nothing to do with watching myself deteriorate. The cycle of life is overrated.
Look, I know it’s been a little tumultuous here in the Water lately, and I swear I intend to lighten it up soon. That’s the plan. But we all know what they say about the best-laid plans…

So, for today, I shall continue to examine subjects of my choice and actively shun the rest. Unless, of course, I am given some imminently credible and catastrophic evidence that renders such exam useless.

In which case, you can find me in some version of “The Red Shark” screaming down a road “somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert” at 120 miles per hour, waiting for the drugs to take hold.

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The Year of the…

Posted on December 28, 2008

I defy you, "Definition"

I defy you, "Definition"

When do we decide a year is “good?” At what point does it get “tagged?”
I mean, I clearly know that 1998 was a mixed bag. ‘04 was so-so. ‘05 was hazy. ‘06 was better than most. And so it goes…

Still, I’m not sure if I am ready to label 2008 yet. And with 2009 only days away, I feel like I should be nearer to some semblance of summation. Yet, I still feel like this one could go either way. Loose ends abound.
Old thoughts recently revived and still incubating…not yet fully boiled. Not ready for confrontation or consumption, let alone conclusion.

And what shall I make of this unrelenting need to analyze in the first place? The ending of the calendar year is but a date among many thousands I have and will experience in this lifetime. Aside from the searing pride I obviously feel that the Earth has once again managed to circle the sun without major incident, there is no reason that December 31, 2008 should be any different than January 1, 2009.

Except that it is.
Shunning the demands of society and its expectation of propriety is one thing.
But it is oddly more challenging to eschew the notion that we must resolve and determine and let go and begin, simply because the calendar dictates that we ought to.

I’ve always been good with analogies. I love to make that which is incongruous somehow fit. I like to fill in the blanks. I thrive on it, in fact.
_______ is to _______ as _______ is to ________

Intrepid is to Insolent as Valiant is to Maverick
Evolution is to Life as Loiter is to Demise

And while that was hugely enjoyable, I am still no closer to placing the necessary closure on 2008.
Furthering my conundrum is the fact that my inability to place appropriate adjectives on the past 365 days is not due to inaction. To the contrary, this year has presented plentiful fodder for exam. I just feel unwilling. Because I know that what’s next is big. And no amount of intellect and qualifying and quantifying can make big feel small. Or easy.
Then again, I’m not much for small. Or easy.

Hold your breath.

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When the Naked Truth Is Just Too Much…

Posted on December 20, 2008

Yes, this is MUCH too much...

Yes, this is MUCH too much...

I have oft used this space to say things which I hope are meaningful, if not entirely what I mean. Unfettered honesty is actually not as poetic in practice as it idealistically seems.
Thus, I frequently grab the hand of my dear friend the metaphor, and proceed into the dark and gnarly undertow of my thoughts in attempt to depict some sense through the chaos.
I select my words with exacting precision and try to avoid writing after taking Ambien (which seems to be my 29 year old answer to the drunk dial.)

I find that song lyrics are an infinite source of inspiration while attempting to express through writing. I have long classified myself as a lyricist (as opposed to a beat-head).
By my definition, a “lyricist” is one whose ultimate allegiance to a song, is based on the lyrically inspired journey the mind embarks upon while listening.
I am forever amazed by the depth of situational emotional encoding a meaningful verse can sear into my brain. I can say with much certainty that I will always know which tracks to turn to when I want to indulge my own broodiness (or end said broody behavior), when I am mid-mull on an issue, when I want resolution, or when I just want to say fuck it…
And I am guaranteed to get what I want, even if it isn’t exactly what I need.
I once hatched a plan to write a story using only song lyrics, but decided it would be more challenging to use the line that comes directly before the line I am getting at. For instance, to illustrate this admittedly convoluted idea with a current obsession, were I to desire to incorporate the line from Ladytron’s “Ghosts” which states that I “made you a prisoner inside your own frequency” I would WRITE the line just before it lyrically, which is “made a trail of a thousand tears.”
In the end, the story would be a jumble of lyrics which appear completely incongruous and discordant but upon “decoding”, would equal a completely linear thought process.
Yeah, I’m sure I was high when I came up with it. The idea totally necessitates that a reader really like Google, care enough about the author’s point of view to get to the bottom of it and (to a degree) dig similar music and/or be in a similar state of mind as the writer. Hmph. That’s a lot of requirements.
It could be argued that a more straightforward approach to speaking one’s mind might be more efficient. But maybe I just feel that those who aren’t willing to examine, don’t really deserve the truth. We are always saying something. Perhaps, there is a modicum of honour and integrity in the systematic selection of the souls we allow to dissect our truest intentions.

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One Way. Wrong Way. Dead End.

Posted on December 16, 2008

One Way Only? Please.

One Way Only? Please.

talk talk talk talk talk talk. Circle. Again. Once more. Pause. Pause. Further… talk talk talk.

Wild French electro-punk blares behind us.

Fucking annoying, and the trance-like lyrics pop in and out “I know that this is the end.”

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Meant for gay men in an underground Parisian drug den.
SHUT UP. The radio. Not you.
Plot. Plan. Lists. Commitments. Try. More. Fill in promise
Accusation. Acknowledgement. Rinse. Repeat.

I can handle all of this. This is fine. This is good. It gets dicey when you point out how callous I’ve become with regard to certain topics, as of late.

Why do I feel the need to argue the other side? Devil’s Advocate is not a full time profession.

That zings me hard. I am nothing if not sensitive. I do however have an affinity towards defending the indefensible.

Stop analyzing me, it gets in the way of my self-analysis and my ability to properly shut you out.
Ugh. You’re right. But I’m not sorry. If I were, I’d stop. I refuse to insult you by lying about my compassion towards that. I have none. Heinous. Mean. Evil. Hard. Uncaring. YES! Stop there. That’s the thing. I don’t actually care.
I see why you have to, but the Blind Faith is hard for me. Faith itself is a struggle. Do not attempt without the benefit of sight.

I’m living in my head. I invited you in because I owe that to us. Don’t be afraid. We come from different places. Opposing spaces. We need to meet in the middle, but the middle is scary. The middle is treacherous. I fare best in the extreme. You knew this. You know this. Maybe we can split the space. One line in middle. One line on each end. No lines in the sand.

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Death as Proof of Artistic Validity…

Posted on December 11, 2008

Dark Depths and Twisted Fate

*If a tree falls in the forest, but no one hears it, does it make a sound?
*If a musician sticks to their “style”, but never has a radio hit and the fades into oblivion, did they prove anything by remaining “true to themselves?”
*If a thought floats through a brain and never has cause to flow out of a mouth, did it happen?
*Are tragic figures tragic if they aren’t “figures?”

I’ve been thinking about untimely death as of late. Tres’ morbid, I know.

Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, River Phoenix, James Dean, Janis Joplin, Heath Ledger, Anna Nicole Smith, H.S.T., Brad Renfro… the list continues.

The Brad Renfro/ Heath Ledger stories are a good example of twisted irony. Brad Renfro was considered a “promising young actor” in Hollywood Critics circles. He starred in 21 films but fell prey to the drugs and temptation of Hollywood. His January 15th 2008 passing received moderate coverage in the media and elicited appropriate sighs and head shaking. He was left out of the “Dead Star” Oscar montage.

One week later, Heath Ledger died. The media storm was immediate and severe. WHY? HOW? So much promise. Too young, too soon! “The Joker did it!”, they hollered. They said he was so brilliant that he completely embodied the dark spirit of The Joker during filming and it was his ultimate undoing. His montage was the final one shown at the Oscars and received the loudest applause. Hmph.

I guess I’ve been considering the point of being “tragically troubled” if no one ever knows. Thousands of people die everyday as a result of drug over doses and tragic car crashes. It’s safe to say some of them are probably even good looking. But they become a newspaper blip. Page 3. Below the fold. “Local News” or worse still “Police Blotter”

My brother’s heroin addiction has ailed him for more than a third of his life. When one of his closest friends OD’d and died last January, the media did not mourn. Why would they? Another junkie in another big city. Done.
My brother still cries. He had this boy’s image tattooed on his arm. Right next to that of our dead father.

I just wonder if the validity of human tragedy lies more in an idea than in the person. Musicians, actors, writers and artists share their beautiful sadness with the world in the most intimate way. They ask us to look at ourselves and our own defects. They provoke the very emotions that we are forced submerge in our daily lives in order not to appear fragile. Then, when they have lead us down those complicated roads and are suddenly taken from us, it could be said that we feel deserted. We need to find a new hero to lead us back to those scariest of depths.

The more damaged among us simultaneously embrace our sadness and tunnel deeper within ourselves to remain disaffected by the emotional weight of allowing others in. We are all in for the exploration, but we like the solo approach. The corridors we travel are tight and there simply isn’t space to troop with a team.

We see the tragic figures in everyone who simply got lost in the proverbial tunnel (famous or not). We know that the beacons of light can be hard to see. We “get” the very visceral fear that we will be utterly average should we ever truly let the infinite sadness go. This is the one thing we’ve always had. The one thing that we’ve always relied upon. The omni-present tragedy of the wide eyed being whose eyes and soul have seen too much.

“Assure me it’s ok to use my heart and not my eyes
To navigate the darkness
Will the ending be ever coming suddenly?
Will I ever get to see the ending to my story?
Show me what it’s for
Make me understand it”~ Crawling In the Dark

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Tactical Radio Silence and the War in the Water

Posted on December 8, 2008



Radio silence can be deafening.

Even when the airwaves are abuzz with stories of the Falling Sky, there is some comfort in the white noise between the words. The indication of the existence of other life forms.

Radio Silence warps those notions. It can be disorienting and cause inordinately rough waters. Tactically speaking, it is necessary but should also be viewed as proof of movement in the enemy camp.

When the airwaves are suddenly silent, awareness of impending change is peaked. Any sudden sense of doom or dread is a warning and should be heeded as such.

We have been at war in the Water World for a very long time. Decades, even. We understand the need to break patterns, tune out, turn off, shut down (mentally, physically), separate, cease communication, work it out, and then return… or not.

We are used to internal battles and have become deft at sensing the possibility of adversarial confrontation (internally or externally.) We are avid non-confrontationalists.

Still, we have feelings of curiosity. When Others deal in tactical warfare, we wonder… in spite of ourselves. In spite of the depth of our understanding. And we hate it. We like control and at these depths, complete obstruction of signals is gnarly, indeed.

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Low hanging moments…

Posted on December 2, 2008

Be here now...

Be here now...

Sometimes I feel like I live in an art house indie film.

We smoke cigarettes in expensive coats and scarves and speak in staccato sentences, but that which is left unsaid is far more relevant. He speaks, you speak, implication hangs low in the air. Intention is only specifically stated in the overarching VO, and is never understood by those who need to hear it most.

The formula states that the protagonist experiences mental revolution and the Others drift away. Mentally, physically… both.

Everyone lives in beautiful homes but never seem to work. Or sleep. Or eat.

Lyrically relevant music drifts in and out of focus on as needed basis. Minor characters make cameos to propel the story forward.

I actually quite enjoy this plight. This fight. The internal bonding of my mind and soul while my world reflects a grey and blue overtone. I enjoy the irony. I believe it is self-fulfilling prophecy. Simple minds see happiness in the daily-ness of life so my solution seems to be to focus on the stark. The stone. The unpadded edges.

We don’t believe in structure here. We believe in more. Dig. Dig. Dig. More. Please. And thank you.

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“There’s a handful of normal kid things I kinda missed.”***

Posted on November 28, 2008

Not my actual family

Not my actual family

The Girl is painting. The Girl is gluing rocks to the wall. The Girl is full of questions. The Girl has no regrets. The Girl wonders if she’s said too much. The Girl was dreading the impending madness. The Girl feels like a heinous human for saying that. The Girl believes that Bobbie Sue had her reasons. The Girl wishes time didn’t fly. She also wishes she were having more fun. The Girl wonders if “anybody really knows what time it is.” The Girl doesn’t think the “last word” is all it’s cracked up to be. The Girl is so sick of the fact that FACEBOOK makes her think in sentences like these.

I hear last night was the biggest bar night of the year. Perhaps it is just my nature, but The Girl has never felt the draw to go to her home-town bar the night before Thanksgiving and play “Remember When” with a group of people she hasn’t seen in 10 years. As Tony Soprano would say “remember when is the lowest form of conversation.”

Overall, Thanksgiving weekend is generally a bust in the WaterWorld. Aside from the minutely serious domestic incidents (the fork hurling scene comes to mind) and the historical significance (the sudden death of her grandfather), Thanksgiving feels like a mish-mosh of mixed memories and celebration of familial tension.

When the movie Garden State came out in 2004, it became my early 20’s anthem for soul rebellion. For indulging that which is right if not rational. It started with my addiction to The Shins (who were prominently featured on the soundtrack), but escalated to epic proportions when Zach Braff ran through the airport to Frou Frou’s “Let Go” and back to the girl he found intoxicating. In spite of the fact that he didn’t know what was next… (ellipsis.) Sigh.

I saw the film four times in the theatre (don’t judge… I was 23). It wasn’t until the third or fourth time that I really heard the speech Andrew makes about family…

Andrew Largeman: You’ll see when you move out it just sort of happens one day and it’s just gone. And you can never get it back. It’s like you get homesick for a place that doesn’t exist. I mean it’s like this rite of passage, you know. You won’t have this feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, you know, for your kids, for the family you start, it’s like a cycle or something. I miss the idea of it. Maybe that’s all family really is. A group of people who miss the same imaginary place.

Those last two lines. They totally hit me. I can’t help but feel like the whole exercise is futile. Am I grateful? Absolutely. Am I blessed? You betcha. Do I love stuffing like nobody’s business? Uh huh.

But somehow, some way, I could do without the whole thing.

I sit there, mind adrift, contemplating the stories behind the stories. The parts of the sum total. The experiences and synchronicity that put a group of 11, almost completely unrelated people in the same room. And allow them to be called friends and family. Would I opt into friendship with these people? For the most part, no. Neither here nor there. Here we stand. Experiencing moments within moments. I also consider the more intimate knowledge that I have about each of the beings who surround me. We would be having a far better time if we could allow ourselves to be those people.

So here I sit, back on the boat, being me. Contemplating the day. Staring at the city lights. Forcing my eyes to focus until they blur and merge and I force myself to look away.

There is no ending to this. No neat bow to tie it up with. It continues. The ultimate ellipses…

***Post title also from Garden State

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