The Well of Loneliness

There are few instances in life where you get to peek through someone’s very essence. Most people will act only in ways that correspond to the image that they are trying to portray to their audience, whoever the audience might be – a first date, intimate lover, friend or sister. Sociologists even have a term for this: impression management, coined by the symbolic interactionist Erving Goffman.

Leafing through someone’s album is probably right up there in deciphering volumes about the person in question. I happened to stumble upon my sister’s album today as I was instructed to water her parched plants while she visits her fiancé abroad. I came upon this album of gargantuan proportions, reminiscent of a bygone era, as I was eying her bookshelf for potential novels. I made myself comfortable on her not-so-comfortable new age sofa, and slowly turned the pages, savoring each postcard size photo. An endless array of photos of shiny, well-dressed, happy, perky people that you’re more likely to see in People magazine, as opposed to a personal album leapt from every single page. But perhaps the most striking aspect of the album was that there were only two photos of *me – her sister, that is. The one who waters her plants, the one she calls when mother or some other matter gets her down, the one who cooks her cherished foods. And looking at those two photos, it was hard to determine whether they were there because they showcased me, or my cat whom she adores immensely. Granted, I am not the most happy-go-lucky person in the world, and she may have thought one too many photos of my melancholic, pensive face might contaminate the mood she was going for in this album.

Sitting there, her house keys on my lap, an all too familiar feeling of loneliness crept up, cutting flesh like a thousand razor blades. How well do we know the people in our lives? How well do we know what others think of us? I mean really think of us. To listen, to share, to reminisce, to consult, and yet to be relegated to mere two photos on the last page of a personal album. The feeling of loneliness swelled inside of me, than shrank, then swelled again. I could hear the pangs of the loneliness so well in this hushed, still house as the hour struck 3pm on the dial.

We pretend to be someone we are not, we pretend to listen, we pretend to care. Why do people have to be this phony? What is the point of it all? People are like deep wells, you don’t really know what is at the bottom. All you can do is imagine what lies there.

Bright-Sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America

“The real conservatism of positive psychology lies in its attachment to the status quo, with all its inequalities and abuses of power.” Barbara Ehrenreich

I’ll admit I am a bit of a crank, a ‘walking nimbus cloud’ if you will and would certainly describe myself as pessimistic about the future of the world, though not necessarily about my own future. This apparently is a sin in a country beaming, oh, just radiating with pop positive thinking that permeates every aspect of our lives. Talk show hosts, “life coaches,”, commercials, psychotherapists, friends and family (think of all those smiley faces and exclamation marks), employers and colleagues all encourage us to plaster a smile on our faces and go about our merry day.

So you can imagine my delight when I came across Barbara Ehrenreich’s latest publication Bright-Sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America. I have followed her since my undergraduate days and have read almost all of her books. She is a “god-sent” (we need to come up with a better word for atheists) for the independent and critical minded. Although I’ve found meaning in all of her books, this one probably resonated the most with me.

The book is on the tyranny of positive-thinking in America. We’re constantly told to look on the bright side of things, to see the glass as half full (even if lies shattered on the floor), to put a smiley face on, to radiate positivity…but as she contends this super insistence on the almighty smiley face “is a great way to brush of poverty, disease, and unemployment, to rationalize an order where all the rewards go to those on top. The people who are sick or jobless – why, they just aren’t thinking positively. They have no one to blame but themselves.” Barbara is finally sounding the alarm bells on this predominant mode of thinking in our culture. Never mind that wages have stagnated in the last couple of decades, that environmental degradation has reached an all time high, that jobs are fleeting at a faster rate than you can say ‘where is my cheese?’, that unions have been all but destroyed…no, never mind all of that..you just need to send out positive energy into the universe, and before you know it you too can have success, wealth and health.

I have always found the pervasiveness of positive thinking in America to be crippling, and a great way to avoid working for social change at a larger level. Why bother working for causes that could lead to the leveling of inequalities when you can work on yourself, right? It seems highly impractical and time-consuming to work on changes at a larger societal, political, cultural level, but what we fail to realize is that in the long term we pay a very high price on not being realistic about the root causes of our troubles, whatever those troubles may be.

We can't expect to improve our situation without "addressing the actual circumstance we find ourselves in. Positive thinking seeks to convince us that such external factors are incidental compared with one's internal state or attitude or mood."

Reflections on Light and Darkness: My tribute to Michael Jackson

I have read quite a few articles reminiscing, explaining, interpreting, re-interpreting Michael Jackson, the person, the saga, the legacy. None have come close to the insights as this one posted in the Washington Post by a commentator. I couldn't have written it more eloquently. This one struck a nerve since when I heard of his death, the first thing that had come to my mind was he, as a deeply sensitive soul could no longer handle the cruelty and ugliness of our world. He wouldn't be the only sensitive celebrity to die this year: Heath Ledger and David Foster Wallace come to mind. Ledger was found dead from an overdose of anxiety and sleeping pill medications. Foster hung himself in his basement. Both were sensitive, caring, fragile souls unfit to cope with the sheer insensitivity that surrounds us.

I too suffer from acute sensitivity, and find solace in the words of Pearl S. Buck when I ponder
this unique trait I share with some of the most gifted, and talented minds.

"The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this:
A human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive.
To him... a touch is a blow,
a sound is a noise,
a misfortune is a tragedy,
a joy is an ecstasy,
a friend is a lover,
a lover is a god,
and failure is death."

It saddens me to think that the big, bad, bully world has claimed yet another beautiful soul.

Reflections on Light and Darkness

“There is a crack in everything; that’s how the light gets in” (Leonard Cohen)

There are no doubt millions of fans of Michael Jackson’s music who remain baffled by what little they have known of his behavior, character and appearance. There are millions more who are totally indifferent to the music and, if anything, repulsed by what they perceive as an offensive eccentric at best or dangerous deviant at worst. In the days immediately following his tragic death, almost all commentators chose to emphasize this ostensible polarity of Michael’s legacy: “a genius in his art, but a disturbed human being.” It seems like there was always a “but.”

If mainstream gurus are good at anything, it is turning truth on its head and, in the process, eviscerating all that is pure. It is not in Michael Jackson’s musical artistry that his foremost greatness consists, but it is in fact in his wonderful humanity. His music is only just one expression – just one manifestation – of that humanity. These misguided eulogies, therefore, have it all backwards. Michael’s legacy is not limited to an artistry that is somehow soiled by a troubled and troubling life. Michael’s greatest legacy is his loving character and the lessons it teaches us, through his ultimately tragic life, about the true face of an often brutal and ugly world.

In Michael Jackson, we see an innocence and purity rarely seen in an adult. Jackson’s “childlikeness” is perplexing to many people, but it is precisely this trait that sets him apart from an adult world that has learned so effectively to be cold and calculated, smart and shrewd, proper and professional. Adults seeking to better themselves ought to become more childlike. If Michael was guilty, his sin (borrowing Dylan’s prophetic words) was that he knew and felt too much within. Unfortunately, it is typical for those who feel deeply to seem to others utterly odd and insane. Hence the proverbial Pierrot, buffoon or idiot, whose superficial lunacy conceals a deep understanding of the human heart. Michael’s intense capacity to feel allowed him to be a loving, caring and responsive human being. He was far more capable of love than are most adults. Because of this acute sensitivity, what we also see in Michael is an utterly vulnerable, susceptible man.

Michael’s bizarre appearance and eccentric behavior were, paradoxically, far more sensible than the “normal” behavior of most “normal” people within the confounding context world that is itself upside down. All of Michael’s strange gestures and attitudes make perfect sense given one profound premise – that the world is pure, innocent and harmless. Of course those of us who have “grown up” have learned that the world is not “pure, innocent and harmless.” Hence the tragedy of Michael Jackson. His actions, whether holding his baby over the balcony or jumping on top of a car to wave to adoring fans or spending millions of dollars on a single shopping spree, seem irresponsible and disturbing when seen and interpreted through the categories of a deranged world. In fact, his actions were selfless and harmless.

The truth is, Michael had the eyes and heart of a child who saw in one dimension – that of pure love. When he saw that someone desired something from him, he gave selflessly, paying no heed to logical consequences or reasonable caution. The dictates of propriety and convention were, as they ought always to be, totally subordinated to the dictates of love. It made perfect sense to him to give joy to others, even if this exposed him and his own actions to spiteful or selfish manipulation by others.

Michael was not willing to assume, as most adults are conditioned to do, that someone he approached could have a tarnished nature. He gave others the benefit of doubt, approaching them as if approaching angels and children. When he met demons, thus, he was utterly exposed and likely devastated. This, no doubt, brought him much suffering, i.e., not so much the suffering that was inflicted upon him by the malice of others but only just the sudden realization (played over and over again anew) that the person he had hoped was an angel could in fact be so malevolent. Michael never allowed himself, it seems, to draw the seemingly rational and sensible conclusion that most adults have drawn from repeated experience: the world is generally just this way. In other words, Michael’s purity was such that if he met nine people, all of whom turned out to be vile, he would still greet the tenth as an angel. This defies reasonable human “logic,” but it remains steadfast in an adherence to the greater logic of divine love.

Michael surrounded himself with children not because he was perverted, but because he saw in them the hope for a world which had grown to be far too mature. What he loved in children was the proof and justification of the “purity of heart” of which we hear in the Beatitudes. He tried desperately – in only seemingly irrational ways – to protect this adolescent purity from a world whose hideous cruelty he felt in his very own flesh. If the fact that he saw nothing wrong in expressing love toward children in emotionally intimate ways attests only to his purity, our inclination to assume that he was a pedophile and our willingness to assume that love is a pathological deviation can only attest to our essential impurity. In a world that has fallen to pieces, it only makes sense that (to quote Dylan once again) what’s bad is good, what’s good is bad. Thus, love is a pathological disturbance, whereas cold, rational remoteness defines the new “humanity.”

Michael created and surrounded himself with a world fit for a child because he felt that this is the ideal the entire world should aspire to - an ideal that the world so woefully fails to live up to. It was also, incidentally, a way for him to compensate for the pain that was so ever-present to him – the pain of his past and present, the pain of his visceral, personal experience. Michael was sensitive – perhaps hyper-sensitive – and in so being, he felt the pang of every brutal truth far more directly and deeply than most others would. The harm that was inflicted upon him and others was so real to Michael that it induced in him an absolute and immediate moral response. This response - this Neverland world that eradicated the pain of reality through one sweeping contradiction - however unrealistic and idealistic it might seem to a practically minded adult, was totally reasonable for Michael. Michael was the perfect mixture of a child’s innocence and an old-man’s sagacity. He saw both much less and much more. Quincy Jones was therefore profoundly astute and when he famously described Michael as both the oldest and youngest man he knew.

Michael’s innocence is strangely evident in his infamous shopping spree that evoked such a furor when shown in Martin Bashir’s exposé. My own socially and environmentally conscious logic is tempted to condemn and rebuke such wanton excess. And yet, I can only smile when I see Michael in the store. Why? Perhaps because what I really see is an innocent child grasping for an ideal utopia – pleasantly oblivious to the ugliness of a consumptive and destructive society concealed behind a façade of harmless, pretty, enjoyable products. Michael sees only what is immediately there – the potential for a beautiful world wherein children and adults alike have what they need – the joy and inspiration, the peace and beauty. There is really no concern here for stuff. What allows me to smile rather than to cringe is that Michael’s thoughts and actions flow so naturally and effortlessly along these ideal and pure categories, which seem so improbable to my rational mind. He does not see the horror and the ugliness. These do not factor into his thinking. His urge to buy is not inspired by an egoistic urge to amass stuff for his own gratification. Nor does it arise from being manipulated by an insidious system that wants you to buy for its own impure interest.

The Bashir Interview: Casting Pearls before Swine

When I first (only recently) watched the notorious Martin Bashir special, which was shamelessly aired again and again on MSNBC after Michael’s passing, I could not help but cry. At times I felt as though I was witnessing the public humiliation, flogging and crucifixion of an utterly helpless and harmless child. My first thought was, “why did Michael agree to do this? He should have refused!” Upon some reflection, however, I realized that Michael was willing to expose himself (repeatedly) to Bashir’s sadistic onslaught precisely because of who he was. Michael thought that Bashir’s intentions were pure. He wanted to believe that Bashir would not manipulate what had been said and that the journalist’s quest was simply to share the truth with the world. Why not believe this to be the case? Why assume that the interviewer’s instincts could be self-interested and impure? Would that not be admitting that the world is ugly – that the world is not and will never be Neverland?

The contrast between Bashir and Michael really could not be greater. Bashir went out of his way to appear reasonable and measured. Michael, on the other hand, had little regard for how he appeared. His main concern was the truth of how he felt and what he believed. To many people he appeared “crazy.” The truth, of course, was just the opposite. Bashir was consistently cynical, sardonic, judgmental, and seemed to exhibit a pathological indifference when, again and again, he picked at Michael’s raw, open wounds. He showed no regard for the human heart and its anguish. If he had any concern for Michael’s torment, perhaps he was too proud to show it. Bashir concealed his cruelty behind a façade of intelligent, reasonable and intellectual professionalism, as if he were just a skilled journalist in the disinterested pursuit of truth. But it is when things sound perfectly civilized and appear so prim and proper that we should be most wary and suspicious. If we pay close attention, we see that Michael possesses the genuine and good heart and is quite reasonable in all he stands for, whereas Bashir is the true sociopath.

Bashir conducts his hurtful interviews all the meanwhile adhering to the highest professional protocol and journalistic etiquette. At one point in the broadcast, Bashir reflects: “Confronting Michael wasn’t going to be easy, but now it had to happen,” as if this shift to difficult personal subject matter were the result of some inescapable logic, perhaps some imagined standard of journalistic professionalism, which dictates that the truth must be uncovered, whatever the human toll. It is not relevant or important to Bashir how personal the truth may be, whether it has any important humane or useful significance to the audience, or what the consequences of the pursuit of that truth might be. The single thing that matters is the successful exposure of facts, which will secure for Bashir pride among his peers. Are we to admire this journalist’s professional ardor, persistence, and his supreme objectivity in the pursuit of his goal? Is it of no importance that a human being must be sacrificed on the altar of this professional ideal?

In yet another disingenuous attempt to establish his superior ethical and professional credentials, Bashir explains to his audience that his line of questioning is inspired by a “worry” for Michael’s children. Meanwhile, Michael sits and writhes in obvious pain and discomfort. Seeing this, Bashir, ever the objective scientist in hot pursuit, does not desist but rather intensifies his inquest. Michael, the victim, is increasingly desperate and begins to crack. His humanity is bared for all to see. Michael’s legs tremble with anxiety. Under duress, Michael opens up and his emotions spill over. Defenseless because of his innocence, and so pure that he cannot even fathom the foul logic of reason, Michael describes the act of sharing one bed with a child as an expression of care and love. How fair-minded propriety dictates that care and love are in fact deviant behavior is rightly incomprehensible to him. Desperation ringing in his voice, he explains that he cannot abide a crazy world wherein guns and computers have, for children, replaced human contact and compassion. “Why does it mean so much to you?” asks Bashir. The question seems to embody concern, but there is a just barely palpable accusatory tone: Wouldn’t a normal, rational person care less…? Perhaps you care so much because you are demented or perverted…?

The proper question, of course, is how anyone could ever be indifferent to the plight of children in an alienating world? How could anyone care less? Bashir’s rationality has itself become a pathological deviation. Bashir stands in judgment over a phenomenon he cannot understand, because he has grown up beyond where he could ever comprehend the simplicity of a pure heart. His logic is far too sophisticated and proud. When we have grown up to the point where we are actually capable of dispassionately analyzing a tragedy without breaking down and crying about it, we have then truly lost our humanity. Erecting ideals like Neverland in an effort to cope with dismal reality is not a moral failure. Properly seen, it is just a symptom of or testament to the pathological state of the world. The moral failure is the dismal reality in itself.

Bashir is the sort of person who could stab a person and, with cool and calm demeanor, go on to ask why the victim is in pain. He is “disturbed” by Jackson’s ostensibly eccentric behavior and “concerned” for the children, all the meanwhile inflicting psychological torture on the father of these children. Perhaps Bashir even understands that Michael’s sensitivity will make him susceptible to manipulation. He throws Michael off balance and then points to his angst as evidence of character flaws. Bashir is especially interested in the personal and largely irrelevant matter of plastic surgeries, and here his interrogation borders on sadism. Knowing the topic will open painful wounds, he pries into Michael’s demons. Bashir’s interrogation can only bring to mind an SS officer with his cool and scientific method. Perhaps what Bashir was really looking for in his ideal subject was a cold hard rock rather than a human being. What he found instead was an angel.

On writing

It has been over two weeks I have not written. I go through these weeks I can't even fathom composing an email, let alone write prose, or essay (and yet here I am writing a blog entry - perhaps in an attempt to unclog the writing passageways in my brain).

I wonder if other writers are also plagued with frequent shut-downs. We've all heard of writer's block, but that is a different phenomena than what I am experiencing. With writer's block, one finds it difficult to be creative, whereas with a complete shut-down, one finds it difficult to even breathe.

I imagine even if writers suffer from it, they wouldn't reveal it as it would make them seem weak. Unprofessional. Part of the loneliness that comes with our profession, I find is that many are hesitant to reveal aspects of their writing lives. We'd much rather converse about our next gig, fund, where we've been published than talk about more personal, intimate topics related to our profession. We've sort of dug ourselves into this hole of loneliness.

Garden State

I just watched a 2004 movie entitled "Garden State."
Although I wondered if the premise would have been strengthened more if the producers had cast older actors, I did enjoy the many themes that were explored in the movie. It might come across decadent, self-indulgent at first, but there is a clear thick philosophical narrative behind it. The message is one of feeling life intensely, shamelessly and fervently with all its pain, chaos, grief and joy. That numbing out the psyche with a bubbling assortment of modern day pills will surely suppress pain, but it will also dampen joy. To live life, is to embrace the good, the bad and ugly.
Embracing all aspects of it, is the very essence of living.

One line from the movie particularly resonated with me where the main depressed, pill-popping character says: "I’m 26 years old and I’ve spent my whole life waiting for something else to start. Now I realize that this is all there is and I’m going to try to live my life like that."

It is at times difficult to accept that 'this is it,' 'this is all there is.' Perhaps it is years of indoctrination by parents, by society at large that has taught us there is something beyond the mundane limits of everyday existence, that makes us lazy about living life to the fullest here and now. I am certainly guilty as charged. I turned 30, 33, 35, 37, and expected life to begin with each passing birthday, but instead sank deeper and deeper into a state of nihilism, or as Emile Durkeim aptly put it 'anomie.' This amorphous, borderless, restless. free floating state of anguish that makes one feel like a mere body occupying space and time with no substance, and certainly no impact on the world that surrounds the self.

Oh, and everyday I tell myself this day will be different from the previous one. That I will fulfill something, anything I've longed to fulfill in my 37 years on this earth. It will be a day filled with purpose, with raison d'etre pouring out in streams from inside and out, spilling out from the edges. But alas, that day never comes. There is always something distracting me from reaching out and grabbing life by the horns: chores, work, my girl-cats, exercise, shopping, socializing (however far and few that may be). But it has to come at some point, I refuse to die before having materialized my dreams, as cliche as that may be. Ever heard of that expression 'the fear of dying is the fear of never having lived?' We only get one shot at the business of living (unless of course you believe in the promise of some after life, brimming with medieval ghostie, ghosties looking to cater to your every whim and caprice in the gates of heaven - oh, grow up already people!) But yes, how hard it is to live, I mean to really live. How easy it is to just succumb to a state of mind-numbing boredom, or as someone aptly put it, 'lost paradise of nonexistence.'

The Band's Visit

I saw this movie the other night and it has left quite an impression on me. In a day where movies are predicated upon fast cars, beautiful young women, and superficial, cheesy lines, this one stands out like a gem.

The movie essentially involves the visit of a band from Egypt to Isreal. They get lost and seek refuge for a day in the home of the owners of a fast food joint in the middle of the desert. Some people thought the movie was of comical nature, but I thought it had a tragic element. The message is one of universal value about the all-pervasive, sometimes painful human condition: loneliness.

The message is that whether you are a Jew or an Arab, you are alone in this universe. Despite the difference in customs, beliefs, traditions, mores and values of our unique cultures, we all are familiar with the pangs of this 'universal human condition,' as Nietzsche once quipped.

Pains of birth - no, not a baby, but an article

The writing process is often likened to the pain and suffering that accompanies popping out a baby. I have never had a child (and never will- see my other postings) but I'll venture to say that writing is even more painful. I've never heard of a delivery that can take weeks, even months. And yet this is the reality for most of us writers. From the time the seed of an idea is planted to the researching, drafting, writing, editing, re-editing and interpreting of the final product, weeks, months or years elapse. And throughout that process we suffer, oh do we suffer, from the painful, agonizing pangs of
birth.

Surely, some ideas are easier to research and write than others. Issues related to holistic healing come to me easier now than articles of a political nature. Year 2007 was my political writing era, but I've grown increasingly bored with the subject matter, and even downright hostile to it. I presume the hostility parallels with my over all disillusionment with politics in general. I don't see the point anymore of crafting articles on the dangers our politicians are driving us into. Who listens to writers anyways? So I'd rather stick my neck in the sand, and write on more uplifting, rosy topics. Trust me, this approach has helped me retain whatever sanity I had left; otherwise I'd be all damaged goods.

To be continued...on a mere 3 hours of sleep today. Until next time.

So now what?

After a grueling 9 months of having changed 3 different countries, I am back home. Not home, as in Colorado, since I've already been here a little over a month. But back home as in, in my own house..basement n' all. That's right. I am finally home. Now I can undertake all the projects I wanted to complete, I can even adopt a dog, convert one of the rooms into a studio. The possibilities are infinite..or so it seems at the time of this writing. I have a monkey, fickle brain, and all of this optimism about the bright, shiny future that lays dormant ahead of me could vanish as fast as a box of chocolates.

But I don't think I will ever be ungrateful for what I have been graced with, in terms of this home. When I think of the many months I spent in Belgium in captivity under the watchful eyes of a borderline personality disordered lover, almost in the manner a caged bunny, I can't help but feel grateful that I am free, and at home. I will never forget the way he looked so amused and empowered with his new pet (me), locked up in a home, in a country that was anything but cozy for her, as day after day he grew sicker and sicker. In the end, I started to doubt my own sanity. Had I really moved across the ocean to be with a boy I'd met online? Had I really bought into all of this 23 year old's promises of eternal, undying love? Had I really sold all my furniture, rented my home, and left behind my cat who had been the only consistent thing in my life? Had I? Had I? Yes, I had. Perhaps it was I who was so insane.

Then I think of the transition to Turkey. The values, the customs, the worldviews, the faces all different. A vast world apart from my own. I couldn't stand it. I wanted nothing to do with this alien world.

I am happy to be home.

Conform, conform or die..

It seems to be another dreary day of fatigue and lukewarm boredom. I have been productive to the extent that I have read more than 70 pages of a new book entitled "Loose Girl." The genre is not one that I would take into easily, but I thought I wouldn't mind reading a book that in some ways echoed my life of 'love promiscuity'. In this book, I attempt to find answers to my lifelong 'love addiction.' Believe me, it is no lesser of an addiction than drug addiction. I know deep down inside
the many lovers that drifted in and out of my life, were all attempts to find a home, a security base where I am loved and accepted under all conditions. Forty plus lovers (most of whom were not even physical/sexual, but merely platonic) later, I remain as homeless as ever. No, don't take pity on me. I am a hopeless, incurable, sentimental romantic, not in the sense of flowers and teddy bears, but more in the sense that a soul mate is out there, that there are indeed possibilities.

Speaking of love, I stumbled into my ex-husband's site which proudly declared him to be the new father of a boy. My jaw dropped instantaneously. I felt immobilized by the sheer weight of the news. Then the words 'What on earth?' whizzed through my mind like a Hawaiian hurricane. Is this self-proclaimed, venom spewing misanthrope who had in his days vowed to be childfree really, truly, deeply a father of a newborn boy (who I might add looks more like a wrinkled washcloth than a human)? So was the vasectomy he had undergone in our 3rd year of the relationship just a ploy to marry me? A die-hard environmentalist and lover of my freedom, I had put forth vasectomy as one of the prerequisites for marriage. It seems so. Oh yes, it seems so.
I couldn't help but wonder if he had just succumbed to conformity; you know the ubiquitous social pressure to be part of the herd, especially given the country he comes from. I will not name the country, but suffice to say that it is part of the Islamic Middle East.

I don't know, perhaps I don't want to know. But my mind has been a whirlwind of thoughts, and memories, as I interpret and re-interpret my past, not just with him, but all the lovers that have come and gone, come and gone, like the leaves of a tree. Were they also pretending to be someone else? How does one ever know?

Dribblings

Almost two years have passed by since I last visited this blog. Two of the longest years of my life, though they should have passed faster given my move at least three different times to three different countries. It is not as though I am a restless soul, really. I am just looking for a place to call "home" - and with that comes absolute peace and quiet. An endangered quality, I will tell you.

I am yet to find that spot that is not pierced by the shrills of technology. What have we made of this world? We are all swimming in the turbulent, noisy sea of technology. And yet only a few amongst us questions the insanity that bombards us daily.

So where am I today? Belgium. You know that country that has been dubbed an "accident of history." It is really not famous for anything but chocolate and beer. Oh and some good cheese!
Perhaps the royalty too? Though I have no idea what their names are. I am stuck here in my own little bubble with my lover. Save the work, neither of us has any care for the world. Speaking of which, it makes it hard for me to be a freelance writer. How can I come up with any ideas if I don't have a care for anything in the world (well, I am exaggerating, I do love nature and animals)? See why I have been outa work for awhile?

Tears of Blood: Blue as me

“My grief lies all within, and these external manners of lament are merely shadows to the unseen grief that swells with silence in the tortured soul” W.S

“Time heals griefs and quarrels, for we change and are no longer the same persons” Pascal


Ask binlerce defa olur. “Love dies a thousand times.” Many a writers have so exquisitely detailed the pain of loss. Would we even have words to describe the pain had it not been for the ability of these writers to tell the truth in such an unabashed manner – all the while making it sound so beautiful? Perhaps there is no greater agony in life, save the loss of one’s health, than the agony of loss. The stages of grievance vary from one person to the next, but grievance follows a similar pattern. First comes, shock. This is when you find yourself acting completely out of character, a temporary case of irrationality, insanity ensues. Then comes denial. You expect to have the same routine i.e. receive emails or calls at the times you used to from your X. You delude yourself into thinking it is just a temporary stage and all will be good in a few days, weeks or even months. ‘All is good’ you reassure yourself, holding yourself tight..It is just a nightmare that has come too close to reality. A vivid one at that. We all have those. If you have already been through a major breakup before, however, you might skip this stage. Then a thought will strike you with unprecedented force: Life sucks. Thoughts of suicide might (or not) surge beneath that callous, stoic surface. But most importantly, you’ll come to a weary acceptance that this is as good as life gets. If you are a lucky soul on this earth and are surrounded with a nice cushion of family and friends, they might be able to convince you that a session or two with a shrink is in order. But if you are a member of the minority club of loners, then this will stage will lurk around in dark corners of your psyche for days on end. Bills will sit unpaid in your inbox. Some polished from your former life and some unpolished queries will hunker in the ‘queries’ folder, screaming to be be put to use. Everyone and everything will feel ephemeral, transitory, taking on surreal qualities. What you were most attached to, what gave a warm and fuzzy feeling will take on an ominous meaning. Think household pets. They will irritate you with that l’air of detachment. How could the suffering not be infectious?

You, the reader, might be wondering how came to dissect the architecture of grief so well. Psychology courses in college? Hardly, that was more than 15 years ago. It was October six years ago; fall was drifting away into an unbearable chill. I was at the end of my twenty-nineth year on the planet, and was living in the capital of murder, trying to support myself as an adjunct lecturer and teaching English to a bunch of bourgeoisie weasels from Latin America – taking part in the kind of urban life may 20 somethings find themselves in. Six years on, I still recall the heartache of discovering that he, who had been my rock, my crutch in a world I found intolerably cold, whom I thought would be a permanent fixture in my life had another life on the side. Beads of blood sweat draping my forehead, heart galloping at 200 miles, I read those carefully typed few words in his email box: “Bu gece maximumdayim” read the email. From a 19 year old.

Perhaps the greatest agony of this is the unraveling of the past before your eyes. Every heartache takes you back to the first piercing of feelings of loneliness preceded by abandonment in childhood. One by one, you relive those agonizing moments of abandonment at your most vulnerable stage. Then it strikes you that it is not just the loss of a person that you’re bleeding over, but the loss of an entire future. If future is an infinite succession of presents, then my present was my future. Dreams, goals come crumbling down at the mercy of a gigantic crane that is the dissolution of a marriage.

Then I am reminded of a passage from one of Mary Sarton’s books. Think of trees, she said, and how simply they let go, let fall the riches of a season. How without the tentacles of grief, they can let go of the brilliantly coloured leaves and sink deep into their roots for rejuvenation and sleep. “... Imitate the trees. Learn to lose in order to recover, and remember that nothing stays the same for long, not even pain, psychic pain. Sit it out. Let it all pass. Let it go."

How I wish to be a tree now.

From Derrick Jackson, columnist for the Boston Globe, in yesterday's paper:'

'All we are left with is our aspirations in a game where the average share of the American dream is being spoiled. The Institute for Policy Studies and United for a Fair Economy, the two liberal think tanks that annually chart the gap between CEOs and workers, currently list the gap at 431-to-1, or $11.8 million to $27,460. That compares with a gap of 107-to-1 in 1990. If salaries of the average worker had kept up with that of a CEO, he or she would be making $110,136. Had the minimum wage risen at the same pace as CEO compensation, it would stand today at $23.01. The federal minimum wage of $5.15 has not risen since 1997.more....

In 1980, the gap was only 42-to-1. Where the spoils go are quite clear. According to 2005 federal data from the Congressional Budget Office, the share of America's income that went to the highest 20 percent of households increased from 45.5 percent in 1979 to 52.2 percent in 2003. The remaining 80 percent of American households all saw their share of the nation's income drop.''The higher you go in that top 20 percent, the more the rise in their share of the income. The top 1 percent of Americans saw their share of America's income zoom from 9.3 percent in the last quarter century to 14.3 percent. The top 10 percent saw their share go from 30.5 percent to 37.2 percent.''How [Treasury Secretary John] Snow thinks that 10 percent of Americans holding 37 percent of the income represents a sharing of the spoils is checkout-counter economics. His claim falls especially short considering that 46 of the nation's 275 largest companies, according to the Institute for Policy Studies, the United for a Fair Economy, and another liberal think-tank, Citizens for Tax Justice, paid no federal income tax in 2003. Eighty-two of the largest 275 companies paid no federal income tax at some point during 2001-2003 as the current President Bush cut taxes for the wealthy.''

...and the trend shall continue insofar as Americans continue to drown their miseries in the bible, and go on murderous rampages, blaming their fellow socio-economic class members for their dire predicaments. A truly tragic country with a disastorous future for the 'little guy.'

The expatriate life: rewarding or isolating?

Judging from my last post, I must be in the third phase of my expatriate existence. Anger with the host country. A desire to change the culture. As I was pounding the running machine for a good 45 minutes today in my every day goal of registering at least 4 kilometers on the meter, I found myself getting worked up over the sheer dearth of gyms here. Unless you live in the hotspots, otherwise known as Barcelona or Madrid, you are pretty much devoid of a gym culture. So, if you were a kickboxing or salsa aerobics nut in the U.S., as I was, be forewarned that you might have to put all that to rest upon your arrival in 'sunny Spain.'

Ironically though, la gente aqui are far thinner than their American counterparts. I can count the number of crypto-human landwhales I've seen waddle down the streets with one hand - a sight that was all too common at every nook and cranny in the U.S. The next article I'll be tackling will actually be touching on this very topic. Why are Europeans thinner than Americans? Is it the food? Better sex lives? Safe streets or is it that they are not as lonesome as Americans are? Americans are a sad bunch - my heart sinks everytime I think of the country I was born in. I mean, where else on this planet would an 80 year old cashier desperately attempt to light up a conversation with you. Before you can say 'thank you ma'am,' and effect your flee from the supermarket, you know all about her cousin martha who is popping her third kid out - on my big green ones of course. An introverted misanthrope, maintaing conversations with complete supermarket strangers was next to pulling teeth in terms of pain.

At any rate, back to my host country. It has been a challenge making friends in this land of the ultra-social. Cafes are brimming with people at all hours of the day, but you won't see my pretty face amongts the loquacious gatherings of homo sapiens. No sirey, bob. Language barriers are too immense to overcome. I have two options here both of which are not feasible at this time. 1) Hunt, yes hunt, not 'look for' natives of the English language, because English speakers are as rare as a snowflake in mid-summer in this provential, conservative town or 2) Undertake a massive study in the many nuances and intricacies of the Spanish language - verbs and all. Ouch, those verbs hurt. I wish I could say as a bi-lingual, cultivated individual who has experienced an array of cultures, I am motivated to learn the language. Sadly, that is not the case; my body rejects it. I have never been one to take a liking for the sound of Spanish. French, yes - I can devour it in one sitting. Send me the teacher. German, yes- even if it is to understand the lyrics of Rammenstein. A time will come, however, where I'll have to muster up enough energy and motivation to learn it. That time is not now though - it will have to wait. First things first - the thousands of dollars of debt incurred from medical expenses from the land of 'the free and brave' will have to be paid in full...And for that I'll have to keep writing until all ten of these fingers are the buffest parts of my body. Thanks for doing that to me U.S!

Spaniards and their casas

I guess I've already been here long enough to despise and resent its people. I wish somebody would expain to me why these people are so hell bent on repairing every inch of their dwelling.

Sick at home for the second week from a severe case of allergies, I've had to put up with the little tart next door and her smelly hubby repair their fucking bathroom. What is next - the balcony? Or who knows, maybe they will build the world's first teracce (sp?) on the second floor. This is far from an isolated incident and is indicative of a pattern I've been observing since my arrival here. Walk through any of these narrow streets and you'll be hard pressed to find one without the relentless drone of a drill, or a hammer, or a crane. The skyline - of any city, mind you - is bristling with the ubitiqous crane. Really, it should be on their fucking flag.

Ask any of my students what they've been up to lately, and the response will be something about their casa - they are either buying one or repairing one.

I wonder if any of these people know their way to the library. Seriously people, get a book. Get a life.

Hola

It has been a while since I visited this cozy little spot in cyberspace. Been so busy with the "real" writing that I've had no time for leisurely writing - if there is such a thing....Writing is always a painful, ardous task. But some of us simply could not go on living without it. It has a healing power. I think I would spontaneouly (sp?) combust and sprinkle, much like dust, into a thousand pieces if I did not keep at this.
It is an alluring, addictive drug this thing called writing.

I've managed to sell all my queries (well, save one) since the last time I posted. Indeed, my patience is paying off. How many times, though, I just wanted to throw my hands in the air and quit! The "evil" voices in my head incessantly admonishing me, telling me to get a real job.
Then there is the whisper-like voices telling me to keep going...There can be no happiness if one's vocation does not suit one's passion.. No, it was not I who uttered those words - I believe it was Albert Camus.

Until next time,
Me

Rejection

It is a hard pill to swallow. It is a concept us writers are all too familiar with. I don't think even the most polished, established writer ever gets used to it. How do you get used it? By the time you have delivered it, it has already become your baby. You have nourished and nurtured it for weeks on end before firing it into the cyber void, only for it to be neglected, ignored or out-and-out rejected with one cold phrase: we'll pass on this one. Though my favourite is: we can't give you the green light. Mmmm...kay..can I at least have the yellow light Mr. Editor?

By the end of next year, I expect to cover the walls of this room in its entirity with my rejection letters..I am sure these walls will wear it as a badge of honour. In all seriousness, the first letter of acceptance will be framed and hung right above my desk. Now, let's see who will have the first honour of being hung..Now that sounds inauspicious, nest pas? Being hung!

The superwoman who is my spouse, however, is every writer's dream come true. She is eternally supportive, resolute and high-spirited. If it weren't for her, I don't believe I could or would continue. I lack the stamina that she injects daily in my veins. I am very quick to descend into the self-doubt abyss. After all, each and every query you craft is an extension of yourself. It is hard not to take it personally. So, yes, damn it - I am fucking hurt. Now, where are my chocolate covered marijuana balls?

Breeding at the same rate as dog fleas

My partner sent me the link below and I could not help but chuckle upon reading and at the same time feel a great sense of relief there are others on the planet who share a similar disdain towards breeders. http://www.failuremag.com/

That is right, breeders: those individuals who continue to bring forth more homo sapiens despite the 6.5 billion that already abound our finite planet. Really, what are they thinking? That the earth is still in need of us, the large destructive mammals we are? On a daily basis, we hear of the unprecedeneted rate at which the earth is being degraded whether it is in the form of global warming or the loss of millions of acres of land. How can anyone in the right mind read about such dire facts and prospects and continue on the self-centred, megalomanical, suicidal path of breeding?

As a hyper-sensitive person, I feel a special sense of repugnance at the sight of this flea-like breeding as more people means more noise, pollution, more cluttered and clustered land. I am in the seventh year of my quest for silence. After 6 different homes and two different countries, I still have not been able to find the tomb-like silence I so need and desire. You know, the sort of silence that death imposes. Nor have I been able to immerse myself in nature..Frolick in it and forget about this "concreted" way of living we have carved out for ourselves.

Really, what does it take to find space and silence in this overpopulated, noisy and dirty world?

Breeders: You shall never garner respect from this sensitive, civilized homo sapien. Not that you care with your fetus carrying bellies and narcissistic, mustpassonmyspecialgenes, animalistic, premordial instincts, but I just thought I would let you know somebody out there loathes you - with a passion.

On Spain - the subjective and the objective

Spain. Where to begin? So much to write, so little time. It is a bundle of contradictions. It is secular, and yet incomplete in its secularism. Very social, and yet almost clannish. Socialist, and yet some of its newly-implemented economic policies puts Britain or even the U.S. to shame. Traditional, but highly fluid, techno savy, and ever-changing with its youth.

One of the first things that takes one aback is the high percentage of its elderly population. Everywhere. Hordes and hordes of them; sitting on bench tops eating their kestanes, walking in arm and arm with a fellow elderly person, spontaneously gathering at conspicuous spots of the town gossiping on the latest developments in such serious matters as politics or the more trivial ones like the mishaps and endeavors of their grandchildren.

Unlike, their American counterparts, they look fulfilled. The encumbered, mummified or just plain lonely faces of the elderly in the United States is nowhere to be seen. It is a good place to be if you are old.

For someone accustomed to the American or even Turkish family dynamics, familiar arrangements can appear very tight-knit. Family was ranked as the number one priority for Spaniards in a recent poll. Strangely, work appeared somewhere at the bottom of the list. Most families, here, know no to oscillate between excessive individualism (American style) and excessive authoritarianism (Turco or Arab style). They seem to have achieved a good balance in terms of familial relationships. Certainly, there are exceptions to the rules in that domestic violence is still a major headliner in the news.

A very, very social country. Every café, restaurant or any other gathering venue is packed wall to wall. They are endlessly solving the world’s or Spain’s problems, whining about their work, or how meagerly they are paid, the acute unemployment problem in Europe or simply bitching about life’s little annoyances and nuances. When I first arrived here, now almost 3 months ago, I was certain they were bickering or fighting. No, no, they are not fighting, they are just being human. Unlike their American counterparts, they are being natural. They know not to bottle up their emotions deep, and go and see a counselor for 200 euros/hr and take comfort in artificial means such as Paxil, Prozac or Zoloft. Very few people are even aware of such drugs. Why bury your woes in a bottle, when you can go to the nearest café and bitch? That is the Spanish way. You’ll have to admit it is a lot healthier than the American way.

Speaking of drugs, they are dirt-cheap here. Because the government heavily regulates the pricing of medication, costs are kept to a minimum, enabling the poor to have access to even the most expensive medication. Also, under Spanish law, every citizen is guaranteed health care coverage. What do you say to that America?? Your system treats the lower, middle-lower and increasingly middle-upper class citizens as subhumans by leaving out 50 million Americans out of the system all together..and another 100 million without adequate healthcare coverage. Europeans get health care coverage, an excellent public transportation, an adequate safety net (though it is being threatened with each successive generation), for their taxes, we get stellar B-bombers and helicopters to divide and conquer. Divide and conquer. What a buch of illeterates Americans are!

That is not to say that Spain is not a major seller of arms and weapons. It is well-known to be a 'provider' to such countries as Venezuala, Cuba or Morrocco. But at least the vast majority of the public has access to one of the most basic human rights - health care.

The sheer hell of insomnia

It has been a while since I wrote. I am in the grips of yet another insomniac plague. Yes, it is a plague..It keeps you from living to your fullest. You are merely existing, stuck in some twilight zone, waiting for it to vanish the same way it appeared.

I imagine it is the transition that is utterly ensettling to my already system. I don't know who I am here; I don't know how I am relevant to the overall structure, culture, people..I don't know anyone, and not a soul knows me..It is peculiar, this feeling of being almost invisible. You are flesh and blood to yourself, and yet nonexistant to others.

It is also peculiar conducting 90 percent of your life online..be it work, or communication. Perhaps it is this very fact that lends itself to an inordinate number of depression or anxiety cases. As much as I dislike humanity, there are times I long for the companion of someone outside the boundaries of my partner. Poor girl, what she has to put up with day and night!

I need to eradicate the root causes of this troubling period. In order to do that, however, I need to ascertain the root causes. Am I grieving the loss of my old profession? Hard to tell - the long, unbearable commutes coupled with the meager pay made it a living hell. No, I haven't forgotten the times I sat hungry and cold at endless bus stops trying to get from one lecture to the next. And yet, dreams of lecturing to crowds at nights haunt me. I wake up with a pit in my stomach, knowing I might never see the countless faces looking at me in utmost admiration, knowing that I might never adorn myself in preparation for the "stage." Silly me, all those years living only on stage and neglecting the rest of life.

Perhaps, the anxiety is no other than the mere symptom of re-evaluating one's life. Dramatic changes have a way of forcing you view the past in a different light. I can't help but wonder what could have been had I remained in one place, with similar set of circumstances, encircled with familiar faces and bodies. No interruptions. No alineation. No unfamiliar languages, values, customs to contend with.

Who knows, if that were the case, perhaps I would be sitting here lamenting the very monotonous, dull, stagnant nature of my life and asking - how would my life be today had I ventured outside the comfort zone?

9 weeks later

Yes, that is how long it has been here, in sunny, scrumptous Spain. Or so I believed prior to arriving here. The sun escapes me, as I spend my days indoors, a prisoner of these four, rather porous walls, manufacturing a seemingly endless array of pitch letter for my editors-to-be.

I am afraid to venture out. No, not for fear of being mugged, or attacked, or raped as is the case in the land I've effected my escape from, but for fear of being mistaken for a Spaniard. For fear of being in frozen motionless each time a passer-by stops to ask me something; direction, the time, the nearest pharmacy. 'No hablo espanol,' might elicit the kind of reaction I despise; ignorance or implicit aversion. Every foreigner is here to snatch a job from the well-entitled Spaniard or overburden their extensive welfare system right? Yes and no. Certainly, there are those who wish the exploit the system just as any other nation. But nothing could be further from the truth in my case as I could not be more isolated from the 'system'.

George Dumbya's face just popped up on the flat screen of my television set. I remember why I left the 'land of the brave and free.' ..or is it 'the land of the free and mighty.' Could be 'the land of the wicked and crazy.' It evades me en momento. Blame it on the lack of sleep.

Surely, I will be more coherent tomorrow.