some memories, some reflection
The amount of time that has passed precludes documenting every detail. my next line would be 'suffice it to say i've learned a great deal, experienced the whole spectrum of human emotion,' et cetera, but it doesn't really suffice at all.
we'll start with the present and see what i can do to provide a reasonable portrayal of events. my present setting is a quaint house built (i'm nearly sure) in the sixties, a short block west of sloan's lake on the western outskirts of denver. two story, tan brick. i'm tucked into the bedroom in the northwest corner, where i have a pillowtop queen slapped on the floor and pushed under the windows. it started out as a really minimal situation, relative to my pattern of building shelves to house an ever-increasing mass of doodads and trinkets, and remains pretty austere. clothes, books, paints. a printer i haven't unboxed yet. the bed itself is a bit of a change, too. i was paranoid about drilling into the walls for a hammock, but the landlord is selling so it wouldn't have mattered anyway. emily is sitting in front of me, snoring every so often in her cute, malevolent way.
i keep going back to the loft in my head, to the yellow bug light i kept on so i could leave the windows and doors open. i would play music, read doom porn, and smoke all in the safety and comfort of my own home, loud and obnoxious and smelly as i wanted to be, and no one gave a fuck, really.
it feels like paradise in hindsight.
that feeling is something i am trying to absorb, and either fight or embrace. my affectionate memories of asheville verge on homesickness, especially when my friends call with some anecdote, or send me pictures of their dogs.
of course there are so many things that made me leave, and made me want to leave before that. stagnation is the word that encompasses enough of how i felt about work, play, and love. there just didn't seem to be a way forward, as much as i wanted there to be.
now, the distance between this place and that one, and the effort required to cover it, seem overwhelming, and all i can think to do is pray the world doesn't consume itself before i get home.
i keep trying to remember what in the fuck happened to my marriage. it doesn't make any sense, and that may be the most frustrating part - no sense in trying to understand atrocity, but i can't help looking back.
still, the pattern i see is finding myself in situations where i'm manipulated by charismatic people, and don't have the awareness or boundaries to step out of it. i know myself to be strange, and also that this pattern doesn't make me a lesser person, but it feels like i just agree to let myself get screwed because i don't have the capacity to talk my way out of it. i reflected on this when i saw chappie, a story that juxtaposes the archetype of street-wise hustler with the magical innocence of awe. i can be savvy and shrewd, and i can enjoy simple pleasures, but i can't hold them in my head with the same weight.
all this comes back to my perennial struggle with self actualizing, knowing what i'm capable of, but not how to realize.
i've stayed up. this is the first night in a long time that i haven't been able to sleep, but it's been building for a while. just came off of a job in which i was working commercial construction with over time, so one day off a week, and enough time every day to fuck off for about half an hour, not counting subsistence errands. now, instead of waking up around four or five (now-ish) to arrive at work before 6, my workday starts around ten, and it has me all fucked up, combined with the fact that i am no longer physically exhausted at the end of the day. i sense a return to the weird, manic, sleep disorder swing shifts. and fuck, now i'm falling asleep instead of maintaining a coherent train of thought. figures.
we'll start with the present and see what i can do to provide a reasonable portrayal of events. my present setting is a quaint house built (i'm nearly sure) in the sixties, a short block west of sloan's lake on the western outskirts of denver. two story, tan brick. i'm tucked into the bedroom in the northwest corner, where i have a pillowtop queen slapped on the floor and pushed under the windows. it started out as a really minimal situation, relative to my pattern of building shelves to house an ever-increasing mass of doodads and trinkets, and remains pretty austere. clothes, books, paints. a printer i haven't unboxed yet. the bed itself is a bit of a change, too. i was paranoid about drilling into the walls for a hammock, but the landlord is selling so it wouldn't have mattered anyway. emily is sitting in front of me, snoring every so often in her cute, malevolent way.
i keep going back to the loft in my head, to the yellow bug light i kept on so i could leave the windows and doors open. i would play music, read doom porn, and smoke all in the safety and comfort of my own home, loud and obnoxious and smelly as i wanted to be, and no one gave a fuck, really.
it feels like paradise in hindsight.
that feeling is something i am trying to absorb, and either fight or embrace. my affectionate memories of asheville verge on homesickness, especially when my friends call with some anecdote, or send me pictures of their dogs.
of course there are so many things that made me leave, and made me want to leave before that. stagnation is the word that encompasses enough of how i felt about work, play, and love. there just didn't seem to be a way forward, as much as i wanted there to be.
now, the distance between this place and that one, and the effort required to cover it, seem overwhelming, and all i can think to do is pray the world doesn't consume itself before i get home.
i keep trying to remember what in the fuck happened to my marriage. it doesn't make any sense, and that may be the most frustrating part - no sense in trying to understand atrocity, but i can't help looking back.
still, the pattern i see is finding myself in situations where i'm manipulated by charismatic people, and don't have the awareness or boundaries to step out of it. i know myself to be strange, and also that this pattern doesn't make me a lesser person, but it feels like i just agree to let myself get screwed because i don't have the capacity to talk my way out of it. i reflected on this when i saw chappie, a story that juxtaposes the archetype of street-wise hustler with the magical innocence of awe. i can be savvy and shrewd, and i can enjoy simple pleasures, but i can't hold them in my head with the same weight.
all this comes back to my perennial struggle with self actualizing, knowing what i'm capable of, but not how to realize.
i've stayed up. this is the first night in a long time that i haven't been able to sleep, but it's been building for a while. just came off of a job in which i was working commercial construction with over time, so one day off a week, and enough time every day to fuck off for about half an hour, not counting subsistence errands. now, instead of waking up around four or five (now-ish) to arrive at work before 6, my workday starts around ten, and it has me all fucked up, combined with the fact that i am no longer physically exhausted at the end of the day. i sense a return to the weird, manic, sleep disorder swing shifts. and fuck, now i'm falling asleep instead of maintaining a coherent train of thought. figures.