toward the immaterial
"Cities, like forests, have their dens in which all their vilest and most terrible monsters hide. But in cities, what hides this way is ferocious, unclean, and petty, that is to say, ugly; in forests, what hides is ferocious, savage, and great, that is to say beautiful. Den for den, those of beasts are preferable to those of men. Caverns are better than the wretched holes that shelter humanity."
-- Les Miserables (p. 745)
I've been losing my footing again - it started after I graduated. Maybe even a bit before. There are too many variables, this experiment could not be reproduced. But if you're going to insist on the scientific method I can give you some hypotheses.
i) People have been moving away. You see, I depend a great deal on those around me to form my identity. I guess you can say I'm a bit of an amoeba. The essence is there no matter what, but I've always been a little strange with structure. And without that ribbing, that metallic scaffolding, I kind of fold in on myself. Hard to survive this orthogonal landscape as an amorphous creature. My friends are my architects and when there are earthquakes, they are there to retrofit me. No matter what, I know they see me in a way that even I can't see myself and it makes me feel whole and adored.
ii) I've been kind of forced, cajoled, or challenged to view myself in a different lens. I see things maybe I didn't want to see or I thought were different. It's a fun house mirror effect, really. I am searching for someone else and all I see is me in what seems to be a distorted reality.
It's great in the sense that, hey, now I know things and now I can work on becoming a better you (yes, like the infomercials say).
It's brutal because:
you consider (ii) in the context of (i) and shit gets fuckled.
iii) Death can be a horrible thing. Maybe it can also be a cathartic release or a much-needed conclusion or a way to see the life cycle or [insert whatever cloak of comfort we cast on it]. But it's also just terrifying. I'm not so worried about my death. It's more the impending death of loved ones. You take that and compound it with the other intense repercussions (of that looming fate) on other family members and then you're out in a desert with a bunch of - no, scratch that.
Then you're back to being 8 years old again with a suicidal father and a manic-depressive mother, supporting them on your shoulders that are rendered barely strong enough by the strange superhero power of empathy. Someone give that girl a cape with her name on it.
Now take (iii) and nest it into (i) with the consequences of (ii) and maybe you can see where I'm heading? Maybe these should be x's and y's. Loaded letters in and of themselves.
iv) My partner today wrote me that I use sex/uality as a coping mechanism. I think that's pretty accurate (as usual a remarkable insight on his part), except that maybe it's more about a healing mechanism or a way to connect to people deeply. Most people don't like to connect intimately by talking - we have become horrible talkers - I think a lot more can be communicated through feeling. And feeling is intimacy and most intimacy is coded by some degree of sexual closeness. You don't have to be attracted to someone to share yourself in this way and vice versa. It's hard to draw the line of where sexuality ends and human connection begins.
For me, anyway.
I can't explain these things. And what I feel doesn't always make sense to other people - I think many misconstrue it as something else (competition, mostly). To call it 'love' might colour it incorrectly but it's the closest I can get. I wish I could avert hurting people with this thing that has such wonderful potential.
Ok. 1, 2, 3, 4 (i's) now throw it in a hand-crafted wooden gourd relic and shake.
So I find myself in strange scenarios where I find myself (a folded-in-amoeba). I am walking through a blizzard to a bus stop and waiting for 40 minutes, talking to a 40-something year old black man from Arkansas who works from 3am until 9pm in Colorado Springs removing asbestos from sites. Getting on a bus with all men, at quarter to 10pm, all working men, talking about drugs and work and felonies. I can tell they don't know what to do with me.
Note that I am wearing pants (a rare occurrence these days) and carrying a black plastic bag with mysterious contents and bundled up in a stained puffy jacket. I also get on the bus talking to the man - Steve - and sit next to him.
I changed the way I spoke a little bit. I became more masculine, as I normally do in those situations. I try and slip out of my white skin as best as I can - maybe hoping to reach something that's not blackness or brownness or any other shade but just transparency or something that reflects. I adore those encounters but I wonder how much of me they see because of what I say as opposed to how much of me I see because of what I don't say or just because people like that can just see into you like you never could.
They are strangers who have the same architectural abilities as dear friends.
So that's it. I see Denver suddenly as someone in the margin just as I did as a foreigner in the Bay Area. And I wonder was it really the geography that set me apart? Or all those little variables that strip me bare of comforts and i-beams.
-- Les Miserables (p. 745)
I've been losing my footing again - it started after I graduated. Maybe even a bit before. There are too many variables, this experiment could not be reproduced. But if you're going to insist on the scientific method I can give you some hypotheses.
i) People have been moving away. You see, I depend a great deal on those around me to form my identity. I guess you can say I'm a bit of an amoeba. The essence is there no matter what, but I've always been a little strange with structure. And without that ribbing, that metallic scaffolding, I kind of fold in on myself. Hard to survive this orthogonal landscape as an amorphous creature. My friends are my architects and when there are earthquakes, they are there to retrofit me. No matter what, I know they see me in a way that even I can't see myself and it makes me feel whole and adored.
ii) I've been kind of forced, cajoled, or challenged to view myself in a different lens. I see things maybe I didn't want to see or I thought were different. It's a fun house mirror effect, really. I am searching for someone else and all I see is me in what seems to be a distorted reality.
It's great in the sense that, hey, now I know things and now I can work on becoming a better you (yes, like the infomercials say).
It's brutal because:
you consider (ii) in the context of (i) and shit gets fuckled.
iii) Death can be a horrible thing. Maybe it can also be a cathartic release or a much-needed conclusion or a way to see the life cycle or [insert whatever cloak of comfort we cast on it]. But it's also just terrifying. I'm not so worried about my death. It's more the impending death of loved ones. You take that and compound it with the other intense repercussions (of that looming fate) on other family members and then you're out in a desert with a bunch of - no, scratch that.
Then you're back to being 8 years old again with a suicidal father and a manic-depressive mother, supporting them on your shoulders that are rendered barely strong enough by the strange superhero power of empathy. Someone give that girl a cape with her name on it.
Now take (iii) and nest it into (i) with the consequences of (ii) and maybe you can see where I'm heading? Maybe these should be x's and y's. Loaded letters in and of themselves.
iv) My partner today wrote me that I use sex/uality as a coping mechanism. I think that's pretty accurate (as usual a remarkable insight on his part), except that maybe it's more about a healing mechanism or a way to connect to people deeply. Most people don't like to connect intimately by talking - we have become horrible talkers - I think a lot more can be communicated through feeling. And feeling is intimacy and most intimacy is coded by some degree of sexual closeness. You don't have to be attracted to someone to share yourself in this way and vice versa. It's hard to draw the line of where sexuality ends and human connection begins.
For me, anyway.
I can't explain these things. And what I feel doesn't always make sense to other people - I think many misconstrue it as something else (competition, mostly). To call it 'love' might colour it incorrectly but it's the closest I can get. I wish I could avert hurting people with this thing that has such wonderful potential.
Ok. 1, 2, 3, 4 (i's) now throw it in a hand-crafted wooden gourd relic and shake.
So I find myself in strange scenarios where I find myself (a folded-in-amoeba). I am walking through a blizzard to a bus stop and waiting for 40 minutes, talking to a 40-something year old black man from Arkansas who works from 3am until 9pm in Colorado Springs removing asbestos from sites. Getting on a bus with all men, at quarter to 10pm, all working men, talking about drugs and work and felonies. I can tell they don't know what to do with me.
Note that I am wearing pants (a rare occurrence these days) and carrying a black plastic bag with mysterious contents and bundled up in a stained puffy jacket. I also get on the bus talking to the man - Steve - and sit next to him.
I changed the way I spoke a little bit. I became more masculine, as I normally do in those situations. I try and slip out of my white skin as best as I can - maybe hoping to reach something that's not blackness or brownness or any other shade but just transparency or something that reflects. I adore those encounters but I wonder how much of me they see because of what I say as opposed to how much of me I see because of what I don't say or just because people like that can just see into you like you never could.
They are strangers who have the same architectural abilities as dear friends.
So that's it. I see Denver suddenly as someone in the margin just as I did as a foreigner in the Bay Area. And I wonder was it really the geography that set me apart? Or all those little variables that strip me bare of comforts and i-beams.