The Ravings: August 30, 2009 - Exhaustion Redux
Back in 2005, my dad and I drove around Seattle looking for a place for me to live, for the first time. It was a bit unreal, and today, when it's a lot more sane a possibility for the future, doing the same thing is a bit unnerving.
The odd thing about that original run, though, was that my dad pointed out the possibility that he could buy an entire complex and have me as a landlord there. I immediately refused, on the grounds that it was a responsibility I couldn't handle. (Specifically, I didn't think I could confront a tenant with eviction.)
With another four years of experience behind me today, I realized there is another reason I couldn't handle such a responsibility: what, really, stops me from walking into a tenant's apartment and wailing on them? Except from my own self-restraint, that is, and my less than stellar physical condition. Wouldn't that be a nightmare for you, as a tenant?
As a child, karate taught me what is perhaps the most useful lesson I have learned in my entire life. When anger cannot be dealt with, then at least you can point it somewhere else. Somewhere safe, where no one actually gets hurt. For me, it meant letting the steam bottle up unhealthily and exploding into the punching bags. And for my part, I was intensely aware that I was using techniques that hadn't been taught: I was developing my own street fighting techniques -- entirely in theory, of course -- as I let myself off my own leash.
It didn't matter how useful such a development would be: the point I make is that in doing this, I was already subconsciously anticipating that I would be doing the same thing in reality, without the cool, level-headed regard of an engagement dealing in long-ranged kicks and lunge-retreat punches. It would be close enough for grappling and fought primarily with elbows and knees and sweeps. I wore my glasses, so I never added headbutts. It was a punching bag, so I never attempted an uppercut.
But the point was not to win. The point was to beat the stuffing out of the other guy. I was in middle school. In eighth grade, I started going to a school psychiatrist because I smashed a girl's face in with a binder. This is not to mention the other scraps I got myself into: this incident stands out in my mind for the single-minded fury that it epitomized.
In later years, this would manifest itself as a facade of chivalry. I would walk alleyways in hopes of running across an actual malefactor, to serve as an outlet. Of course, one becomes what one pretends to be, and I did in fact act as a protector on a few separate occasions, but that is a small thing.
In earlier years, I used the vast tract of land Harker School sat upon to great effect. I learned its secrets and hiding places, and became familiar with how to hide myself away like a werewolf at full moon. I expended my energy, even before the advent of karate, by running. I still love to run, as a result. Harker has a wonderfully large field and only if the whole school emptied out into it could it even resemble being full; I had no problem finding my own spot, even in plain sight, to let the world fall away a little.
These days, I take long walks in the cold, Seattle air or I use it up in small, meaningless and miniscule acts of aggression. (Actually, I need to remove the Nerf gun from my proximity; not only has Don taken to participating, but I'm also starting to actually shoot at people, which I resisted for a long, long time. The temptation to transition from simple relief to actual malice is a line that's simply too dangerous to approach.)
This approaching PAX comes at a bad time. I am sad to say I cannot imagine myself enjoying it this year, and I do not think the situation will improve in future years. In many ways, I have used myself up in its anticipation and there is little enough left for the productive work I had hoped and intended to accomplish during that period. I have enough pride left to demand of myself a keeping of every promise I actually made, but I am slowly watching myself evaluating every possibility of getting out of the intentions I had made without commitment. It saddens me, because in a palpable way, this represents a casting off of yet another set of friends. For me, this year has already been a magnificent accomplishment, even without the final crescendo of execution. If I am being so reflective about the whole thing, what I should feel is pride, but in its place I instead find a deep pit of apathy.
What do I get, out of all this? Nothing. I have yet to actually take anything of substance from a panel, and I am an introvert who will bleed myself dry just being there. I am practiced at making myself avaiable, due to my youthful foolishness and naivete, but I may as well go and curl up with a good book for the duration and just hold onto the cell phone. I smile at the faint optimism in me that points out that I could really enjoy myself if I make an effort to, but even so, it is faint and it is a devil's advocate. Really: which is more hedonistic? To forsake all but the minimum of responsibility for one's own pleasure, or to force oneself into a hopefully pleasureable experience in hopes of a bit of relaxation and some enjoyment from having put something pretty cool together? I'd say that's a bit of a toss-up.
I am writing, at the moment, as a last resort. I have bled out much of my anger already, but writing is a wonderfully cathartic activity, which is a part of why I write so much here. (It also keeps me in practice, since I have not found any parties interested in writing with me. The one person who offered me a writing project decided to bathe in Lethe on the subject. Oh well.)
I suppose I must see what this week will bring. History has shown that my mood can shift wildly enough across the pace of a week. I do not know if it will; there are Important Events taking place at work for the three days I'll be there for and I'm very worried it will actually worsen my mood if things go badly while I'm deeply enough inside it. I can't even imagine a way to brighten my day. I hope there will be some pleasant surprises.
Yes. Let's leave it there.
I hope there will be some pleasant surprises this week.
And I hope no one actually passes on that suspiciously insistent message that someone dropped about giving me a bonus for what I did last week. -_- I'm not going to pretend I don't deserve it, but wow. Let's not ask for it, damn it all.
[This marks the first time I've written two diary entries in one day.]
Tomorrow, I'll probably write about nostalgia. If it occurs to me.
The odd thing about that original run, though, was that my dad pointed out the possibility that he could buy an entire complex and have me as a landlord there. I immediately refused, on the grounds that it was a responsibility I couldn't handle. (Specifically, I didn't think I could confront a tenant with eviction.)
With another four years of experience behind me today, I realized there is another reason I couldn't handle such a responsibility: what, really, stops me from walking into a tenant's apartment and wailing on them? Except from my own self-restraint, that is, and my less than stellar physical condition. Wouldn't that be a nightmare for you, as a tenant?
As a child, karate taught me what is perhaps the most useful lesson I have learned in my entire life. When anger cannot be dealt with, then at least you can point it somewhere else. Somewhere safe, where no one actually gets hurt. For me, it meant letting the steam bottle up unhealthily and exploding into the punching bags. And for my part, I was intensely aware that I was using techniques that hadn't been taught: I was developing my own street fighting techniques -- entirely in theory, of course -- as I let myself off my own leash.
It didn't matter how useful such a development would be: the point I make is that in doing this, I was already subconsciously anticipating that I would be doing the same thing in reality, without the cool, level-headed regard of an engagement dealing in long-ranged kicks and lunge-retreat punches. It would be close enough for grappling and fought primarily with elbows and knees and sweeps. I wore my glasses, so I never added headbutts. It was a punching bag, so I never attempted an uppercut.
But the point was not to win. The point was to beat the stuffing out of the other guy. I was in middle school. In eighth grade, I started going to a school psychiatrist because I smashed a girl's face in with a binder. This is not to mention the other scraps I got myself into: this incident stands out in my mind for the single-minded fury that it epitomized.
In later years, this would manifest itself as a facade of chivalry. I would walk alleyways in hopes of running across an actual malefactor, to serve as an outlet. Of course, one becomes what one pretends to be, and I did in fact act as a protector on a few separate occasions, but that is a small thing.
In earlier years, I used the vast tract of land Harker School sat upon to great effect. I learned its secrets and hiding places, and became familiar with how to hide myself away like a werewolf at full moon. I expended my energy, even before the advent of karate, by running. I still love to run, as a result. Harker has a wonderfully large field and only if the whole school emptied out into it could it even resemble being full; I had no problem finding my own spot, even in plain sight, to let the world fall away a little.
These days, I take long walks in the cold, Seattle air or I use it up in small, meaningless and miniscule acts of aggression. (Actually, I need to remove the Nerf gun from my proximity; not only has Don taken to participating, but I'm also starting to actually shoot at people, which I resisted for a long, long time. The temptation to transition from simple relief to actual malice is a line that's simply too dangerous to approach.)
This approaching PAX comes at a bad time. I am sad to say I cannot imagine myself enjoying it this year, and I do not think the situation will improve in future years. In many ways, I have used myself up in its anticipation and there is little enough left for the productive work I had hoped and intended to accomplish during that period. I have enough pride left to demand of myself a keeping of every promise I actually made, but I am slowly watching myself evaluating every possibility of getting out of the intentions I had made without commitment. It saddens me, because in a palpable way, this represents a casting off of yet another set of friends. For me, this year has already been a magnificent accomplishment, even without the final crescendo of execution. If I am being so reflective about the whole thing, what I should feel is pride, but in its place I instead find a deep pit of apathy.
What do I get, out of all this? Nothing. I have yet to actually take anything of substance from a panel, and I am an introvert who will bleed myself dry just being there. I am practiced at making myself avaiable, due to my youthful foolishness and naivete, but I may as well go and curl up with a good book for the duration and just hold onto the cell phone. I smile at the faint optimism in me that points out that I could really enjoy myself if I make an effort to, but even so, it is faint and it is a devil's advocate. Really: which is more hedonistic? To forsake all but the minimum of responsibility for one's own pleasure, or to force oneself into a hopefully pleasureable experience in hopes of a bit of relaxation and some enjoyment from having put something pretty cool together? I'd say that's a bit of a toss-up.
I am writing, at the moment, as a last resort. I have bled out much of my anger already, but writing is a wonderfully cathartic activity, which is a part of why I write so much here. (It also keeps me in practice, since I have not found any parties interested in writing with me. The one person who offered me a writing project decided to bathe in Lethe on the subject. Oh well.)
I suppose I must see what this week will bring. History has shown that my mood can shift wildly enough across the pace of a week. I do not know if it will; there are Important Events taking place at work for the three days I'll be there for and I'm very worried it will actually worsen my mood if things go badly while I'm deeply enough inside it. I can't even imagine a way to brighten my day. I hope there will be some pleasant surprises.
Yes. Let's leave it there.
I hope there will be some pleasant surprises this week.
And I hope no one actually passes on that suspiciously insistent message that someone dropped about giving me a bonus for what I did last week. -_- I'm not going to pretend I don't deserve it, but wow. Let's not ask for it, damn it all.
[This marks the first time I've written two diary entries in one day.]
Tomorrow, I'll probably write about nostalgia. If it occurs to me.