Night Thoughts
I'm observing.
At the moment, if someone asks "so, how are you?", I find myself unable to say "I'm observing." Well, not without it sounding pedantic.
I think it's a form of depression, honestly. It's subtle, but I know what I'm looking at. I know it's because boredom hangs upon me like a wet coat. I know I spend more time at work than I do in my head. It unsettles me.
Music is the only thread between me and a rusty hamster wheel, which is also familiar territory. Even my friends, bless them, are nowhere near as dependable as music. I've reached an age, or an era, where I'm okay with that. Most of the time.
Downtown is evocative at night. It's not entirely safe, but it's always evocative. I love the large panels of ambient blues and greens flanking some of the wealthier structures, and how they cast their rippled reflections across the thin water channel that runs alongside the metrorail track.
I also love the sharp, fluorescent trim of some of the taller structures that make up the Houston skyline. I gaze up at them almost every night without an ounce of self-consciousness. I can't wear my "don't mug me; I might mug back" glower all the time. I'm not even sure it makes much of a difference. I'd risk much to continue observing.
Observing the city, yes, but also observing myself taking great droughts of this new, somewhat depressing, somewhat enlightening era in Houston.
It's too simplistic to say that I'll never really be satisfied (although this is true, and my wife bears it well; better than I sometimes give her credit for).
It's too simplistic to suggest that I "remember this" or "consider that". I ask, and I ask with affection, how often do I ask for advice?
I just know that part of being, for me, *does* include acutely observing things outside of myself: sensing the resignation of zombies, the tension of predators, the agendas of sycophants, the polite indulgence of self-superiors, and oftentimes the absolute obliqueness (if not outright obtuseness) of just about everyone else.
While we're on the subject of humans:
I don't care enough about most people to bother with misanthropy really. In observation mode, I find them incidental, occasionally intrusive. Sometimes I love looking at them. Sometimes I even enjoy listening to them. I find myself in a brief moment of longing, that some genuine ripple of essence might be seen and heard. Somehow. Sometimes I need human contact too.
More often than not, however, I have no more belief in them than I do a tank of sea monkeys. I'm quite selfish. I want them when I want them. I resent their breath on my neck and their compulsive gibberish when I don't.
My confessional face must emanate extra strong this month. Today was a sad example. A security guard who works a similar shift as I do came right at me with his feelings about being late to a job that's out in the middle of nowhere, and his prostate cancer, and how it ruined his sex life, but fuck, between death and sex, which would *you* choose, and a slew of other grievances.
Because I'm occasionally a calcified, self-absorbed fuckhole, I gave myself easy permission to be put off by the unsolicited confession.
Equally self-absorbed, and only marginally compassionate, I then put myself in his place: cancer, lifestyle change for the worse, nobody to talk to about it because it's too awkward, uncomfortable and, well, aren't the rest of us just relieved that we don't feel his pain? Don't we have enough to worry about, without the spectre of cancer on top of everything else. Yet.
So, I hated myself a little today. I received the tiniest glimpse of cancer, and the callousness of people who don't speak the language, myself included. I accept our honest disinterest in the troubles of others, but I don't have to be superior about it. I'm not proud of feeling inconvenienced.
I sought a consolation prize this week. A material thing. That didn't pan out. Deep down, I didn't expect it to. I had the audacity to feel dejected over it anyway. I crack myself up sometimes. I have quite a close, dependable loop going there. I know Lucy won't let me kick the ball this year, but what the hell.
There's a great passage from _Dark Dance_ by Tanith Lee that always comes to mind during periods like this:
The bus came.
Men and women thrust in front of her. She let them. The world to Rachaela was mostly horrible and she expected nothing good from it. For this reason she had refused friendship and lovers, although once she been raped by a dull acquaintance after a dull party. She only expected onslaughts, upon her privacy, her person. The rape had not shocked Rachaela. She sloughed it.
After half an hour she got off the bus, and stepped back into the belly of the fog. She had now to walk across the wide green in front of the flats. She knew its perils, she did not fear those, they were facts. It was something else she feared.
I shared these books with a friend once. She found this first installment too cold and defeatist for her liking. Oddly enough, I don't view them that way at all (the character grows, incidentally), even in the face of such obvious "evidence". I see clarity, certainly clarity of my own reflection, and clarity purifies me.
Even the dullest days, properly observed, even the dreadful memory of them, can heighten being.
Music that kept me company tonight:
Why Don’t You Find Out for Yourself-Morrissey
The sanest days are mad?
Why don’t you find out for yourself?
Then you’ll see the price
Very closely
Some men here
They have a special interest
In your career
They wanna help you to grow
And then siphon all your dough
Why don’t you find out for yourself?
Then you’ll see the glass
Hidden in the grass
You’ll never believe me, so
Why don’t you find out for yourself?
Sick down to my heart
That’s just the way it goes
Some men here
They know the full extent of
Your distress
They kneel and pray
And they say:
Long may it last
Why don’t you find out for yourself?
Then you’ll see the glass
Hidden in the grass
Bad scenes come and go
For which you must allow
Sick down to my heart
That’s just the way it goes
Don’t rake up my mistakes
I know exactly what they are
And ... what do you do?
Well ... you just sit there
I’ve been stabbed in the back
So many many times
I don’t have any skin
But that’s just the way it goes
Resigned-Lycia
Then she and I
Drove out to the country
And I felt fine
But she seemed lonely
And so resigned
It seeped deep into me
And then she cried
And pulled away from me
I apologize if there are mistakes, dropped words, etc. I don't feel like proofreading.
Goodnight.
Sweet dreams.
At the moment, if someone asks "so, how are you?", I find myself unable to say "I'm observing." Well, not without it sounding pedantic.
I think it's a form of depression, honestly. It's subtle, but I know what I'm looking at. I know it's because boredom hangs upon me like a wet coat. I know I spend more time at work than I do in my head. It unsettles me.
Music is the only thread between me and a rusty hamster wheel, which is also familiar territory. Even my friends, bless them, are nowhere near as dependable as music. I've reached an age, or an era, where I'm okay with that. Most of the time.
Downtown is evocative at night. It's not entirely safe, but it's always evocative. I love the large panels of ambient blues and greens flanking some of the wealthier structures, and how they cast their rippled reflections across the thin water channel that runs alongside the metrorail track.
I also love the sharp, fluorescent trim of some of the taller structures that make up the Houston skyline. I gaze up at them almost every night without an ounce of self-consciousness. I can't wear my "don't mug me; I might mug back" glower all the time. I'm not even sure it makes much of a difference. I'd risk much to continue observing.
Observing the city, yes, but also observing myself taking great droughts of this new, somewhat depressing, somewhat enlightening era in Houston.
It's too simplistic to say that I'll never really be satisfied (although this is true, and my wife bears it well; better than I sometimes give her credit for).
It's too simplistic to suggest that I "remember this" or "consider that". I ask, and I ask with affection, how often do I ask for advice?
I just know that part of being, for me, *does* include acutely observing things outside of myself: sensing the resignation of zombies, the tension of predators, the agendas of sycophants, the polite indulgence of self-superiors, and oftentimes the absolute obliqueness (if not outright obtuseness) of just about everyone else.
While we're on the subject of humans:
I don't care enough about most people to bother with misanthropy really. In observation mode, I find them incidental, occasionally intrusive. Sometimes I love looking at them. Sometimes I even enjoy listening to them. I find myself in a brief moment of longing, that some genuine ripple of essence might be seen and heard. Somehow. Sometimes I need human contact too.
More often than not, however, I have no more belief in them than I do a tank of sea monkeys. I'm quite selfish. I want them when I want them. I resent their breath on my neck and their compulsive gibberish when I don't.
My confessional face must emanate extra strong this month. Today was a sad example. A security guard who works a similar shift as I do came right at me with his feelings about being late to a job that's out in the middle of nowhere, and his prostate cancer, and how it ruined his sex life, but fuck, between death and sex, which would *you* choose, and a slew of other grievances.
Because I'm occasionally a calcified, self-absorbed fuckhole, I gave myself easy permission to be put off by the unsolicited confession.
Equally self-absorbed, and only marginally compassionate, I then put myself in his place: cancer, lifestyle change for the worse, nobody to talk to about it because it's too awkward, uncomfortable and, well, aren't the rest of us just relieved that we don't feel his pain? Don't we have enough to worry about, without the spectre of cancer on top of everything else. Yet.
So, I hated myself a little today. I received the tiniest glimpse of cancer, and the callousness of people who don't speak the language, myself included. I accept our honest disinterest in the troubles of others, but I don't have to be superior about it. I'm not proud of feeling inconvenienced.
I sought a consolation prize this week. A material thing. That didn't pan out. Deep down, I didn't expect it to. I had the audacity to feel dejected over it anyway. I crack myself up sometimes. I have quite a close, dependable loop going there. I know Lucy won't let me kick the ball this year, but what the hell.
There's a great passage from _Dark Dance_ by Tanith Lee that always comes to mind during periods like this:
The bus came.
Men and women thrust in front of her. She let them. The world to Rachaela was mostly horrible and she expected nothing good from it. For this reason she had refused friendship and lovers, although once she been raped by a dull acquaintance after a dull party. She only expected onslaughts, upon her privacy, her person. The rape had not shocked Rachaela. She sloughed it.
After half an hour she got off the bus, and stepped back into the belly of the fog. She had now to walk across the wide green in front of the flats. She knew its perils, she did not fear those, they were facts. It was something else she feared.
I shared these books with a friend once. She found this first installment too cold and defeatist for her liking. Oddly enough, I don't view them that way at all (the character grows, incidentally), even in the face of such obvious "evidence". I see clarity, certainly clarity of my own reflection, and clarity purifies me.
Even the dullest days, properly observed, even the dreadful memory of them, can heighten being.
Music that kept me company tonight:
Why Don’t You Find Out for Yourself-Morrissey
The sanest days are mad?
Why don’t you find out for yourself?
Then you’ll see the price
Very closely
Some men here
They have a special interest
In your career
They wanna help you to grow
And then siphon all your dough
Why don’t you find out for yourself?
Then you’ll see the glass
Hidden in the grass
You’ll never believe me, so
Why don’t you find out for yourself?
Sick down to my heart
That’s just the way it goes
Some men here
They know the full extent of
Your distress
They kneel and pray
And they say:
Long may it last
Why don’t you find out for yourself?
Then you’ll see the glass
Hidden in the grass
Bad scenes come and go
For which you must allow
Sick down to my heart
That’s just the way it goes
Don’t rake up my mistakes
I know exactly what they are
And ... what do you do?
Well ... you just sit there
I’ve been stabbed in the back
So many many times
I don’t have any skin
But that’s just the way it goes
Resigned-Lycia
Then she and I
Drove out to the country
And I felt fine
But she seemed lonely
And so resigned
It seeped deep into me
And then she cried
And pulled away from me
I apologize if there are mistakes, dropped words, etc. I don't feel like proofreading.
Goodnight.
Sweet dreams.