| Journal & Weblog | Write to Save Your Life | August 24, 2003 |
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posted Tuesday, January 30, 2001 Night Visit Lisa?s face was damply illuminated by the light next to her hospital bed, one arm slumped over the top of her head. Her eyes appeared closed, but as we walked in, she spoke our names. "Guys," she said, groggily. "Hey Eric, Mary Beth. Hi Mike. Chris, thank you guys so much for coming." Her husband, Dave, stood up to greet us. I extended my hand. "Hey, thanks for coming by." He shook each of our hands and we took places around Lisa?s bed. I noticed her squeeze her left hand. Click. A monitor attached to her IV began to mechanically administer her morphine and she shifted under the sheets to make herself more comfortable. Somehow, I felt a schizm between myself and the rest of the group. We were here, bonded by this common friend, but they were older, more established, more human. I joked with them and conversed lightly with Lisa, which made me feel a little better. Looking back, I realized they made an attempt to include me. Looking back on looking back, I now realize that I was a part of things. I just didn?t feel that way. Avoiding Eric?s eyes, I bled myself into the forefront of conversation and partook in his usual attempt to lighten the room. In half-jest, she asked us to stop making her laugh. I wondered if it was possible for Eric. In my mind, I nodded to her: "I know how it is, Lisa. He makes you laugh until the stitches pull -- until you come apart." We left our wishes for health at the door and drifted out of the hospital. I hugged everyone, and waited to leave while Eric said his goodbyes. He walked ahead of me, without an embrace. "See ya, bud." Good-bye.
Ad Hoc Mapping Treading the path in front of me, I take a side-long glance at the outskirts of the known terrain. The edge of wilderness taunts me, but simultaneously tempts me with its promises of fun and love and boundless riches. My life is sketched out in front of me in the form of this path I have dedicated myself to following, and it?s a great route, don?t get me wrong. I mean, I have everything I?ve ever wanted or planned on having, but some primitive ego urges me to deviate into the risky, uncharted jungles of the Unplanned and Untamed. Is this desire to risk our lives and security for excitement and adventure inborn, or is it nurtured through our culturally conditioned mindset of low expectation and complacency and fatalism? An ancestral urge to break out of these mentally dulling prisions we?ve erected around ourselves? "I?m so proud of you." The words write themselves in smoke across my mind. They?re my dad?s words, but often-times I wonder if they?re also my own -- the mental line I chalk up my path with to prevent myself from crossing over into the wilderness. I keep myself in check with Microsoft Money and Franklin Covey Planning Systems and make substance of this path laid out in front of my feet. But, I know that by allowing my urges to be muffled by comfort and blissful ignorance, I will continue to blindly, deafly place one foot in front of the other. That, by far, is my greatest fear.
Quiet Life Quiet, calm, still. Albert Einstein once noted that the monotony of a quiet life stimulates the creative mind. It illuminates the senses and stirs the imagination. There?s a button in my mind that I press down to quell the storm. I sit in stark white classrooms, blue chairs-attached-to-desks, white walls, white ceilings, white floors. I shuffle through paper memories in a storehouse of my mind, reading, seeking a record of a more peaceful time and come up unrequited. These Days of Bustle whirl me about, paper seeds and debris whisked around my face in spheres of chaos, but I have my salt-shaker, trusty, in hand. One day, I?ll thank myself for finding that spot where I can mute -- mute the wind, mute the cold, mute the daylight. Walking outside, I carefully fit my arms through the straps of my backpack. The green maples that line the street scatter sunlight onto the ground below. Silkily, clouds shift in a windless sky. Silence is clean. Quiet, calm, still, beautiful.
Addictions and Whatnot The pounding, diva-laced music, winds its way into my veins and further into my bones. The attraction to this beat seems to be inherited along with the gay gene, since I know of only a few homos who don?t throw their arms in the air with glee at that first, bone-jarring, soul-vibing, blistering, synthesizer bass-line. Maximum volume. In a rush of pseudo-drug-induced euphoria, my eyes roll back into my head and chills rush up my neck and down through my arms. My head and torso sway in opposite directions to the beat, my arms carve patterns in the humid air. Dance is a drug. Beat is an easy master. In slavery to the rhythm, I dance, yet as a ring-leader is in control of his whip, I am in control of my every movement. Confidence overwhelms the senses, and the beat is continued into the night, led on by the unconscious pleading to Never. Let. This. Feeling. End. But, as all good things do, the feeling gently, softly, quickly subsides. The touchdown is easy. The memory fades to a pale matte in the back of my head, and I return home to restore the desire for another fix, another dance.
Attempting to Commit The weather is pretty dreary outside -- the light is muted by the overcast sky like flourescants in a Walmart. I hate to say that it reflects my feelings toward writing, but right now my motivation to journal is just as muted. Not writer?s block. Just a dull version of itself. O?er the holiday break, between semesters, I was really anxious to get this site off the ground, mainly because I only had so much time before spring and compiler design. Now that I?m fairly into the swing of things, I?m going to work on a redesign and hopefully it will bring back my creative motivation. Perhaps I will post some older journal entries to keep the daily habit in motion.
Back to Life There's something about Mondays — even faux-holidays such as today — that make me dread waking up in the morning. Maybe it's the gooey mournfulness with which I bid adieu to the weekend or the steep climb of the week ahead. I slip out of the covers and begin my daily routine, eyes half-open. Morning Edition plays in the background as I complete daily preening and cleaning, mental organization blocking out the radio. I have a routine. That further contrasts loss of a carefree childhood, screams of an invisible transition into a world of responsibility that doesn't care if you're ready or not. I notice I'm surrounded by adults. Few friends are even college-age, let alone students. Is this how it works? One day you're playing cops and robbers with friends in your back yard, and the next you're discussing dental benefits with those same friends over a water cooler. I always pictured some sort of dividing line, not this hazy gradient between. A kid in a grown-up's world. I shed that skin a little more each day, losing the wonder and curiosity, sheding tears that dry to jaded expectations. The daily routine begins, yet again, on another Monday, but will this week be any different from the last? Today, I will plan little and expect even less. I want fate to surprise me.
Dreams, Dead and Otherwise Scott was sitting across from me. His hair was longer and straight, and he wore a heavy grey ski jacket, appropriate for the ski lodge where we were sitting. His presence was rather unusual, and I sat speechless, observant. His hand was on mine. I knew why he was there ? it was a dream, after all ? but I pretended not to know, or even care. The apology came genuinely and thoughtful; soothing to the palate, it was sweet and softly pleading. I turned my head away and threw a crass reply with practiced lips. Scott wasn?t the type of person to allow his desires to be hindered by my childish resistance, and flinched, continuing unscathed. He wore down my barriers with his acid tenacity, and I pulled away. Melting out of the dream and into my down comforter, I pulled away because it was what I wanted. I refused to let my head convince ? dare I say, outsmart ? my heart into accepting what it wants out of mere desperation. And although I become disheartened in my wait for rescue, I won?t accept anything but the real thing. I won?t delude myself or lower my standards for a watery, fantastic replication of the real thing. I?ll be steadfast. I promise.
Waiting The story of my life could be summed up in one general statement: I?m waiting. The direct object of that waiting, however, is variable and greatly unknown, ranging anywhere from financial stability to wistful, romantic projections. The harsh incandescence of flourescent lighting illuminates the library where I write this entry, naturally while waiting. This time for Eric. As much as I attempt to wrench my grip, painfully, from the steering wheel of life, the sensible Chris consistenly intervenes, soft voice subtly grating: "Straightforward, stable. Just wait." He gently removes the nervous, cold fingers that have gripped the help and holds them until they warm to a morose beige. Calmed and steadied, I continue to type.
Fixes I've been fighting off a cold for the past couple of days. On top of that, this is the last week of my winter class so I've been studying for the final that is this Friday. Sickness and finals do not make a very good mix. For the sore throat I've had, the doctor prescribed me some darvoset, a mild narcotic-slash-muscle-relaxant. Honestly, the damn stuff doesn't do anything but put me to sleep. I pop the hot-pink pills and about half-an-hour later, a liquid, red warmth spreads from my hands and my mouth to the rest of my body. I can see the appeal narcotics have. You lie there and everything is perfect. Not one part of your body is uncomfortable. You feel warm and dry (even though you may be sweating). Your breathing is slow and relaxed. It's almost like being in that well-rested state after a long night's sleep. Unfortunately (or not) I just couldn't find a way to become addicted to narcotics. I have a very non-addictive personality. I usually stop drinking alcohol after to or three beers. Heck, even shopping gets boring after eight or nine hours. It's said that addiction is partially genetic and there's been addiction in my family. I seem to have been fortunate enough to escape from that genetic cage. In some ways, however, an addiction is the ultimate romantic notion, to put everything on the line for that next fix, devoting your entire existence to one thing.
Subtle Realizations "I don't know," Nick said. "Right now, I'm happy just being where I'm at... and being able to sleep a lot." The sun reflected off the right side of his face, over his shoulder, his crossed arms. Letting out a slow breath, the stress and worries of late seemed to lighten with a simple exhale and I though that I could very easily lose myself in the soft variations of light cascading around us. For a moment, I let go of my drive to do everything at once. I let go of the hope that enlightenment would turn out to be like instant coffee. Life has gotten me down recently. I've been caught up in so many little problems that I unintentionally create for myself. Maybe if I started taking myself a little less seriously I'd be able to relax a little and just enjoy the moment. The reflex to maintain control and dignity at all times has seriously undermined my ability to enjoy myself on even the simplest occasions. It's even inhibited my ability to maintain a decent romantic relationship. "See ya later," I called over my shoulder as I walked away. I waved goodbye and felt the sunlight through the large windows of the Annex resting on my back. I lost myself in the moment. Instead of worrying so much about the future, about the judgements of others, about the harsh judge in my own head, perhaps I would let go this time. And with this release, perhaps I would gain a bit of sanity and contentment.
Pseudo-Genesis In the beginning, there was a void. Because all beginnings mark a change and because any said change affecting a void is the instantiation of something material, the void was no more. Where there was nothing, now substance existed. Although not phenomenal on any scale, it was a beginning. However, from a different angle ? the perspective of the void ? this is the end of nothingness. As T.S. Eliot said, "What we call the beginning is often the end and to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from."
New Year, 2001 With a kiss reminiscient of apple-juice bubbly and a not-so-loud bang, I rang in the new year at a luxurious estate in Denver owned by the Coors family. Besides being the first year I've ever had someone special to kiss on that midnight countdown, it was also the first time I've actually attended a real New Year's party. The mood was jolly, alcohol freely flowing, and besides the ugly naked guy who took festivities to heart by parading around the indoor hot tub in the nude, we all had a great time.
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