It isn't because I gave up on blogging; it is because I gave up writing. There are probably two things that are mostly responsible, and both of them are people, but there are a lot of other things involved. A few years ago I started doing things, one at a time, that I thought might make my life better, or at the least, were the kinds of things that, collectively, looked a lot like becoming a grown-up. Surprisingly, all of these things seemed to have colluded to make the world a little less difficult to understand, and as such I don't have to resort to writing as a way of organizing my thoughts in a futile effort to comprehend why life boils down to and endless procession of the awkward and aggravating.
Instead of being stirred to create I am mostly just lulled into the apathy of contentment; I am happy therefore I am. It is new to me, or at least, it has been so long forgotten that it seems new. I am not comfortable with the trade, and I feel confident that the desire to express myself will return, but I am hopeful that I will be able to find a balance that allows for both. For now, though, I am comfortable waiting it out.
My brother told me yesterday that he hates the hospital I was born in. I told him that everyone hates hospitals, but he told me that for him it is just the one. He added that he is actually quite fond of the hospital where his children were born. I have no children, so there are no hospitals that I like. Like my brother, though, I hate the hospital that my brother was born in. It is the same hospital in both cases.
Time moves very fast and very slow in hospitals. Time spent in the hospital waiting for news is like a room with walls too far apart to be seen, only to have them rapidly close to a immeasurably small space as news is received and time compresses to the point of an entire lifetime being visible in a single moment. It takes hours, months, years to stretch time back out to where it was before. Sometimes it takes longer than the remainder of a lifetime.
Life is hard, for sure, and death may be peaceful, but I think dying just might be a bit of a motherfucker...
It is a Pearl Jam song. I heard it for the second or third time as I walked around inside a department store that neither my brother nor myself hate. It is therapeutic, walking through department stores, because everything is new so there isn't stuff to remind you of things that make you sad. But the music is sad sometimes. Sadness moves sneakers and purses, suit coats and pumps. Transactions help slow or speed the passage of time, whichever the situation may require.
I heard a line that isn't there, while walking around the store. It was something about taking all of your love and locking it in a box. The idea moved me, resonated with my notions of fear and risk and reward. If they ever decide to change the lyrics, I suggest they add that line, but as it stands, it isn't too shabby of a song.
If you put love on a continuum and give it an adversarial relationship with pain, it soon becomes apparent that you have created not a contest, but a cooperation. Love and pain are partners, they work together and at the same time. They care for each other in such a way that one refuses to let the other carry more than their half of the burden, and in such cases when it becomes obviously unequal, such as when you get a little too pleased with your own happiness, the other one swoops in and strives hard towards equanimity, often taking too large a swing, making the burden tip the other way. It is a tug o' war without the war, a tug o' compassion, perhaps. It is the ugliest form that a beautiful thing can take, but it is still pretty fucking beautiful... And if life's not beautiful without the pain well then I'd really just rather never ever see beauty again:
I had a surprising moment yesterday when I found that I was able to explain to someone that love and hate were the same, and that they were both opposites to indifference. It wasn't surprising that they understood, but it was surprising that I was able to communicate the idea, and in so few words, to boot.
Another surprise came two days ago when I had a strong urge to engage in some sort of activity that was in some way life affirming. The only thing that I could come up with was the riding of motorcycles, but I quickly figured out that such an activity would be way, way too dangerous. I mean really, what the fuck was I thinking? A head hits the ground and all you have left is strawberry jam... And everybody know, Strawberry, Strawberry is the neighborhood ho.
We've listened to more of life's end gong than the sound of life's sweet bells:
It happens that I can't listen to We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank without being moved to tears or depressions, both of which are denizens of the same coin side, of course. It is an impressively powerful collection of songs that, no matter how shitty or great my life happens to be at the moment, manages to hit that exact spot that resonates indefinitely. It is crazy and beautiful and sad. It is the human condition and the human experience, and both of those are things worth crying over.
Of course, sometimes, on occasion, in rare instances, the tears are driven by something esoteric, something no one else could possibly understand, something like the presence or absence of just One Wing:
Don't worry about it, it's just a little thing between me and Brock and some other people that I love... It's no biggie.
I was dispirited upon first
seeing the title to this song, thinking that I was seeing yet another
example of the systematic and merciless rape of my cherished English
language. I addressed the query, "I do believe you mean 'every day,' do
you not?" to no one in particular as my high horse galloped towards the
horizon. I cut quite the majestic figure, I might add, perched high
atop the aforementioned horse, silhouetted against the setting sun.
Later
on, though, I was abandoned by my metaphor and left to my own devices,
crawling around on all fours amongst the hoi polloi, who stood tall
over me, my nose at the level of their asses. Through the stench of
musty butt-cracks, I caught the foul odor of my own misplaced
indignation, and like a hobo to a sill pie, I wafted over to the
realization that maybe, just maybe, Ms. Esthero really did mean to say
'everyday.' Perhaps she just means that the commonplace seems
extraordinary because of all of this life affirming love she has for
the person this song is about... Makes you think... Certainly made me
think, and through the power of thinking, that foul odor was
transformed into a fresh fragrance: the fresh fragrance of doubt
benefiting.
And so it goes, you know. Sometimes it things have to
change with you before you can see how great things are for you. And it
is all about you: the second person: You. And by you, of course, I mean
me: the first person: Me. And speaking of me, a prime example of that
whole 'things changing things to great' thing is that one time, last
night, when I fell in love. Well, I suppose 'I fell in love' is a bit
hyperbolic... A more apt statement might be to say that I realized I
was in love, because, let us, you and I, face it: falling in love isn't
something you do, it is something you suddenly recognize to have
already happened. It's all in the phrase, really: "Falling in love." I shouldn't have to explain it.
But
back to the point... Well, let's put it this way: Pitfall Harry thought
he had a healthy appreciation for the vine he swung on, but when the
ground opened up beneath him, he suddenly realized that he loved the
shit out of that vine, and that the last thing in the world that he
ever wanted to happen was to lose his connection to it. It's like that,
man. It is where metaphors reconnect with the men they had abandoned
and the women who had abandoned them. It is the epitome of the miracle
of modern man, the unbroken and eternal lineage stretching from Adam to
Azimuth, and it is beautiful.
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