Two weeks ago, I told Paul:
(10:18:48 AM) Helen: I just need to meet one person who is right, and I'm good. Just one. That's not that many at all.
(10:21:01 AM) Helen: same goes for you
(10:22:34 AM) Paul: i agree with that
Simplification is so deeply liberating. I felt the sun on my face for the rest of the day.
(10:28:32 AM) Helen: I know how to love someone. I'm even pretty good at it. And when someone comes along who will not act like a retard in the face of my ability to love them, then I will get what I deserve. Which is someone who will never let me fall.
One of the most thrilling experiences I’ve ever had was watching two friends of mine fall in love. My girlfriend said it felt like two raindrops running together on a windowpane.
One cannot sit at a party, watch it happen, and stand up the same.
I spend so much of my time raging inside myself. Sometimes it shields me. Mostly it entombs me. But tombs are pregnable, and I minored in Archaeology. I am more than capable of feeling the sun on my face when it shines on me.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Newport Folk Music Festival
I’ve been listening to NPR’s live coverage of the Newport Folk Festival this weekend, and I think I’ve finally figured out why I spend my time listening to public radio and not to music. Ditto for going to concerts: I almost never do. Because… I can’t do it without bawling. Showtunes tend to be the exception, but I can lose my shit over those too.
I have a very thin skin, under which roils a constant inferno of embattled emotions. (I had been quietly hoping that they would calm as I aged, but it seems that growing older is only making it easier to clamp them down and argue through them. They aren’t going anywhere.) Pierce it, and I cry. Not from sadness, necessarily. Usually not from sadness. Mostly it’s just the action of release that does it. The exultant loss of control and, in way, of self. That’s not something I want to happen at work, or on the bus, or even alone in my apartment most of the time. I’d rather listen to Wire Tap.
All this came up because, as I said, I’ve been listening to NPR’s coverage of the Newport Folk Fest, losing my shit. In my cubicle. (It’s a Sunday, so it’s cool.) And what I realized was, this isn’t so bad. Not many people I know experience music this way, so deep inside themselves. It isn’t pleasant by any means, but that doesn’t make it wrong.
I have a very thin skin, under which roils a constant inferno of embattled emotions. (I had been quietly hoping that they would calm as I aged, but it seems that growing older is only making it easier to clamp them down and argue through them. They aren’t going anywhere.) Pierce it, and I cry. Not from sadness, necessarily. Usually not from sadness. Mostly it’s just the action of release that does it. The exultant loss of control and, in way, of self. That’s not something I want to happen at work, or on the bus, or even alone in my apartment most of the time. I’d rather listen to Wire Tap.
All this came up because, as I said, I’ve been listening to NPR’s coverage of the Newport Folk Fest, losing my shit. In my cubicle. (It’s a Sunday, so it’s cool.) And what I realized was, this isn’t so bad. Not many people I know experience music this way, so deep inside themselves. It isn’t pleasant by any means, but that doesn’t make it wrong.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Friday Night Lights
I’ve been watching Friday Night Lights. Like any great, well like any great anything, it’s made me look at my life from a new angle. Made me re-examine my choices, particularly those I’ve made since moving to Seattle, my Exile Years.
In Season Three Episode 4, Brian “Smash” Williams, whose end-of-the-season knee injury could have easily ended his brilliant football career, gets himself back into fighting shape and is eventually admitted to the University of Oklahoma. (I’m hazy on the details.)
It goes without saying that everyone is behind him. The love on this show, in this town, is so thick you could cut it into pieces and sew it into a quilt. There’s maternal/paternal love, puppy love, marital love, fraternal love between friends and co-workers and just fellow football fans, love of the Panthers, love of town and state and country and on and on and on. The town is awash in it. I dive deeply into the worlds created by films, novels, and beautiful television shows. I take escapism seriously. Entering this particular land rights the toy boat that is my precarious little life.
So anyway, everyone is helping “Smash”. Coach Tyler practices with him in the mornings, his mother takes a second job, his football buddies encourage him, the doctors take great care of him, and he makes a full recovery. Still and all, he is dubious. He thinks he’s slower, and when the General Manager of the Alamo Freeze where he works part time offers him a job as Regional Manager, he tells his Momma he’s considering the offer.
The point is, it takes many people 50 impossibly inspiring TV minutes to convince Smash that he can do the one thing he was born to do: play football. The episode culminates in a speech by Coach, seconds before Smash will begin his trial, in which he tells him exactly what he needs to hear. After hearing the man who is essentially his surrogate father tell him he has dominated in times of crisis in the past and will do so this time, he of course, succeeds brilliantly and is accepted.
It was after that speech that I thought, “Waaaaait a minute. Who has ever gotten exactly the encouragement they needed just when they needed it? What if we all did? What if I did? Seriously, what more would I have accomplished by now? Who would I have become?”
It’s too hard to pull oneself up by one’s own bootstraps all the time. Even Smash couldn’t do it, and he talks about himself in the third person. I am tired of trying. I cannot be my own personal football coach. It’s impossible. Even in the best of times, everyone needs guidance. And I get that support sometimes, I do. But let’s face it, I am not in a “best of times” scenario at the moment. I am…well, I am bereft, frankly. I feel like an old housecat going out to the woods to die alone. I just want to be somewhere dark and quiet where no one will ever bother me again. I’m starting a play, which is excellent as far as enforced interaction goes, but goddamnit I want to wallow. I want to wail and rend garments and gnash teeth. I am not okay. I do not want to do what I was born to do because it is too hard and I am too tired to do any more hard things all alone. And let there be no mistake, alone is what I very much am.
This is not say that I will end up working at the Helen-equivalent to the Alamo Freeze, doing something I hate because it is easy. I know myself well enough to be certain that someday, I will be proud of myself again. I think I just need to remember that a couple doses of great advice may not be enough to save me from myself today, and I guess that’s…what? Fine? Well not fine, but reasonable.
In Season Three Episode 4, Brian “Smash” Williams, whose end-of-the-season knee injury could have easily ended his brilliant football career, gets himself back into fighting shape and is eventually admitted to the University of Oklahoma. (I’m hazy on the details.)
It goes without saying that everyone is behind him. The love on this show, in this town, is so thick you could cut it into pieces and sew it into a quilt. There’s maternal/paternal love, puppy love, marital love, fraternal love between friends and co-workers and just fellow football fans, love of the Panthers, love of town and state and country and on and on and on. The town is awash in it. I dive deeply into the worlds created by films, novels, and beautiful television shows. I take escapism seriously. Entering this particular land rights the toy boat that is my precarious little life.
So anyway, everyone is helping “Smash”. Coach Tyler practices with him in the mornings, his mother takes a second job, his football buddies encourage him, the doctors take great care of him, and he makes a full recovery. Still and all, he is dubious. He thinks he’s slower, and when the General Manager of the Alamo Freeze where he works part time offers him a job as Regional Manager, he tells his Momma he’s considering the offer.
The point is, it takes many people 50 impossibly inspiring TV minutes to convince Smash that he can do the one thing he was born to do: play football. The episode culminates in a speech by Coach, seconds before Smash will begin his trial, in which he tells him exactly what he needs to hear. After hearing the man who is essentially his surrogate father tell him he has dominated in times of crisis in the past and will do so this time, he of course, succeeds brilliantly and is accepted.
It was after that speech that I thought, “Waaaaait a minute. Who has ever gotten exactly the encouragement they needed just when they needed it? What if we all did? What if I did? Seriously, what more would I have accomplished by now? Who would I have become?”
It’s too hard to pull oneself up by one’s own bootstraps all the time. Even Smash couldn’t do it, and he talks about himself in the third person. I am tired of trying. I cannot be my own personal football coach. It’s impossible. Even in the best of times, everyone needs guidance. And I get that support sometimes, I do. But let’s face it, I am not in a “best of times” scenario at the moment. I am…well, I am bereft, frankly. I feel like an old housecat going out to the woods to die alone. I just want to be somewhere dark and quiet where no one will ever bother me again. I’m starting a play, which is excellent as far as enforced interaction goes, but goddamnit I want to wallow. I want to wail and rend garments and gnash teeth. I am not okay. I do not want to do what I was born to do because it is too hard and I am too tired to do any more hard things all alone. And let there be no mistake, alone is what I very much am.
This is not say that I will end up working at the Helen-equivalent to the Alamo Freeze, doing something I hate because it is easy. I know myself well enough to be certain that someday, I will be proud of myself again. I think I just need to remember that a couple doses of great advice may not be enough to save me from myself today, and I guess that’s…what? Fine? Well not fine, but reasonable.
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