My Whole Expanse I Cannot See…

So, I’m not a big fan of Christmas much anymore. It’s just gotten to be very lonely, and stressful, and full of unmet expectations. I suppose I’m getting old and bitter, or perhaps I just don’t carry around the right people in my backpack. I don’t know.

Aside from not liking the season in general, I don’t tend to like Christmas music. It’s all either saccharine sweet, or just plain weird. Like, I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus. How fuckin’ creepy is that? I do, however, love Aimee Mann, so I had to have her Christmas CD, One More Drifter in the Snow. She sings a bunch of the more low-key traditional Christmas songs, but then there’s one song on the CD that really stands out, Calling On Mary. I’d never heard it before, it’s very sad, and beautifully written. It’s about taking happiness for granted, and ending up fucked up and alone at Christmas. It’s so real, and so beautiful. This is because it’s an original song, co-written by Aimee herself. Which explains why it’s so gorgeous, and dark, and perfect. There’s one line in particular, kind of a warning against guaranteed misery, that really caught me.

‘Cause comfort’s not possible when you look past the joy to the end…

Tattoo by Colt, hardcore badass at Las Vegas Tattoo, Ybor City

That really is true, it’s impossible to feel any sort of peace, or contentment, or happiness, when you’re thinking fifteen steps into the future, never living right now. Lying in bed with someone you love, only thinking about the fact that they’ll be gone far too soon, that you probably won’t see them for awhile, all that thinking ruins the beauty of right now. Still, it’s very difficult, at least for me, not to think that way. It’s difficult when absolutely beautiful moments are drowned out by so much loneliness, and uneasiness, and melancholy. It’s hard to focus on the beauty of right now knowing that everything for miles ahead is just fucking bad. It’s hard not to look past the joy to the end, I don’t think I’m very good at it, but I try. I do try.

So, this tattoo actually came from a piece of writing from a very bizarre tv mini-series, The Prisoner. Normally, at least to me, tv writing isn’t particularly sharp. I don’t remember any one line from Lost, or Battlestar Galactica. Okay, I actually remember lots of lines from South Park, but I don’t think I want, “I like dancin’, and ponies, and getting my snootch pounded on Friday nights,” tattooed on me. Nothing I’d ever heard on tv had ever affected me enough to want to carry it around on my skin forever, until I heard Ian McKellen say so plainly, “Love is a torment, or it is not love.”

Tattoo by Colt, resident badass at Las Vegas Tattoo, Ybor City

Love is a torment, love is the most difficult easy thing in the world. Being in love with someone means caring for them so deeply, you’ll do anything to make them smile, keep them safe. If that particular person isn’t around for awhile, you miss them, their absence is palpable. The absence becomes something weighty, a painful heaviness in the chest. When you love someone, you don’t want to be apart. You want to fall asleep holding that person close, you want to kiss them slow, and their face is the first thing you want to see when you wake in the morning. Without that closeness, and that kiss, and that face next to yours, bathed in soft morning sunlight, it’s almost difficult to breathe sometimes, difficult to think. Loving someone so completely, you don’t ever want to lose that person, the thought of being apart forever gets to be terrifying. That’s the cost of feeling something so spectacular, the pain of distance, the fear of loss.

So yes, love is a torment, or it is not love.

So, I went to see Up in the Air three times in the theater, and I’ll probably go for a fourth. Aside from firing people for a living, the film’s main character also does motivational speaking gigs. He talks about how we all carry a backpack, we fill it with keepsakes, gadgets, furniture, cars, houses, friends, acquaintances, family, lovers, secrets, compromises, responsibility. We jam so much into that backpack that we can’t move, we’re completely weighed down. The idea is that all that weight, even relationships, it all equates to a lack of freedom and ultimately, death.

Much of me agrees with that philosophy. I have so much “stuff,” but it’s just stuff, it doesn’t make me feel happy, or loved. Aside from my computer, I often think about throwing everything on a fire just to watch it burn. Stuff is often just a fix, something to stop up a hole where the rain gets in. Back in 2005, I accumulated a collection of anime DVDs that screamed, “OH MY GOD, I’M LONELY, AND I HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO LIFE!” Letting go of stuff can be freeing, gives a clean slate to focus on what really matters. People.

In my backpack, people, and all the accompanying emotional baggage, this isn’t inherently bad. I don’t want to be some lonely fucker, wandering around with an empty backpack. I don’t think relationships are inherently a lack of freedom. I mean, to me, being in love with someone who loves me the same way, that’s freedom. It’s the best feeling in the world, better than vodka and morphine combined. To me, all that matters is feeling genuinely connected to even just one person. I’m not afraid of commitments, or responsibility, that sort of weight doesn’t scare me. Loneliness scares me. I don’t want my backpack to be bereft of relationships, even if relationships can be difficult and painful. The hard part is really deciding how many people to carry around in that backpack. Some relationships aren’t worth the effort, some relationships are eventually detrimental. It’s difficult knowing who to keep, and who to toss. It’s difficult wanting someone to keep you, and knowing they might not.

Someone asked me a few days ago why I think I have insomnia, and I said, “Well, when I was nine, I murdered several nuns.” If I don’t feel like answering a question, my first answer to that question is usually a joke answer. I’ll write my innermost thoughts for anyone to read, but one on one with someone, especially if they’re someone I don’t plan on knowing particularly well, I’m not always willing to answer the personal questions. So, after my nun answer, I said, “I don’t know, really.”

I wasn’t honest though. I know exactly why I don’t sleep at night, or why when I do nod off, I often have bad dreams and wake up scared. I know all the reasons why I don’t sleep. I really don’t sleep, I usually just go out from exhaustion. Sometimes I have horrible dreams, but I’m too tired to wake up right away. I know all the whys, and I don’t see those whys going away anytime soon.

So, here’s my friend, my voice, and fellow writer, Jimmy, reading Christmas in a Park at Cafe Bohemia’s open mic night.

I like this story, and I don’t. I wrote it sitting at Starbucks, thinking about being a spectacular fuck up. I just sat there writing this short sequence that popped into my head, fictional non-fiction about a fellow and the thoughts swirling around in his head. Jimmy gave it a good read on a particularly cold evening.

Well, I didn’t write yesterday because I spent most of it in the e.r. with my friend, Kim. She’s fine, just a little pneumonia. We got pictures…

Me & Kim... She's smiling, really!

I've never worn a visitor's badge...

So, right now, I’m sitting here, alone in my purple and red room. Fargo is on the tv in HD, I’m writing this post. I’m writing because my calendar says I’m supposed to be writing. I’m trying to give myself more structure, more focus, little goals to meet so I don’t feel so aimless. I’ve created to-do lists, action items, a map of my time. I’m so lost these days, I feel like I’m drowning sometimes.

No, I don’t need Jesus, or to listen to happy music, or to down a bunch of anti-depressants. Please don’t write me and tell me I need any of the previous. I don’t, really. Jesus, and Dave Matthews, and Zoloft won’t fix me and make me pretty again.

So, 2009 is over, I’m a year older. I feel like I should write something profound, or beautiful, something to sum up a year, but I just don’t feel the words. I’m tired, 2009 wore me out. I don’t feel like digging it up, cutting my wrists for everyone to watch. That is what I do here, I bleed letters that make up words, that make up sentences, that make up me.

Baby, there’s something wrong with me that I can’t see…

This is one of my favorite Alanis Morissette songs, it’s a beautiful, clean piece of writing. It’s questions, and doubts, and worries set to music. It’s very much the way I think on a daily basis. I worry about being lonely. I worry that I’m not a good person. I worry about someone loving me. I worry that I’m too much of a fuck up to be happy. I worry that my life is a waste. I worry that I’m going to end badly, so far from what I want. I worry that writing with complete honesty about myself only isolates me. These are my thoughts.

Since I quit talking, I spend a lot of time in my head. It’s not easy to distract myself from myself. It’s not easy to escape my thoughts.

Does she still love me?

I’m cold.

Is she thinking about me?

Why does John Doe say to Detective Somerset, “I know you…” while he’s being arrested?

I have absolutely no business out-living people like Heath Ledger and Brittany Murphy.

Will I get to see her again?

I miss her.

Why am I such a fuck up?

I love her.

Am I going to go out sad, and broken, and lost, like Kurt and Elliott?

I have to give Jimmy his birthday present.

I’m really lonely right now.

Am I going to die today?

If I don’t die, I really want to see her. I really want to hold her close and kiss her slow.

I really wish she was here right now.

I like WordPress 2.9.

Talking to Mary you know you don’t have to shout. She can hear what you’re thinking like you were saying it right out loud.

I’m scared.