Tag Archives: pontification

year’s end

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I’m taking a moment to further procrastinate on my law school application paperwork reflect on the past year. I’ve done a lot. I’ve learned even more.

Most of the things I’ve learned have been in harsh lessons, and in people caring enough to make sure I didn’t get yet another round of ass kicking. I’ve emerged with my Tribe, and a Home, and the ability to accept my own vulnerabilities.

Where to even start? My life is made of up of regaling stories, of the amazing people I interact with, of experiences and meals and quiet moments. So I guess thank-yous are in order, though who I thank comes in alphabetical order.

Dead Flag Blues

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Saw a burned-out car on a night time street about a month back. No one was around, no sign that anyone was coming back for it. Just a car that had been on fire, and then put out, and then…


Forgot I had taken a picture of it until I was amusing myself with the “draw on” function in my phone.
It reminded me of The Dead Flag Blues.

in my time of dyin’

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Found a copy of House shoved into a back drawer of an abandoned desk at work. It was covered in dust and notes, post-its folded and worn stuck out past the pages. The page with the author’s name on it had fallen out and was rubber-banded to the back. And all I could think was, “so that’s what this Autumn is going to be like.”

Autumn has always been my favorite season. The cooling off, the clear change, the wiping of a slate to tabula rasa again. Death is the Road to Awe. You have to have an end to have a beginning, and I’ve always been smitten with the head space of a fresh sheet.

But something is different this time. There are people-shaped holes in my universe, and the clone tool isn’t working. The dodge and smudge are making it tolerable, but there seems to be a lock on the layer I want to change. Which I suppose it part of growing up, of moving, of making solid decisions that lock in how you relate to people.

There are lots of neat people here, and I need to be happy with how I relate to them, how I build my community here, but I miss things.

I miss gin and The Prisoner, English Breakfast and Anonymous 4.
I miss bare feet on the reservoir, huddling under blankets on the back porch.
I miss crafties and games at the Spoon.
I miss late night Venn Diagrams on glass tables, running for the quote book, Katamari on the couch.

Every choice I make has stark consequences, seemingly more-so than in the past. I can’t do everything I want – I don’t have the time, energy, or money. And each choice makes it more difficult to chose a different path later on (not impossible, mind you). With so much weighing on each choice, sometimes I feel like not making any at all. But then it’s even more time and energy wasted.

It’s time to play blind-folded roshambo with the Future. And I think I may still win. Because it’s better than smoking a cigarette blindfolded and wondering what all the clicking is about.

prepositions and the back of my hand

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You know when you spoon with a good friend or lover (or both), and you fall into a solid sleep? Not the hard sleep of exhaustion or the flighty sleep of anxiety, but the solid sleep that brings the most lucid of dreams and the freshest mornings? Your breathing matches, and no matter how one of you shifts, the other matches without waking, nestling into the hollows of bodies, unconsciously kissing the back of a neck, humming briefly to match frequencies. Your hair tangles with theirs, your dreams sometimes brush each other, and you know where to rest an arm so as not to harm them, not to wake them. Limbs wrapped around limbs, a complicated knot of comfort.

That is how I feel in this city. Walking the veins of streets, noting the celled bricks, exhaling with the wind. I blend with shadows, stepping with the city’s heartbeat, the BPM leaking out of clubs, the rise and fall of stories told on streets.

Being a child and swinging on your Dad. He grips your wrists and swings you up, you walk on his back, do flips into pools, never doubting his ability to keep you safe, to be prepared for a jump onto his back for a piggy-back ride.

That is how I feel in this city when I do Parkour. I am in and of and by this city. Prepositions explain relationships between two things, but how much love can you fit into two or three letters? Between? Within? Language – written or spoken is just lines and sounds shaped, trying to approximate life. Words poking holes in a curtain to let in points of light. Other cheesy metaphors that are as close as we can get to sharing an unsharable experience. Is my sky-blue your sky-blue? Do my synapses fire the same as yours?

This is me, just Being. This is me, Happy and Whole.

objectification

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I made a post about homophobia and objectification that sparked a small debate/discussion. I’d like to be a bit more verbose now that I’m on a keyboard and have had some thinking time (as well as time to mull over your immediate and interesting feedback).

First of all, it’s important to explain my stance on the gender dichotomy. It’s not the Main Focus, but it was up for debate quite a bit and it does play into the question.
I believe the social situation of gender dichotomy is totally explicable, though not necessarily excusable. It’s not some great conspiracy, nor is it necessarily innate. The line of thought I’m about to take you on I picked up from reading Gregory’s book before its printing, and I encourage you to pick up a copy once it’s officially out.

Gender Dichotomies

a welcoming farewell

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One of my dearest friends, Libby Bulloff, is embarking tomorrow on a new leg of life. She has always been leagues ahead of me in ability of written pontification, but I’ll do my best.

Libby rocks worlds. A woman who has spent the vast majority of her life in the Midwest, she has taken the few tools available to her and built more complex – and better functioning – mechanisms than any other person I have met. She sees what needs to be done, and does it. Often at a sacrifice to herself, but also with great pride in all that she does. Libby is invested – invested in her work, in those around her, in the world. And in every piece of work, in every interaction, you see that passion.

Libby has deeply impacted me. When we first met, I was quiet, mousy, and subdued in general. She helped me remember the shiny bits, the intellectual bits, the joy of doing something well just because you wanted to do it. And the fact that she wanted anything at all to do with me boosted my confidence more than I might be able to express. She taught me about the subculture I had already grown to love, that you can be serious and goofy and unconquerable and approachable all at the same time.
Libby, you are amazing. And I can’t wait to see what you choose to spend your time on. I hope some of it is with me. Being in the same city again will be phenomenal. Best of luck in your travels, and I hope you find excitement but also relaxation at every turn.

heartbreaker series : post secret edition

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I’ve been having a fair number of conversations lately about what it is to be in love with someone who is bad for you. And more poignantly, what is it to still think about them regularly, despite all the shit they put you through.
Quite often, they’re incredible people. They are charming, witty, and of course devilishly handsome. Quirky in all the right ways. Too often, it’s not who they (or you) are, per se, but who you become around each other. This is something I’ve been realizing… just because of the Bad Shit that happened, that I was involved in, it doesn’t mean that I’m A Bad Person. But then do you also have to make the same allowances for them? It’s too easy to demonize someone to legitimize difficult decisions.

I would guess that what we really want is some closure. But with those people, the feelings you have are so intense that you can’t just walk away. Something Drastic has to happen instead. But then you always wonder, it always picks at the back of your brain… what if that hadn’t happened? No matter how established the cycle was, cycles are meant to be broken, right?

“It’s nothing but time and a face that you lose”

I don’t have regrets, only questions.

So this is me baring a bit of my soul. A good friend recently told me that emotions are important things, and I really have been trying to pay attention to mine recently. But that means dusting off so many things I had filed away through logic. Having all this alone time forces introspection, which often hurts more than expected. But it builds character, right? It’s all just back story…

liminal

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Liminal was always my favorite word.

“The liminal state is characterized by ambiguity, openness, and indeterminacy. One’s sense of identity dissolves to some extent, bringing about disorientation. Liminality is a period of transition where normal limits to thought, self-understanding, and behavior are relaxed – a situation which can lead to new perspectives.

People, places, or things may not complete a transition, or a transition between two states may not be fully possible. Those who remain in a state between two other states may become permanently liminal.”

I remember recognizing the word for the first time at the Ann Arbor Film Festival. Madison and I were hanging out for the first time. Mom, Dad, Seamus were all there. We sat in theater seats for hours on end, watching studies of movement, representative language, changing love letters, water in glasses, planes over Tokyo. In part of one film, a clock hand moved so slowly for so long that you were certain it hadn’t moved at all. “Liminal,” along with a definition, was at the bottom of the screen. The hand never reached the next mark, nor had it ever been on the first.
I think it was then that I started to realize how malleable everything was. I’d always been a chameleon, but to recognize that it is so easy to brain-wash someone because of how constructed we all are was scary and inspiring.
That’s one of the reasons it’s so good to be on the road again. I’m in-between, indeterminable, always gaining the brink and creating new ones as I do. It’s not being off the grid – I’m more connected to everyone in my state of in-between than I am in my rooted-state. It’s the beauty and the horror of the Internet physically manifest with my hands on the wheel and my foot on the pedal. A text vibrating at my hip, A Silver Mount Zion droning in my ears, all the points of light accenting the infinitely more present dark of the unknown.
We live in metaphor. We create our world in ways we comprehend, and we comprehend our world in ways it creates. The world isn’t confusing or scary, it’s just unknown. And that can be way more fun. Or maybe that’s just my “I’m ready for pizza, let’s end this entry” end.

Speaking of End, he’s here. Or Nature, if you prefer. Life is an odd one.