Sitting at the table(or Nah).

Fiction starts~

I don’t have my phone or notepad close by to jot down the backlash that’s happening in front of me. All that’s at my disposal is my Macbook, everyone having since left the dining room and retired to their respective bedrooms. Now, I would normally follow behind, forcing the conversation to continue,  I’ll instead give myself a pass on that spasmodic reaction and instead respond via an email.

The girl said “Why should I bother? He’ll just do it again. You guys aren’t even married, so there’s no promise he’ll fix himself. All I have is mom–she isn’t going anywhere!”

In these statements I don’t assume any personal fault, but a slight chip on my shoulder. One, I need to let slide right off as I turn and go elsewhere. Still, before I do so. I need to make it clear that each of these remarks will not go…uncorrected.

separate-ways

First off, I react to what is done to ME. What you hear, how you hear it, demonstrative and loud, is nothing more than a riot inside my chest that is tired of being forced down. I see so much wrongedness(sp), acts, privileges given, those I would otherwise not permit without further maturity. I’m not red velvet cake. I don’t do what others do or set my clock to the times of others. So, what I’ll “do again” is a matter of whether or not I move pass  what act, action; mood or attire is frustrating me at that moment, the degree of disrespectful comments leveled at me or ultimately find the resolve to exhale, and realize the harm is done and leave altogether.

But, am I a bad person for having a pulse?

Life isn’t guaranteed to be long. Why should I continue to watch the wick burn or the sand fill the lower curve of the hourglass? Why waste any more years on something–now damaged, and unrepairable–when I can take who I am, and look elsewhere. So many horizons.

You’re right, we’re not married. There isn’t an emotional or physical contract tenured to keep either of us at this table–hell, we don’t even have a child. So, the degree to which this nuclear/blended family will sustain itself is based solely on the promise of STARTING a family refreshed. We can salvage what we have at this dinner table, and promise to all work toward fixing it. But, as you so kindly reminded me, I have no real allegiance to anyone at this house. I am a segment; the near corner piece of the puzzle, that when removed, does not affect the portrait in it’s entirety.

When I am subtracted, your family will still exist. The sun will still rise. You will still ask for a ride to the mall. You will still be loved by your circle.

Do I feel wrong for having these thoughts? Yes, I do. I don’t want to be pegged as sour, but I can’t be tightlipped at the moment. I won’t apologize. Honesty is all that’s left, after having been shown my face this evening. I don’t make ultimatums or threats. I don’t make “One day you’re gonna regret…” or “You’ll see. One day I’ll leave..” No. I’m not 20. I don’t play connect four with my time. You called my bluff, now I’m cashing in. When I do leave, you’ll know. You’ll feel the void. But do NOT feel that it’s your fault. It is not. It is time’s fault. We both wasted it.

Fiction ends~

April 27th

Despite the rule, some people are beautiful on the outside in. Meaning their outside beauty matches what’s on the inside. None of this ugly duckling, puberty nonsense. They’re just some people in the world(people and animals)who have a beautiful, unmolested soul that reflects on the outside too.

And that’s okay. I mean, the formulae is flipped, but the result is still the same: beauty is beauty.

And then there are those who I call The Feigned. They walk around in shells of telegenic and photogenic excellence, but are made up of shards of glass, vinegar and dry ice. They are mannequins without the classical inspiration. Their composition is wholly wrong; selfish, self-effacing, and deceptive.

I seem to cavort with this group a lot.

Don’t Understand the Understandable.

So I was read the riot act this morning for an act that wasn’t deliberate, but was more an identifier that something is wrong and should be healthfully corrected. It seems this morning’s violent conclusion started with my audacity three days ago to criticized Facebook, the people who share videos, and attire worn in public. On all three, I didn’t walk into the room and bloviate my opinion on the color of the kitchen paint or last week’s reality show. No. I shared my comments while in the middle of the topic.

I don’t want to pull out the way back machine on what was said(or not said), or the environment I currently live in, but suffice to say I was singled out as the lone person with “the issue.” In fact, that’s the phrasing we(“we” meaning “them”, not me)use around here. When a bolide of indifference enters the airspace of perceived corrected, this crashing intent of opinion is swatted aside by the godly hand of “that’s your issue, not mine.

Yup.

“That’s your issue, not mine.”

I don’t think you should be posting those kind of pictures online. They’re a tad salacious.

“That’s your issue, not mine.”

You really shouldn’t be swearing in public or in the house. You need to stop that.

“That’s your issue, not mine.”

I don’t think there’s any intrinsic value in watching [INSERT TROPE-BASED PRIMETIME PROGRAMMING]. The characters just foreshadow, if not live up to the self-fulling prophecy the stereotypes mainstream media uses to exploit said that group. I wish there was more shows on or music played that wasn’t so damn uninspiring or negative.

“That’s your issue, not mine.”

That’s right. Even if my observation possesses just a smatterings of logic, the harangues, squawking rudely, make it their business to displace my right to criticism AND jettison me off to some far off island–sans Mary Anne.

I don’t have a tome of complaints. I have but small observations, that when spoken aloud, are undressed and left out in the cold.

To die.

What are my human complaints, what could cause people around me to turn on my words like cancerous cells?

  • If those you follow on social media post sexual, sensationalized, or adult content, and you are a child, you need to unfollow, unfriend, or unquestioned me and do any of the first two.
  • Boys, namely men, but boys too, will make assumptions of who, what, and how they will like to define you based on how you speak, carry yourself, and your attire. I don’t want you to change for them, but carry regard for your worth with you where ever you go. But, since you’re a child, I need you to put a bra on under that tee shirt.
  • A reward should never be expected; especially for a task asked to perform. If one holds the door open for a person, they shouldn’t expect a courtesy response. One given would be nice, but if not, still, the act of holding the door is one’s choice before the fact. If I give onto you all the things you ask of, without too much wavering on my end, I shouldn’t expect a bounty of re-served kindness or gratitude from you. No. It doesn’t work like that. However, and this is a smidgen of a “however”, gratuity for all the things I’ve given to you would be nice. Spoken or written, any gracious words of thanks would make me feel that my presence is appreciated.
  • Don’t wind the spoil too quickly, after having felt your line tug slightly, to only discard both your feed, pole, and bucket into the river when your catch breaks free. Walking away from a conversation or argument you initiated isn’t going to build better roads for the future. In fact, it will erode what we already have(which isn’t much), turning our relationship into a place where serious matters are not spoken about.

I don’t ask much of the world, for the world is not mine to request from. I am blessed to be apart of all the beautiful, horrible, and indifference that comprises the human narrative. Still, I shouldn’t have to force a communion with the elder gods for them to assist me in making sure others see my presence as being worthy also.  It makes no sense for the titan Atlas to hold the world aloft on his back if there is nothing worthwhile living upon it. I don’t request much, only that when spoken to or when I speak the entreaties of exchange are merited out and what needs to be extrapolated from the conclusion(yes, there needs to be a conclusion on all topics) is taken with the recipient.

This morning’s  episodic “that’s your issue, not mine”, “you should be so lucky” tirade, where I was more caught off guard, and less allowed to explain myself(especially since the topic was about my comments three days ago) did not sit easy with me. Communication has been retired. It replaced with that tiresome line grandma’s used when dinner went far too long because one or more children wanted their dessert instead:

“You’re not leaving this table until you finish those [cold, undercooked] peas.”

We don’t communicate. Talking has been replaced with vignettes, storyboards of what should have been said or regret-filled commentaries about what could have.  I’m saddened more by the passage of time; how it will not stop, will not slow down for one second. Never allowing us to repair the damage said or unheard. Never allowing us to patch and reform, because setting the clock right. Time is sad.

This ship is sinking, all the lifeboats gone, the survivors who hadn’t drown, huddled together along the bow–arms locked. Any attempt for a rescue turned away by our mad Captain and his XOs.

“Captain, we need to talk. We need to figure out what we’re going to do before we all go down with the ship.”

“That’s your issue, not mine.”

There is July

There’s a condition that is constantly repeated in this place. A condition by where words said or actions performed are swept under the rug, like the guest stars of a primetime sitcom. There are no chain of events in this place, nothing is bracketed to the next, creating an experience to tie togther; to learn from the next.
Nothing.
Every nuance of the discussion is set aside for other immediate concerns–most of which are never immediate or of importance. I am a ghost attached to a relic of stage, in a theater house no one frequents. I speak, but my verbs used seem to resonant with the recipent, more than the sentence they are a part of. I perform simply chores now, on this stage, mechanisms I have adopted just to keep myself from remembering that all around me is dust. denial. broken. This is not what I have envisioned or foreseen in my course. No one expects failure, especially when the stepwise process has been mapped out carefully. Still, the human frailty lurks. This condition, where words spoken honestly, must be constantly held unspoken; and acting out in the face of public(for, heaven’s above, if the children are to suspect that the garden is dying) is normal. I am furtive. I have become furtive, a myriad of emotions I don’t agree with, but for sake of survival must accept.
I do not enjoy this condition, and I’m not afraid to leave the stage. I’m not afraid to accept that there is no loving audience basking upon me up here. There are no new words in my script or stagehands in waiting to draw the curtains close when I am done. This concert hall is broken. This stage I stand upon is broken. I need to move off, on, and out.

Ten years ago

Ten years ago I wouldn’t even care. Ten years ago the world was open, prospects available; choices a plenty. Ten years ago I’ve been honest with myself, said my peace, and left without as much as a regard for where my shadow fell behind me. Ten years ago I was primed, and the interest-level by my peers ever rising. Ten years ago was ten years ago.

Literally

What I literally do not understand,

Is why it’s ok

to insult someone, and then expect that person to respect you afterwards, as if you treated them like they fucking deserve to be treated.

Like no I’m not going to admire you as a person  if you make me feel less than dirt–lower even.

You’re supposed to bring up your friend’s self-esteem, not beat what little they have left down to the ground.

Edited for 2015

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Hollywood Cowardice: George Clooney Explains Why Sony Stood Alone In North Korean Cyberterror Attack

Originally posted on Deadline:

EXCLUSIVE: As it begins to dawn on everyone in Hollywood the reality that Sony Pictures was the victim of a cyberterrorist act perpetrated by a hostile foreign nation on American soil, questions will be asked about how and why it happened, ending with Sony cancelling the theatrical release of the satirical comedy The Interview because of its depiction of North Korean dictator Kim Jong-un. One of those issues will be this: Why didn’t anybody speak out while Sony Pictures chiefs Amy Pascal and Michael Lynton were embarrassed by emails served up by the media, bolstering the credibility of hackers for when they attached as a cover letter to Lynton’s emails a threat to blow up theaters if The Interview was released?

George Clooney has the answer. The most powerful people in Hollywood were so fearful to place themselves in the cross hairs of hackers that they all refused to…

View original 2,410 more words

Turning off the light

I am finding it very difficult to be this adult, parent-like person everyone wants me to be.

Check that: this adult, parent-like person people hope I aspire to be.

I can’t adjudicate with regard to how to parent or dispense fairly, with respect to children. I can’t separate myself from judgmental to empathetic when someone has greatly disappointed me. I lack empathy to someone who is doing wrong, and my emotion indebtedness has left me, because of history, to question every thing this person says or does. I can’t give advice without wanting to also hand down a punishment worthy of the mendacity laid at my door.

I don’t think I’d make a fair parent. I’m wise, despite periods of frailty and immaturity, but I don’t think I can wield the specter of parenthood as a apt as others have or should. Perhaps this in itself lies the growth aspect. One can’t be told he’s a good father or father-figure, but has to experience the path. Parenthood is a road, not a destination.

3 weeks of uncertainty

I’ve learned thus far that it’s far easier to assemble a 500 piece lego set than be an adult on any given day. This afternoon was the most trying, insofar that I’ve found myself on three occasions being the “better person” in a disagreement I would have otherwise, on any other terms, won. Years before, this time of year, around my birthday, is typically exciting for me.

It’s Christmas!

And yet, now an adult, I’ve come to view this time of year, the end of the calendar year, as being extremely exhaustive. Maybe it’s not so much the adult-holiday conundrum, but the entirety of 2014. It’s been a very taxing year for me. Very So much so, I’d like to take a raincheck on the festivities and sit this one out.

Please.

Perhaps as a teenager or younger adult I would be unable to explain myself or feelings, but being much older I am well versed in how I perceive the world around me.

All in all, I need a break. A break from the “keep at arm’s length” communication or stray dog treatment.

Maybe these visuals are a tad excessive, but they don’t belie why I really need a raincheck from the next three weeks.