Circling Swallow

During the life span of a cigarette this morning I watched a swallow nesting above the patio inside a small gap in the corner of the roof. He caught my eye as he had been repeatedly flying in circles, each time hesitating at the entrance of the hole but not entering.

Swallows are excellent fliers and use this ability to feed and attract a mate. But at this particular instance, his greatest strength was mocking his own efforts as he seemed unable to fly into his nest, perhaps due to some perceived misjudgment-- he came in too fast, too low, a hair too far to the right or left. And so he would circle around and try again.

After numerous passes, I saw him grow tired. His circles became smaller, his movements more drastic. He was exhausted, and this only impeded his confidence as he tried to enter the nest. It was as if he knew he was going to miss before he even got there, and so his mind was already ahead of him, planning another circle.

Then other swallows, who misunderstood the severity of the situation, began swooping at him as he made his repeat passes, throwing him further off course and accentuating the already dire predicament.

It was then that I noticed what possibly was even more inhibiting than some sort of passerine inferiority complex. The piece of straw he carried in his mouth was simply too large to fit in the hole. He knew this long before I did, but tragically it was a lesson he learned again and again with every passing swoop.

A popular definition of insanity is repeating the same actions expecting a different result. By that standard, this swallow was insane. It seems cruel to diagnose a creature whose existence is jeopardized by his own ignorance, but it's a lot easier for me to critique someone else's situation than to try and rationalize my own.

When the train left the station, it had two lights on behind

When I was a child I would often spin around in circles, arms outstretched, and it would take me to another planet. Sometimes lying in bed I would close my eyes and press against them with my thumbs, causing me to see strange shapes and colors.

I do not believe I was doing this to run away from anything; to escape reality. I think I was doing it solely to experience something that I otherwise could not, in ordinary circumstances. As I've grown older I have found other ways to achieve this state.

Tonight I found myself witness to the apparently pending divorce of my heart and my mind. They separated for a while, likely due to poor communication. But after too long a time passing since they last communicated, they grew distant and now wish to formerly divorce due to irreconcilable differences. But they both (as well as myself) know that's bullshit.

With their permission, I acted as mediator to one of their counseling sessions. I aimed to merely facilitate a dialogue between the two, and despite my best efforts at assisting both parties in speaking a language the other one might understand, I fear the operation was a total failure.

The sad thing is that my heart and mind, at this point, actually plan to stay together. During the discussion, they began to act empathetically toward each other and are under the impression that their relationship is salvageable. However I know them both too well, and believe that they have successfully tricked themselves into thinking they are back in love with each other. The truth is they're merely in love with being in love.

All their love's in vain.

The situation took a horrible turn for the worst during the exchange near the end of the session. At this point, the heart had begun confessing to the mind that he was right all along. Meanwhile the mind similarly yielded to the heart, vowing to never again second-guess her.

The tragedy is not that they want two different things (though in many ways they do). What really kills me is that they want the same thing: what each other wants.

I fear it is only a matter of time before one of them realizes that it is impossible for both wishes to coexist-- they likely are mutually exclusive. But despite what they think, it is impossible for them to divorce. They're stuck with each other. The decision isn't even theirs. Unbeknownst to them, my gut is the supreme regulator of all things organ.

Let It Bleed

Occasionally I will find a song that I feel summarizes my life at that particular time. Only in the rarest occasions, however, do I come across an entire album that speaks to my present existence. Tonight, in what may be only the second or third time in my life, I've found that strange phenomenon in the album, "Let it Bleed," the 1969 release by The Rolling Stones.

The album weaves complexities like delicate threads, but a loose summary of the album, not unlike a traditional narrative, can be summarized in three acts. Act 1 warns of impending danger followed by mourning of love lost and the red flags of a potential downward spiral. Act 2 moves into loathsome, self-destructive behavior aimed at masking the pain by way of aimless, hollow pursuits, all of which lead nowhere. Act 2 concludes with the title track, "Let it Bleed," in which the narrator finally begins to heal when he turns his focus from his own pain and onto that of another person in need. Act 3 charts the path of healing and from there, to self-discovery and rebirth.

The album comes to a close with a moment of lucidity and, for the first time since the opening track, complete honesty and objectivity as Mick Jagger sings, "You can't always get what you want." It was during this moment that I flipped the last light switch to my old house, and as I locked the door behind me and walked to my car, he concluded with the line, "But if you try sometimes you just might find you get what you need."

How I know

Were it not for fleeting moments of sustained peace, childlike carefreeness, and a mystical awareness that a smile is on my face, though I'm not sure how long it's been there-- were it not for these things, I would have no standard by which to compare the less desirable moments in which I have effectively silenced my gut, ignored intuition, and wandered into a dark place of confusion and insecurity.

Read this one. Don't read the last few. They're crap. This one's alright.

The first thing I thought of when I woke up this morning (five minutes ago) was that it's time to atone for all this Dr. Phil Dawson's Creek introspective bullshit and write something more substantial than lines and lines of "why didn't my mom hug me more as a child."

By the way, I am humbly paying the price for channeling Nicholas Sparks and taking an over-romanticized 5 mile trek in the dark the other night when I should've been doing nothing more than sitting on my floor (that's right, I've got a floor) in my bathrobe eating popcorn and watching Youtube videos as I've got the left ankle of an over-inflated sex doll (and by that I only mean that it's big and swollen... just incase there are any strange ankle fetishes out there that I'm unaware of). Apparently Jesus must've done his stretches beforehand or something; that or he refused to settle for $3 Old Navy sandals. Regardless, the next time I do something completely moronic I will at least try to remember to lace up a pair of high-tops first.

I fear that if I were to continue down the blogging path I had embarked on a few days ago, I would have to change the title of my blog from the Latin translation of "I talk too much" to something like "The Spilled Milk Chronicles." The only reason I haven't deleted some of those dreadful posts is I hope to be able to look back some day when somebody calls me a whiny, insecure head-case and point to those blogs and say, "No, sir. Today I'm just cranky because I don't like the way these pants fit. THAT THERE is the manifestation of this whiny, insecure head-case business you speak of. Good day, sir."

Because everything happens for a reason... right? At least that's what everybody's been telling me. Even yesterday-- two people, one was a customer. And I didn't even fish for it, they just offered it. "Here's your receipt, sir." "Thanks, Alex. Everything happens for a reason."

I can't help but argue with that. Last week I walked into a natural foods store and bought a bottle of hibiscus tea and an apple. I went to check out and instead ended up walking around the store looking at rice cakes for the next ten minutes because my landlady was in line in front of me and I'd rather stall pretending I'm interested in yogurt made from raccoon milk than risk a potentially awkward exchange.

So anyways I got out to my car, took a bite out of the apple and tried to wash it down with some hibiscus tea. Let me first tell you about the hibiscus tea so those of you who have not had this wretched concoction can at least try to sympathize with what was going through my mind. It's a bright pretty red color, comes in a tiny plastic bottle, and the ingredients contain honey and lemon juice. Red+tiny+honey+lemon juice=me, happy. Usually. Well the thing ends up tasting like a mixture of salty tomatoes and sinus, and so that which did not reappear as a mist on my steering wheel and windshield drizzled downhill on Commercial St.

Now, back to my main point. Everything happens for a reason. Everything? Even that stupid little illustration? The fact that it happened a week ago and I still remember it is not evidence that the event were of any great significance, because at the same time I can't remember names or faces or when my Earth Science midterm was (last Tuesday, turns out). See, if I could remember things that actually mattered, then I could accept the whole "everything happens for a reason thing." The reason Jonny happened to remember when the utilities were due is because Jonny's giveadamn still works, unlike Alex, who bought his giveadamn on eBay because he's a cheap skate trying to save a buck or two, and when the goddamn giveadamn arrived it turned out to be nothing more than a toaster with some paper machet and glitter glued on the sides.

This blog has blown so far off course that I wish to cut my losses immediately and just end the bitch, but I feel that I first must disclose what I originally sat down to writhe about (yes I meant "writhe," not "write") was my first listening of the new Green Day album and my subsequent disappointments. Perhaps due to a few misfirings of the synapsis and an impish desire to rebel against even my own paper-thin insiginificant early-morning blogging agenda, I ended up going down this goofy-balls rabbit hole where I simultaneously say everything and nothing.

But it's all cool because it all happened for a reason. At least I think I'm starting to get my writing balls back.

I remember what it felt like

Recently my whining/sniveling/anxieties/fears have been called out and exposed. At Mayra's graduation ceremony the other day, the guest speaker said success lies hidden underneath the spot where our fears lie. And a week ago, Saul Williams wrote the following:

"Can you clearly articulate the vision of the self you wish to become, the dream you wish accomplish, the community or relationship you wish to belong? To be present & in the moment is essential, but if the future is now, then mind is a time machine and your vision can project you into a brighter now. If your vision/dream hasn't come true yet, maybe you haven't come true yet. How do your actions or beliefs lead to or contradict your journey?"

I've finally become broken and pulled back to Earth. You would think that by the time I bought the plane tickets, the aforementioned events would have already taken place. But still I cannot specifically articulate anything right now. I've just got these impulses and notions, leadings and nudgings. But that's as far as I can take them.

The other night I tried praying again. At first I thought it would be selfish to pray for something specific. And I suppose that by human standards it would be impolite to ignore a relative for so long and then show up asking for money or food. But of course we are then reminded of the story of the prodigal son. And then we realize what a great act of humility is required before one can lean toward the ear of God and ask for something specific.

And I couldn't do it. And I still can't. I can tell you where I want to go, or the company I wish to keep. I can give you vague generalities that would seem to hint toward something, one way or another. But I cannot step out vocally and enumerate just what it is I want.

When I was twelve my dad wanted to help me become a better basketball player. I wanted to be better too, but he wanted to make sure it was what I wanted, rather than merely imposing his will on me. So he told me that he would help me train when I wrote down exactly what I wanted to achieve. I couldn't do it. And I never could. And at some point I quit playing basketball.

I don't know what it is. I don't know if I feel I don't deserve it. I don't know if it is that I question my competence. I don't know if it's fear of failure. But I am absolutely paralyzed. This has plagued me all my life, and resurfaces at every possible opportunity. And it's even harder now that my first dream to come true is destroyed.

This is typically when the hero gets it together, does a gut-check, and pulls out a renewed, realized man. And now that the honeymoon phase of newfound freedom is over and everything runs together and begins to resemble a small, flatlining vibration, I find that my only immediate desire is to insulate myself from everything. Every feeling, every breathe of air, the sting of misplaced trust.

The funny thing is tomorrow I could wake up on top of the world, ready to go. This has been me seventy-five percent of the time lately. But a month ago it was me ninety percent of the time, and before that, a hundred. And so I must decide whether my dwindling enthusiasm is fear, doubt, and deception sinking in, or whether its reality slowing but steadily making itself known.

But then I remember this: "Remember the heights from which you have fallen. Repent and do the things that you did at first."

And then I think of my first instinct, my most pure impulse. The rhythm of my heartbeat that was set in motion in a sacred time and place. Captured by dangerous wonder I was the truest I had ever been. I remember what it felt like.

Tonight

This evening after I got home I took the garbage to the curb with earbuds in my ears. Leaving the trash on the curb I kept walking and did not return home until two hours and five miles later. The night was warm and mystical and at times I was joined by a Siamese kitten who would either run ahead or lag behind, except for the quarter mile I carried her.

I was sustained by endorphins but distracted by my emotions, which played through my mind like a film reel-- the entire spectrum: love and fear, loneliness and laughter, pain and passion, regret.

I came home and expected to collapse on my makeshift bed and drift into sleep, exhausted and fulfilled. Instead I am apprehended by an irrational anxiety over nothing in particular. It clings to my shoulders with talons and whispers, "everything in your life is a waste." It has lingered in my house for a while now, hanging low like smoke, and always appearing after periods of clarity and peace.

Today I heard someone say, "do that which frightens you most, and there you will find your victory." Earlier today this was inspiring and motivating, but now I realize the hidden guarantee that there will be pain along the way.

"I am weary, and I forlorn.
Lead thou me to the land
Of the angels, the angels.

"If only thou, O God of life,
Be at peace with me, my support,
Be to me as a star, be to me as a helm,
From my lying down in peace,
To my rising a new."

-Ralph M. Johnson (b. 1955)