how to be your own roman emperor.
So, I've been learning about stoicism and a fellow named Marcus Aurelius.
Why is it that most Roman philosophers and emperors had names ending in -us?
Was it a decree of some sort? Who knows. There must be a linguistic explanation.
Or, another reason, is that humans sometimes are stupid
and look for meaning in places where there simply isn't any.
Anyhow, back to the original point. Stoicism.
It is not the concept of not feeling anything, but rather about choosing the best box
in the attic of your mind in which
your emotions belong.
Instead of acting on impulse, one focuses on the facts,
on reacting to an event with courage, temperance, justice, and wisdom.
In being the most genuine version of yourself instead of fixating on what was,
on what could be.
There are several aspects based on the concept of memento mori.
Remember you will die.
Yet, despite these philosophies and Roman emperors and tips
and meditations and breathing exercises to take four seconds breathing it,
holding it in, and another four seconds breathing it out,
the reality is
I desperately want for so much, precisely because I know I will die soon.
Soon can be tomorrow, twenty, forty, fifty, one hundred and twelve years from now.
What I want is tangible, burning, nonsensical, a borderline teenage dream--
I want to throw this desk into the window, create a bridge of iridescent glass
I get to step on in my sudden escape,
and no matter how many bleeding scrapes will cut my feet,
I would grin and laugh knowing I am finally, at long last, free;
free to explore a place where I get to climb trees to the very top branches,
where I get to make my words matter to vastly honest, honestly vast audiences,
where I do not think about my lifetime of the past as if it was my present,
where we all want for naught, where we choose kindness above all,
where we are all doing what we love, to the point where we forget to eat
or drink
or sleep.
I want to skip along insomniac streets with the sound of yellow-white
lamppost light and music in my ears,
to stare at the sunrise from a beach with tears in my eyes as I just
allow myself to simply
Be.
putty-esque stream of consciousness during a work break.
The other day, I read about the telling signs of a pre-midlife midlife crisis.
Granted, most of the signs are actually part of the ongoing collective human experience within our own schizophrenic domes of semi-consciousness. But hey, there is an admittedly nice ring to, "I'm having a pre-midlife midlife crisis." rather than a plain ol',
"I think I'm having a reoccurring panic attack."
Yesterday, two clients yelled at me for 1. not being the person they wanted to speak with (aka, someone with "power"), and 2. the fact they have paid an exorbitant amount of money for the utmost professional service, and they are still stuck speaking to the same chump (aka, back to point 1). That's customer service for you.
There is a sense of beauty in knowing you are just one tirade away from becoming the Hindenburg disaster. The spark that caused the explosion. The straw that broke the pissed off camel's back. Only to realize, when you feel you've reached your limit, your willpower is made of Silly Putty instead of iron; it is flexible, sticky, and just when you thought you were on the last strand, nope, guess what, there is more putty.
You don't fully explode. You don't fully break. You keep going-- a giant balloon that is slowly deflating but still afloat, a camel that spits at people but keeps carrying its load.
I wake up feeling a nerve of rage tangled around my heart. Then, after some thought and remembering the tips from that ridiculous self-help book, I acknowledge it isn't actually rage.
It is longing.
I am so proud and so happy for many people I care about and their accomplishments. I just wish those things were happening to me as well, in their own way, on their own time. I'm happy for others, and just want to be happy for myself as well, but not even sure where to start.
Apparently, that is one of the signs of a pre-midlife midlife crisis, so go figure.
Who knows, maybe tomorrow I will quit both jobs and start selling homemade jelly rolls.
The possibilities are endless, and somehow, increasingly finite.
hurricanes and games.
Your smile shooting like a flash of lightning, the thunder of your laughter echoing
as we lay on the rooftop at the very top of the world, stars burning before us.
My hands still warm from their time around your waist, your jeans ripped at the knees,
your arms around my neck, and your twirls and swirls,
everything else a whirl
as you cling on to unanswered questions between each silent grin.
We walked, we talked, we joked up a storm of silent promises as we shared
absentminded sips from the bottle of gin we've left half-empty right next to your chin.
Your head is beside mine as we lay on the floor,
we stare up at the clouds as you ask,
"Hey, do you think you'd love me in another life?"
My chest feels tight as it skips a beat,
And I tell you, as seriously as I can, "Perhaps. It all depends."
I feel your gaze, the sheer audacity as you push with a, "It depends on...what?"
I do not dare to turn and see you. I know that I can't.
If I was to do so, I'd melt in your eyes--
I'd bury my face on the nook of your shoulder and neck,
I'd stand up and ask you to never leave me again,
but I can't. And I won't.
Because his name appeared earlier, gentle against your lips.
Because you told me stories of what you two are like behind the scenes.
Because we are those dreams of people neither of us can ever fully have;
when we need a shot of the sugar only an unfulfilled fantasy can provide.
At long last, a long pause, my lungs cannot bear it,
I turn to you, longing to stroke your cheek with my forefinger and thumb,
wishing I could tell you exactly how I feel.
Wishing I could tell you how I see you press your mouth together as you read,
how your knuckles get cold when you don't have anything to eat,
how your head gives a little shake sometimes before you speak,
how I still remember you wish you could chop off your hair
because it always gets in the way
but your vanity tells you to keep it exactly the same.
How you want to believe in a God without knowing whether it is worth it
when you do not know its proper name.
But I can't.
Because his name is still there,
laced around my throat
choking me, and I can't take another breath.
So, still looking up at the sky,
thinking I feel your hand now asking if it can be
intertwined in mine,
I finally answer out loud,
"It depends on what you think is right."
these walls do have a heart.
If I could, I would tell you all the parts I remember about you;
how the smaller details helped shape exactly who you were,
and much more importantly,
who you almost could have been.
I would tell you how much I miss you each and every day.
It is a very empty feeling, the one I have without you.
Everything is...cold. Even more so than before.
It's not as if you brought much warmth right as you arrived.
Your blood had been drained, your organs disposed of as donations
or...well, sorry to say it, biohazardous waste.
You know, the usual morbid schematics and mechanics.
As usual, I saw people coming in and out--
prepping you, cleaning you,
whispering and...singing to you.
I'm used to the sponges and needles and eventual tears.
The singing was new.
They didn't mention much about you.
They didn't do much other than stroke your face and sing.
Each stroke highlighted something different
as I observed from all around in utmost curiosity.
Their finger gently traced the blonde tips of your eyelashes,
(your eyes were closed and I couldn't help but wonder...
just what color did they use to be?)
the half-smirk indents on the right side of your lips,
(you must've looked glorious when you smiled,
from what I could catch in the echoes of your grins)
your eyebrows from beginning to end,
(you must've furrowed them constantly,
perhaps when you talked about something you had read)
Were you a reader? Was your eyesight strained?
Is that why they traced your forehead, the lines connecting and
leading down to the tip of your nose?
How often were you kissed?
How often did you let them hold your hand?
How often did they pause to see you standing right in front of the sun,
their hearts almost stopping as you practically...glowed?
They may not have said it before.
They may not have had the courage.
But I hope you know, just as they felt, just as they were singing songs
while secretly thinking about your name,
that they loved you.
And I love you now and forever,
just the
same.
i want to hold your hand.
The cat had run away from the door leading to the basement. Her fur stank of fear.
I decided, with mistaken curiosity, to explore. I went one, two, thirteen steep steps down. Musty, powdery air. A single faded blue-white lightbulb flickering behind me. Shadows stretching all around. But that's all they were-- shadows. Of course.
I was surrounded by boxes of stored belongings. A broken porcelain doll. Unworn baby shoes. The lightbulb burst into a shower of sparks. A blink of complete darkness, until it wasn't. Until I saw her. Until I felt her shredded, pale arms around my neck.
songs in 3/4 time from that one controversial band.
It comes in flashes. Precise, echoing pieces.
Just enough to know what the puzzle looks like:
making a garbled mess out of a happy birthday song,
choking on swollen tears while laying on the bathroom floor,
repeatedly asking the question, "Why do you even love me at all?"
at no one in particular, because the world is spinning
and you've already done all your spilling
of your own and everybody else's
unusually well-kept secrets.
You remember going past the point of no return;
the one point where you blur your own lines
because you actually reward yourself with another shot
after admiring your own oh-so-self-restrained good behavior.
And half a bottle later you find yourself thinking
of things you soberly try your best to forget,
so you drink more, repeatedly licking your lips and trying to
remove any trace of having touched the bottle again
when you thought no one was looking.
But they were. They did. They do.
They could see it in your face.
They could see it in the slurred words you spoke,
in the series of calls left unanswered, messages left unread,
in the loss of trust when you apparently somehow crawled
into bed and fell asleep without giving any sort of response.
You wake up the next day with the kind of headache
that makes lights much too bright, and the world go in
sticky, nauseating slow motion.
So you promise yourself you will not do it again,
after all, it was a fluke, you'll be better.
In fact, you did great this week,
and you know it was stressful--
so, why not reward yourself
for your stellar
oh-so-self-restrained
good
behavior?
her name was isabel.
The shaking won't stop.
Gets worse the closer I get to it. To her.
My fingers won't cooperate, won't close. My teeth don't stop rattling.
I clench my jaw so tightly it hurts.
She's hiding in the nook beneath the sink.
A shadow, glowing darker than the lightless room.
A small figure, her knees curled up to her chest.
Black liquid eyes streaming down her pointed face.
She speaks.
A dry voice. Barely more than a whisper.
The hair on the back of my neck rises.
I want to hear her. I don't want to hear her. I want it all to stop.
I want to get closer.
So I do.
I stretch out a hand towards her, "Who are you?"
"...remembered."
She shows me those moments.
Hands around her neck.
"Please." No.
Mud on her face; her body. God, no.
"I just want to be remembered.
Will...you? Remember?"
this is why i don’t open that particular pandora’s box.
One time, I read this brilliant short story about a beautiful tightrope walker,
a sad and hopeful clown, and a seemingly confident lion tamer.
It became one of my favorites from the very first sentence.
I often think about the story, even if I can't remember the exact words.
You know, I must say,
I find this situation laughably ironic; the better people feel,
the less they book sessions,
the better and crappier I feel.
Better because it is one less burden to carry on my shoulders and my psyche.
Crappier because of the other burdens that appear from a lack of cash.
You see, you may not know this, so I will fill in the blanks:
my "career" thrives and feeds on futile attempts to assuage human misery.
Quite literally, the more miserable a person is and the more tears they have,
the more they want to talk to us.
I've heard more prayers, wishes, sins,
confessions, than mosts priests will hear inside their cold church walls.
I was told once that during more difficult sessions, my voice sounds
like that of a person who wants to calm a frightened horse;
soothing, quiet, bringing comfort where I can. But little do they know
my hands shake nonstop with frustration
as I take on these people's prayers, wishes, sins,
and endlessly repetitive confessions as my own.
And every time I crack a joke to make them laugh, it is because I spend
an hour every day running as fast as I can until my lungs hurt just so I
don't think about their voices on a loop by the time the night falls.
You see, so and so, your feelings are valid. Your (or their) behavior is not.
Yes, you have the right to feel like you (sure as Hell) deserve more.
No, I do not believe that any kind of (Christian) God
made this happen in order to test your faith.
You've got nothing to prove by not letting go.
But they don't believe it. For many obvious reasons, they rarely do.
You see, they smile, they nod, they say they've understood, they've learned,
they're now changed men and women, they now know exactly how not to be fooled
by the shitloads of social and emotional predators they "formerly" chose to indulge.
And the next time they book a session with me,
it is nine times out of ten because they have fallen back
into the same patterns we struggled to untangle the time before that.
And the time before that--
well, no,
it was more or less the same thing.
And I end it thinking to myself,
"I don't care. I really do could not care less by this point."
But I don't believe it. For obvious reasons, I do not.
You see, I smile. I nod. I say I've understood, I've learned,
and I'm now a changed me, and now I know exactly how to cope,
how to not over-invest in or care about these bleeding hearts more than I should.
And the next time they book a session with me,
nine times out of ten I will repeat myself. I will listen.
(If appropriate) I'll try to make them laugh.
I will give them much-needed tough love.
And after all that, I will stare at the screen,
wishing I could stand up, walk through that door,
and travel for miles on end carrying just the one story in my head
about the beautiful and maddening tightrope walker,
the well-intended but pathetic clown,
and the overcompensating
lion tamer.
who knew caterpillar forums were actually a thing.
Wake up. Roll over.
Fail to recognize an endlessly blue sky.
Linger for a moment or two. Or maybe until another hour passes by.
The gleaming alarm clock reads, "Fifteen minutes to go."
Always fifteen. Always on the go. Always rushing nowhere to be on time
as you wade through the molasses and the cold.
Get up. Brush teeth, wash face, comb hair.
Take daily showers, try to rinse yourself away;
try to get some sense of feeling back into your skin.
But you don't. Because you can't.
Because every day it's getting harder and harder to keep up with the mask.
You haven't been outside in so long. Does it matter?
The air beyond these four walls is just as stale as the one in your chest.
Mechanical motions:
Breathe in, breathe out, eat, sleep, wake up,
brush teeth, wash face, comb hair,
stand in front of the mirror, stretch your face into an unrehearsed smile.
It looks unnatural. It hurts the corners of your lips.
Suddenly, one day, you see Something.
On your balcony there is a potted mint plant.
In the mint plant, there is a caterpillar.
It is...fuzzy? Get closer. It is.
It is black, with reddish tips, a row of petite boot-like feet.
It is...cute?
When was the last time you referred to something as cute?
When was the last time you felt genuinely curious about anything?
A voice in the back of your head says you should leave the caterpillar alone.
But really, how much of a chance does it stand against any kind of bird,
against the pelting rain, against this suffocating molasses?
It is there, all alone, with nowhere else to go. Just like you.
So, you grab a proper container, cut open holes into a lid,
reach into the mint, carefully placing
Bonifacio the Caterpillar into his brand new home.
Bonifacio munches through the leaves with remarkable speed--
Hungry hungry caterpillar, indeed!
You still struggle to pick up the pieces, to take care of yourself,
but it gets easier as you care for something that needs you to keep it alive.
When Bonifacio needs a bigger home, you make him one.
When Bonifacio needs fresh food, you go outside on the hunt for different
caterpillar-approved salads.
And you actually chuckle for the first time in months as he eats a leaf
while sitting peacefully in the nook of your hands.
And suddenly, it stops.
Bonifacio buries himself in the earth.
He is either hibernating
before he morphs into an agreeable tiger moth,
or he is on the other percentage leaning towards 'probably gone.'
You nervously observe for the longest month.
And just as you think, "I should've never interfered.
I should've left well enough alone."
You see him again, from the corner of your eye.
Fuzzy. Pearl-white, tiny black legs,
beautifully-patterned wings.
He flutters and stares.
When he is ready, you release him,
and you finally remember the names
of your gleaming, bright stars,
as you look up
at the sky.
from one great lover of mankind to another.
Looking out these glass windows, I'd dream
of a place where it'd just be you, it'd just be me.
We'd abandon all human language, and treacly
gratifying human self-pity.
All forms of human troubles, magazines,
pulling all forms of scandalous heartstrings.
Instead, we'd chirp, screech, howl, croak
in a place with nothing but the Law of the Jungle,
with birds perched on our arms,
we could live offa the fatta the lan',
and our legs would grow strong
from our trots with wolves and
our trickster fox.
But the dream fades,
when I hear every tick,
and its inevitable
tock.