Thoughts from a depressed, lonely, twenty something guy (thoroughly original, right?)

The Flying Tigers had nothing but grit, inferior fighters, and a desire to win. I want to win too.

So far I have been a pretty attentive Mormon guy. I have my faults and my pecadillos, but overall have given much to this religion and it has given much more back. I have learned and continue to learn important things through it.

But here’s the rub—I am 27 and single (I haven’t always been). Among other important things, my great, great, great grandfather sat in a wagon for 2000 miles so that I could find a wife and make Mormon children and further the cause. But potential wives (as in candidates for the position, not positions) aren’t cooperating and my feelings toward the whole of it are beginning to sour.

I go on dates, I know I do not see myself clearly—because no one truly can see themselves how others do—the curse of knowledge I suppose. I am, overall a happy guy. But I am beginning to get tired of rejection and even moreso loneliness. Perhaps I am looking in the wrong places. Like Mormon places.

I am not a bitter man. I have better things to do. When things are disappointing, I move on, I don’t get pickled—but can I just move on from this? Dating Mormon women? I think great great great grandpappy Charles C. would unceremoniously slap me for being so disingenuous.

I don’t really know what the problem is. I am no Adonis, but my features are symmetrical and I do have muscles. I laugh, I listen, I have done interesting things and know how to talk about them.

I have amassed some things that make life much easier and I have found they mean nothing without someone to share them with (croc-pot). I have a good job and recently became a land owner. I drive a cool car. I am handy (but not handsy) and have been told that I smile well. I go to far off lands and cavort with buddies from college. I read, I think, I change my life accordingly—but at this moment, I cannot, for the life of me, get anybody excited about me.   And I’m going to whine a little and then be done whining.

I do not know why this disinterest exists and my tools of emotional dissection are dull from use. It’s really weighing me down. And for the first time in my adult life I am having social problems.I guess it is my turn to feel some real social anguish, but I have found that very few of the friends I helped through their turn are nowhere near willing to help.

So metaphorically here’s the bridge—currently I stand upon railing. One-by-one my friends walk upon this bridge—end-to-end, and look me right in the eyes. I know they see my sadness but they do not speak.

After the countless hours I have listened to and counseled them, do they not have the courage to stop and help my tired soul? To buoy me up? To ask a question and listen earnestly listen for an answer? I maybe get a concerned look or even more embarrassingly some will stop and unload their burdens upon me, even while I stand upon the precipice.

That is the best way I can describe how I feel.

I thought (and still think) it a priority–nay, an honor to be on the lookout for the friend who is having a down day—to help bouy her/him and shoulder some of their burden. I do not do this with repayment in my mind. There are no ulterior motives, but by damn, it is so disheartening when later, after the tears have dried and their little hearts have gone on to do great things, I realize—that no one is looking out for me.

I would like to have someone who knows me say, “hey guy, you’re not looking like yourself, what’s up?”

Maybe it’s that I was the burden share guy? Maybe everyone thinks I’m the one who’s perpetually ok. Perhaps I do not show my emotions well.

My friends have been so willing to tell me of their emotional battles, dysfunctional families and crushing romantic foibles—they heave these corpses, these dead things, onto my shoulders—as though I was designed to receive them, as though I was only playing my part, balancing their sorrows with the ones I already carry.

Then after they have exhausted themselves with catharsis, they ask me, “how are things going for you?” and I say, “things are tough” and ready myself to open up (which I don’t do too much). They then get up and walk to the door, as they are almost gone they look back and say, “that sucks, you’ll figure it out.” And they’re gone.

I do feel that everyone has sharable things their heart. Skills, emotions, important things that when let out—they grow you just as much as the person that you chose to share them with. I even think that the outflow is more than the inflow—and that hopefully becomes a cycle, in an effort for there to be more good than bad in the world.

My feelings on this matter have been challenged of late and I do not know if they will survive the siege.

I do not know how to incorporate change that will help me advance from this stage. The options are terrifyingly large and unknown. Aaaaaand I’m done whining. Goodbye again blog.  Perhaps when I find you again things will improve (and hopefully I can still remember your password)

An Ode To Barnes and Nobles–May you live on Forever in our Memories

I will be honest. You were not my first choice. The babe-alicious Borders with her darkly colored wood trim, freely distributed chairs and pretentious employees seduced me first and will always hold a corner of my heart.

But in the dark days such as these I have grown to love you too, Barnie—originally your coffee never smelled that great and the aesthetics were a little too spare and erudite for my taste, but all that is behind us now. I learned to overlook those un-pleasantries and out of necessity, our relationship has flourished.

Sadly though, it appears that you too are succumbing to the change in times and in public interest. Each time I come to visit, you look worse. The musk of new paper and coffee that attracted me in my youth is slowly turning into a sour aroma of desperation, electronics and empty shelves. It’s is like watching a hooker age Barnie—you need to keep some dignity.

Please do not continue to show more of your bare shelves, those ridiculous Nooks and somewhat enticing crannies just don’t hold the interest there once was. Perhaps you should retire while everyone remembers what a glory you were in your day.

Do you remember that time when I was a freshman in highschool and I didn’t read Huckleberry Finn but had to write a paper, by like, tomorrow? Me too! You, Barnie, rescued me. You provided the CliffNotes I needed in order to complete the assignment. We even guilted my mom into buying them for me! High Five!

Do you remember how I would look forward to that special Thursday, at the front of the month, when all of the new magazines would arrive? I loved spending hours with you, deciphering the newest glossy chapters of import enthusiast magazines/scriptures—and furtively even the photography section. Do you remember that my Dad would always get after me for spending so much time with you? He’d say, “Matt, if you spent half as much time doing homework as you do reading magazines, you would get excellent grades—school would be a breeze.” He was totally right! Didn’t really figure out that one until it was too late though.

No matter what your current state is, my dear friend—my memories of me and you Barnie, will always hold a warm place in the core of me. A place where all knowledge can be found—a place where employees really aren’t helpful, just better at singing the alphabet song than you are—and a place where I could come to feel inspired, where I believed that I could find unique and special things—things that would speak to the inner most parts of me. This is the place Barnie, where the books are good, the books are printed and we can be rightfully snobby. Just you and me. And Borders sometimes.

 

Folding Up in Threes

Now that it’s over I guess I should let it all out. This summer held three pivotal changes for me.

JESSICA–I found a babe. She was a blast. We connected quickly and became very close. The rest of the world fell away…like when you get the f-stop just right–some background focus is retained but the experience is artful and warm.

She had so many of the traits I admire. I was all set to marry her. I was excited to marry her. I even had the ring we picked out together. But I also had some doubts. doubts that just did not go away. Small clouds that grew throughout the day–turning it overcast. They were things that I thought meant nothing, that I thought I could get over, because they did not matter. But in the end I kept coming back to them. Perception being reality. It occurred to me that I was setting myself up for unhappiness–she did not deserve to have to deal with that. I broke it off. It was so bad. I watched as each hammer blow hidden in my words shattered her into pieces. I cried–she was weeping. I have never hurt someone like that. Overall it made me feel pretty shitty. The unfair part of all that is that I felt relief. I shattered her so I could feel relief. I felt like a monster.

ICELAND–Right as Jessica and I were settling into a routine I went to Iceland with some friends from college. We had been planning this for sometime. I spent a few days in New York with my old roomate who is now a designer. Let me tell you. New York is everything I am not. I disliked it’s smells–mainly sewage and vomit. The throngs of people, never ending–never enough space. No air-conditioning or a drink that stays cold longer than the first sip. My friend made it much more manageable. Also, he loves it. Every part of it.

After a few nights sticking to a leather couch, sleeping occasionally–Me Dave and Luke were on a red-eye to Iceland. The idea was hatched when Luke and I were talking on the phone, he having just broken an engagement (ironically, I would be doing the same thing in two months time) and I expressing wanderlust, needing to get out of town. Dave was just a lucky boy with the time and money.

But first I grew a beard.

Iceland is a wonderful place. The temperature never exceeds 55 degrees and we were there at the height of springtime. Which meant everything was green, straining to get as much sunlight as plants could before the long cold winter. Luckily for them, this time of year allows for 18 hours of sunlight a day.

The people were excellent. Courteous and willing to have a good time. In a small town on the western side of the island we got a rock stuck in the caliper of our little skoda rental and we found a shop that had some good ol’ boys working in it and asked to use a jack. Those guys were very impressed that we american’s new our way around a jack and nuematic gun. We gave them some beer money and they invited us to a party. I don’t think we would have fit in very well. But the gesture was appreciated.

We drove around the whole island. Taking in the western fjords, glaciers, icebergs, incredible names and stunning desolation.

It was amazing. These pictures are just a taste.

Then I got home–and got godamned mono. My shit was really messed up. I was having 104 degree fevers that would make my hands go numb and I could not do anything. I mean it. Nothing. Walking around for a half an hour would do me in for for days. Working a full day, not possible. it took me weeks upon weeks to recover even a modicum of non-lethargic life. Even then it was slow in coming back. It was about this time that I ended it with Jessica.

Then I jumped.

I was like–fuck this job. My job has been good to me. They grossly overpay me. I get to write. But I have to be on the phone alot–and I just lost all motivation to do that part of the job. It kind of goes against the culture there. I actually had a really good and incidentally strange conversation with my boss where he asked me if I had any passion for what I was doing (totally a management question, right?) after I defended my case he looked at me questioningly and said, “I look at you as I pass your office and it looks like this is drudgery, do you want to be doing this?” I was shocked, and I decided to be honest and told him straight out that there are parts of this job that I have real trouble actually doing and maybe it’s time for me start looking for something else. He agreed, but needed me to stay on for a while. That worked out for me, as then I could look for a job while working. and I got one. In a new city. I am stoked.

I really need to get out of where I am right now, too much ignorance, blind faith and interbred sociability.

I will make this work out.

Girl, That is what I need

Man, I need a babe. A babe who is out there, but not way out there–a girl who is attractive, but intelligent–mostly intelligent. What I need to do is get off my ass and find her.

What I’d Like To Do

The more I think about it the more I would like to try living in another country. Probably Denmark. Such a strange and un-fun sounding place you say–but my ancestors are from there and I think the people would be rewarding to know.

The problem is getting there. Work visas are hard to come by, and it would be difficult to go there and count on getting a job while staying on a three week tourist visa. 

The most exciting prospect of the whole thing is that I could do it. It would be exceptionally difficult, but I could pull it off. 

If I told my Dad about this he would tell me to be more focused on making a career and family here. He’s right. That would be the sensible thing to do. However, I have built up an incredible amount of wanderlust, never really having expended any of it–and I fear that this opportunity will not last.

Here’s to shooting for the stars–because they are way the hell out there.

On September Second I fell in Love.

But it didn’t change a thing. We were in love. But we were just too different–we ascended the staircase of love quickly–two stairs at a time. After we got the the last step we took in the view–but there was nowhere to go. So we untangled our hands and wonderfully, maturely, jumped back to earth in different directions.

All of the hard things about breaking up didn’t happen. No big, mean, weird talks about how we didn’t like each other anymore or conflicted feelings. We both just realized the differences were overwhelming. It was sad–but not hard. We talked, kissed–told each other we loved each other and then I left.

I guess you don’t need to marry everybody you love.

Our problem came down to a series of grey. She and her family see most everything in black and white–right and wrong. Me, I love the grey and the shades therein. I see right and the wrong, and so many other colors: black, blue orange and grey to name a few. I am not worried about wondering if I should be feeling guilty (for any multitude of sins).

Wondering if you should feel guilty–to me, feel like a trap and an easy way to let your conscience become cripplingly oversensitive. Guilt will come. You need not beckon.

Secondly, just because I see all of these colors does not mean I myself live in the grey. I try my best to do whats right. Always. But my ‘right’ will invariably be different than that of somebody else–not too far off though. Distance in this category probably means a re-thinking. Do I then change what I think is right to incorporate this other fool’s version of right? No, I’m doing the best by my lights.

In that case why not try to understand this contrarian’s  point of view? Why not learn the words he says that you don’t know? Knowledge is everything. Understanding people creates a foundational empathy that is much much more correct and acute than any other known convention.

No, I would never go to the “Thunder Down Under” male dancing show. But will I take pleasure in the cheap pun that is their name? Yes, yes I will. Will I ever be pleased to meet one of them….I can’t foresee a situation in which I would; in a well lit room with many clothes on–yes I will relish the opportunity to understand why they do what they do.

I will not shun it, not think about it, or stay naive to a set of words because it’s “bad.” I do think that exploiting both men and women for money is immoral and I also think the whole idea of strippers is a little hedonistic, but I only think that way because I thought about it. I do not feel dirty for trying to understand something.

I have a feeling that she and her family would say that my philosophy is a slippery slope and soon I’ll be more and more willing to compromise my own standards in order to understand others. There is logic there. I do not disagree with that statement. But what that means is that I need to be careful and gravitate towards the good things, experience the best and do the things that make me happy. But I’ll deal with the consequences if I screw up.

I’ll be damned if I die without have understood as much of this life as I can. And if that means a little extra repentance for me–so be it.

Goodbye Youth. That hurt.

Maggie– Oh, and the beauty she had shone like a light. Her big brown eyes and matching dark hair danced in my dreams by night and in my dreams by day; her visage entreated my piqued adolescent hormones throughout my formative years.

Once, at a youth retreat in Illinois the girl almost kissed me.

We’d flirted around the issue for some time. In my mind we were already there – we just needed a little bit of seclusion. While walking from one event to the next, that seclusion dropped in around us. Our friends had gone ahead, leaving Maggie and me, moving slowly, (a term that described our entire relationship) on a hot Illinois afternoon. We came upon a French drain with an elevated spillway—upon which Maggie stood. With the added height she looked me straight in the eyes and asked me if I’d like a “light and fluffy.” I ran through the lexicon of dirty vocabulary describing ‘acts’ that my teen-aged self hoped to have enacted upon my person, and came up empty. But it didn’t matter, I didn’t care what she called it, I wanted it.

She put her hands on my shoulders and drew me closer. Her smiling lips were tempting and gleaming, as she had just licked them. I leaned forward slightly, but she checked me and said, “ready?” I nodded my agreement. She squared her forehead with mine and her eyes became predatory slits (all the while my brain is saying I don’t think….I’m not sure…? But, never fear, I didn’t start listening to my brain for many years after this event. My libido was entirely in control) and she lunged her head forward with huge force, striking me directly and devastatingly upon my own forehead. The explosion of light blinded me, I doubled over trying to retain consciousness. Maggie doubled over too; in laughter.

Later I discovered that she had entreated me to a “light and fluffy” because she didn’t think I’d say yes if she asked to head-butt me. She had created the euphemism on the spot–clever girl.

In my Junior year of college Maggie gave me the opportunity to make good on some real “light and fluffy” but after 10 minutes of sitting at the foot of her bed failing to make my move and drowning that fact with small talk, something happened–it wasn’t a boner.

I think a seed of thought lodged itself within the fleshy bits of my shell-shocked frontal lobes–way back on that hot afternoon in Illinois. That thought grew to fruition and bloomed as I was sitting in her room contemplating eating her mouth, with my mouth–it told me: “Maggie is not what you think she is, ya buddy, she’s a looker–but she’s craaaaaazy.”  At that moment everything shifted, Maggie was no longer the sought after, babe-raham Lincoln that I had coveted as a teenager. She was a super hot, manic weirdo who head-butted me for fun once, knowing that she could take advantage of my affections. I couldn’t bring myself to kiss the girl only to satisfy a curiosity. I left.

And always (and pleasantly) wondered what I missed out on—Maggie is now married to a wonderful man with a name reminiscent of an apple computer, and has a baby on the way. I never did ask him–if he too, had received a light and fluffy.

Ah, Unicorns

They're real!!!

Leslie’s Doorstep

The bird of thought sang a song within me, run away, she sang, this will not end well. I studiously ignored the thought.
I stood, anxiously sweating, at Leslie’s doorstep. The sun was setting at my back, it emblazoned the entire horizon and cast me in silhouette.
In my memory the heat was bearable; currently Oklahoma’s hellfire hot air was ridiculous. It surrounded me like a dream I had not fully awakened from, grasping at my gullible senses, trying to trick my weary mind into believing this was really happening.
It was.
I was petrified with terror.
The day had warmed into a golden dusk and dusk brought the rhythmic hum of unseen cicadas—they began their song all at once. As if, high up in their ancient green homes, they had a conductor or perhaps all wore matching watches. Their song was moderated only by the chirp of the frighteningly black, absurdly large bugs known to southerners as crickets.
The music struck me and opened my mind, a portal to my youth; to home. My memory showed me the house that I left at eighteen; a home built from burnt, reddish brick; furnished with prickly Bermuda grass, cold tile and a room—just for me. The music brought me a feeling I had forgotten during my college years—a feeling I considered irrecoverable. I was home. Even if only for a moment.
Soon a door opened into the vision of my memory. Again, that blasted bird and the thought run away; I closed that bird’s door forcefully and winced slightly at the crash. I surfaced.
I set my feet, bent my knees—just a little, and reached out to ring Leslie’s doorbell. But didn’t get the chance. Just before the point of no return the door opened. And there in the doorway, looking fine in a boldly blue blouse and jeans stood Leslie. She looked surprised. She was smiling. No, she was grinning—a big crooked grin. I must have looked shocked and terrified because she stepped closer, took my arm and looking at my finger poised above her doorbell ringer said, “I was hoping you’d do that.”
I dropped my outstretched arm and turned to her, I too was smiling, Leslie locked her eyes with mine and completing a wry look, she kissed me—lightly, but with purpose. For the second time that day I felt that I was home. As she withdrew I said, “I was hoping you’d do that.”
Slowly her smile screwed up her face—it started with a tremor that caught me in the gut and then reached out into Leslie; simultaneously, we dissolved in to mirth. A red-faced, unquenchable mirth—a laughing fit that robbed it’s victims of balance, sanity and any shred of dignity.
Eventually we wound up sitting on her front step, hand in hand, contemplating our immediate future and wondering just how those cicadas knew their business.

The Draw of the Forbidden

There it was, in all its mystery. Never before was it available, calling to me. Obviously my father left it for me to find. That’s what my brain was telling me—taxing my trust.
But there it was though, the key, waiting for my touch—it beckoned neither meekly nor coyly—each wave of temptation building, echoing the baritone roar of tuned perfection—reminding me of the stabbing pocket of torque to be found in second gear—it opened like a tax return, consistent but somehow a surprise; it was igniting the possibilities—the possibilities of the future. Oh how I resisted.
The small chunk of metal sat on the dresser, upon a one-hundred dollar bill, it looked industrial—its aluminum polished and it’s black, flat. It sat comfortably, lengthways, alone and perfectly centered on the green rectangle of far lesser value. The two kept good company, of course, but the key was visceral, the angularity of its smallness being the magic to its expansiveness—
I reached out with some hesitation, not sure what I was doing, knowing I shouldn’t. I touched the key—it spun counterclockwise, perfectly weighted. Absently I watched. At the end of it’s rotation, I’d made up my mind—I closed my hand around the spare key to my father’s car—and quickly transferred it to my pocket—just as if I had stolen the golden monkey in the Temple of Doom, I felt the need to replace the key with a decoy—I had none. I knew it did not matter, for he was away—but that did not quell my anxiety. My heart beat faster and I left the room.
Later, I stood nervously in the half light of the garage—my reflection glimmering back at me through the black paint and clearcoat—key in hand.
Some minutes later I sit, comfortably cradled, in the front seat, slightly nauseous—key in the ignition. Here, it occurs to me that as soon as I turn that key, there is no going back.
Currently, I have done nothing but transfer one inanimate object, by way of my pocket, from a building to another inanimate object, the car—by turning that key I meld the two together, thus giving life to a forbidden pleasure, a channel of opportunity that was not open to me previously.
I slowly turn the key, feeling the car prime the fuel pump, prime the ignition and finally give life to the beast by way of an athletic chirp, the starter activity, I am met with a satisfying shudder, as the g35 comes to life around me and sings me a baritone hello. I smile, open the garage and greet the night, awash with possibility.