At some point in my early adulthood, I found it far more enjoyable to partake in something for the first time when it was in the company of another – not only as an introduction but a time stamp in the relationship.
However, this habit eventually became a reinforcement (and testament) of a worldview that didn’t leave room for feelings of inherent value. I would deny myself any form of pleasure unless I was with another person. It’s like I needed someone to validate those experiences, and didn’t know how to give myself permission to enjoy them otherwise.
One might have believed that many painful years alone would give me the chance to develop a better sense of self-compassion, but a career has a way of concealing such inadequacies. That’s why I had as much growing to do as Heather did, even though I was the one to initiate the healing separation. Three months would certainly be far too long for me to tide myself over with chores or mindless busywork. An aversion to idleness would inevitably lead me to find ways of occupying my time in a more meaningful way, and I would be responsible to no one but myself.
Spending some time in exile also seemed like an effective way for me to learn how to prioritize myself, to figure out my wants and needs, to discover who I truly am when the mask is down. Unfortunately, it wasn’t practical for either of us to live apart, even though a complete break would have given me a better chance to heal. As Heather was still working from home, I spent whole days with the office with the door closed and made it my goal to pass the time in enjoyable ways.
Continue reading “cum dignitate otium, or, les Cent Jours”…
WARNING: Massive spoilers ahead.
An old girlfriend introduced me to Six Feet Under more than a decade ago, but it turned into such a grind that I managed to finish the series only last week. There’s a lot of complex drama without stability to balance it out, a lot more tension than resolution. One of the most common themes is characters seeking happiness in all the wrong places, just to escape the depressing reality of their lives, and usually ending up worse for it.
“For your information, Miss High-and-Mighty, this is life. People have crises. They push each other’s buttons. They inflict pain on one another. And once in a fucking blue moon, they bring out the best in each other. But mostly, they bring out the worst.”
It wasn’t easy to get through five seasons of people making terrible decisions in their relationships, and watching those decisions haunt them later.
Continue reading “Six Feet Deep”…
I had Darren over from Toronto for the weekend. We were going to do a movie marathon at the theatre — three in a day — but the movies all sucked. Disturbia? Georgia Rule? Please. Instead, I bought the first season of Six Feet Under, and we finished the roughly 11 hour season over two days. Now I can re-watch it with Bronwen and lend it to Pat. To be honest, I’d seen up to the second season before, but I was too stoned to remember most of it.
Darren also gave me a nice tea container. It’s rather large, since I buy my tea 50mg at a time, but better too big than too small. He also got me some chai tea, considered a wellness blend. When I asked him what for, he couldn’t give me a reason. I love gifts for no reason.
We shared our tattoo ideas, and his was the Chinese character for love on his back. Darren and Bronwen are the some of the few people I can talk openly with about love. We’re such hopeless romantics. We tell each other that we’ll never be married, not to be self-depracating, but to be honest with ourselves. We have our ideals, and we’ll never settle for anything less. It’s comforting to know that we’re not alone in our quixotic beliefs.
I spend my time squaring away everything in my room so that I’m comfortable enough to write. The extra cables are gone, as well as the random receipts and bus transfers that somehow end up on the carpet. My mirrors are all in place, making the room seem twice as big, but I when I look I only see myself, slouched comfortably in my chair, hood over my head. Even Dolly has wondered in to lay herself flat on the empty floor. By the time I’m done cleaning, I’m at a loss for all the things I’ve been trying to get into well structured paragraphs.
A new episode of Trailer Park Boys is playing on Showcase, and I’m watching it with the sound off because too much information would ruin the fourth season, something I’m determined to see in order from the beginning. Ricky’s in a high school, completely out of place as a thirty-something man in shop class trying to make some hash or grow some weed or harvest some kind of narcotic, and this only adds to my amusement.
I’ve been letting my hair grow out, à la Matt Heafy in the video for Pull Harder On The Strings Of Your Martyr. Somehow, I’ve only now discovered that my hair naturally grows towards the front, and by brushing it forward, it still looks respectable when I haven’t had it cut in a month and a half.
I’ve been in an odd mood lately. Thoughts branch off in my mind, but nothing seems solid enough to follow through. Inspiration always comes the day after today.
I was planning on writing something else, but had the suggen urge to confess that I was watching Trailer Park Boys with four other guys yesterday and it was the Christmas special where Jono is all preppy and Randy is giving handjobs for cheeseburgers before he becomes assistant superintendent, when Bubbles is sitting with his present in his lap given to him by his parents before they left him when he was young, and Ricky tells him to open it because they’re his family, so I started to cry but no one noticed, and I can’t stop thinking about how fucking stupid it is, and I wonder if anyone ever believes me or thinks I’m doing it for attention or whatever because it makes no fucking sense to me.