I Blog Too Much -or- A Diagnosis

So then my son, what are you?

Are you a vampire? Have you completely corrupted your intellect? Are you using your power of understanding for ill gains and hedonism?

Are you a zombie? Have you been utterly consumed by appetite? Are you simply a walking hunger and desire for food, sex, and cigarettes?

Are you a werewolf? Do you flip between control and chaos by the moonlight? By day a civil, caring man, by night, when no one can see, a vicious snarling beast?

Are you a ghost? Has your soul lost contact with the divine and crossed into the realm of the damned? Are you simply haunting this world which you should have left long ago?

Or are you something else?

Something less?

Dear God, not something more?

No.

You are a man (or maybe just a boy). Either way, you are a creature irreducible to archetype. You are vampire, angle, zombie, saint, werewolf, magus, ghost, and always storyteller. The question I suppose is: What story are you telling? And, who is the hero?

Reality is a Social Construction (at least, that's what my professor says)

God is beyond comprehension. He is incredible, unknowable, and frightening. At least, that's what the Psalmist says.
God is accessible. All it takes is to reach out, to do otherwise in unacceptable. At least, that's what my Mom says.
God is a delusion. A man-made creation to make us feel better. At least, that's what Richard Dawkins says.
God is a fire in the middle of winter. You don't have to be smart, or have anything to say. At least, that's what Desmond Tutu says.

I am a love addict. I fall too fast and I fall too hard. At least, that's what my Brother says.
I am a romance addict. I fall for moments, and moments never last. At least, that's what my Dad says.
I am a bastard. I am a fucking asshole and on par with sexual abusers. At least, that's what my ex-girlfriends say.
I am a good friend. Nothing else, and that's okay. At least, that's what She says.

The fantasy I live in is a mirror of the world. Warped, askew, more livable. At least, that's what I tell myself.
The harsh truth is better than comfortable lies. Reality at least is tangible. At least, that's what Martin Scorsese says.
Suicide is preferable to living with the knowledge of your own monstrosity. If you can't live with yourself, end yourself. At least, that's what Leonardo DiCaprio says.
Life is always worth living. You just have to keep on breathing. At least, that's what Tom Hanks says.

Well shit.

Everybody lies. (At least, that's what Hugh Laurie says)

Mothers and The Father

I haven't been spending much time with God recently. I actually haven't been spending any time with God at all recently. I think about it a lot, and I talk with people about it a lot. But, I don't really approach God very often. There are two reasons for this, one is practical, the other is a little deeper.

I live a hectic life. I get very little time away from some sort of obligation. Prayer is not an obligation, and meditation is not something to put on a to-do list between "go shopping" and "call mom." At least, I think that's the case. Maybe it's because of this attitude, but somehow prayer, meditation, engaging God, somehow they got removed from the list altogether. The lamest excuse ever. I'm just too busy.

This is the second reason. I don't know who God is. That's not completely true. I do not understand God. I know that this is a good thing, and at times I am more thankful for this lack of understanding than anything else in creation. But, I used to think I understood God. In those days, approaching God was easy. Easy as looking into a mirror. But now... I do not understand this deity. How am I to approach this? How do I come anywhere near this?

Intellectual inquiry into the nature of God is easy. It can be challenging, and disturbing even, but it very rarely hurts. This hurts. I do not know what to do. I want to find the peace of my childhood. I want to touch the divine again. But... I am afraid. I am afraid of reaching out for stone and finding sand. I am afraid of requesting in English and receiving a reply in Glossolalia.


Today, I called my mom. We talked about stuff, Thailand and girls mostly. At some point, I started to express how I don't feel like I have time for intimacy with God. She said that that wasn't acceptable, that I must make time for God. I said that it wasn't that I didn't have time for God. I felt like I didn't have time for peace. She asked what was peace but coming into the presence of God? And, again, this was unacceptable.

I wanted to tell her that I was afraid of God. I wanted to tell her that maybe things aren't as black and white as the picture I was given as a child, and that grays and blues and reds and greens are a little scary at first. I'm still getting used to these colors. But I didn't say that. I just said that I had to go, and we said goodbye.

After we hung up, I turned toward my bed and dropped to my knees. Guilty and ashamed, I lowered my eyes before the throne of the unknowable infinity. I meditated for the first time in a very long time, and I prayed. I do not know what to call what I found there, perhaps that proves that it was God.

I am not a very good Christian, but I'm trying. I truly am trying.

Reality Can Suck It

I made a discovery today about the world I live in.

I live in a world that is inhabited by tommyknockers, squonks, boggarts and jabberwockeys. I live in a world filled with heroes. Heroes without capes and secret identities. Heroes who go by their given names. Heroes who bleed and cry and die at 65. In my world the only difference between the hero and your average person is the limit of one's imagination. I live in a world where magic exists and is only separated from the daily life by the veil of belief. I believe in rituals that call up ghosts, angels and demons. I believe in curses, wizards, magicians, witches, shamans, trolls and dragons.

This world I live in can be an escape from the monotony of my "real" life. But, recently it has seemed like less of an escape and more of an extension. I have always lived through metaphor. I understand the world in terms of symbols. These symbols are not temporary things that can be used to communicate the fullness of my thought, but real things. Living things. I have friends who are fairies, pucks, and dwarves. I know places that are ballrooms, magical halls, and temples to gods long dead.

Sometimes, I prefer this symbolic world to grey reality. Sometimes I wish that I could share this world with the various archetypes that make up my cast of friends. I tell my stories and spin my tales in an attempt to bring people into this world. I find such meaning, such truth, in this world. Meaning and truth that, when viewed in the fog of reality, becomes mundane and boring. But, it is not mundane, and it is far from boring.

This world of magic and mystery is not fazed by man's illusory control over our surroundings. Cities are vain attempts at keeping the gods at bay and science is the safe, cold religion of the scared and arrogant. I live in the world of Gaiman and Moore. I live in the world of Tolkien and Lewis. I live in a world that is governed by powers beyond comprehension, but not persuasion.

Men are not the end-all, be-all. There is something beyond us and our frivolous self-destruction. Music, literature, drawing, painting, comics, movies, stories, these are the refuge of those who know. The artist, as my AP English teacher said, is constantly reaching for the divine. He sees the magic in the human body and draws it beautifully. She hears the magic in the wind and produces echoes through her guitar. He composes poems that define the recipe of the ether. She feels the pull of neverland and dances with the grace of angels. I tell stories.

The cynic will laugh. The cynics will always laugh. The realists will call us down from our lofty heights and give us something productive to do with our time. Do not listen. We dance with gods, and sing with nymphs. We will have nothing to show for it but scraped knees, bruises, and smiles on our faces. This is the knowledge of oracles. This is the hope of the future.

Magic is everywhere. Mystery is under every leaf and behind every bend. Answers yield only more profound questions. There is no end, there is no stagnation. This world is real, although there is no way to prove it. The only question, what was that? The only answer, magic.


This is the world I discovered that I live in. I think I'll stay.

Re: Psychological Ramblings

I'm not gonna delete that post because I like to use this blog as a kind of personal history of sorts and I think it does a good job of showing my mental state earlier today.

Suffice it to say, I wasn't really looking at the whole picture. I had a talk with a very good friend tonight. She opened my eyes to some things, and I have a lot more hope now than I did 9 hours ago. If you happen to read this, thanks.

I think things will be far better tomorrow.

Vague Psychological Ramblings + Angst

I had a series of dreams this past week that have made me a little concerned.

The first one is very hazy. I was kinda stressed and a little frustrated with the people in my life, and then something happened. I don't know if I got sick or what, but after I recovered from this injury/sickness, I had developed psychopathy. It was weird because, in the dream, I remember expressly realizing that I was developing psychopathy, like the way you can develop a cold. Almost as if I'd slept more, or drank more tea, or smoked less cigarettes then I could avoid it all together.

Anyway, after I developed psychopathy I went on a bit of a killing spree. I just murdered anyone who bothered me or stressed me out, and I remember that I didn't feel bad about it at all. Not a stitch of remorse, even after I woke up. My logic being, "Hey, I'm a psychopath, it doesn't matter."

The other dream I remember a little more clearly. I was in my apartment building, having a heated discussion with someone, a man, one floor above my apartment (which is weird because we live on the top floor). We were arguing and I think he shoved me, so I picked up a rock that was on a table nearby and killed him with one solid blow to the head. I didn't do it out of self-defense. I did it because I was angry, and there was a rock. I hid the body, and started walking down the stairs to my apartment.

I was surprising calm about the fact that I'd just murdered another person, and I remember thinking about my plans for the week and things like that. Then, in my dream, I stopped on the stairs and thought, "Can I really be this cold? Am I really not concerned that I've just killed a man?" I decided that yes, I could, and walked along my merry way.

This is the theme I take from these dreams. I have done some terrible shit to some undeserving people in my life. Who hasn't? But, it's that very "who hasn't" attitude that's concerning me. I have left a wake of wreckage behind me, and I just try not to let it bother me. I try not to think about the people I've hurt, and when I do think about it, I mentally move on as quickly as possible.

This bothers me, but I don't know what to do about it. How can you empathize with pain that you caused? If not empathy, then I would hope that I would feel some kind of remorse, but that doesn't really seem to be on the table anymore. If I am to be a monster, can there at least be a Dr. Jekyll to my Mr. Hyde, or have I desensitized enough that the Doctor is dead?

I want to feel the consequences of my actions. I want to remember that the people I hurt are real people not dream people. More than anything I want to stop being the bull in the china shop of emotions. But, it seems that I've trained myself not to, and I'm not sure how to fix it.

Magic and Lunacy -or- How to Stop Dancing

I stand in a playground in the moonlight, which casts its silver glamour on the whole city. The hillside twinkles with artificial stars, pinpoints of yellow in the moon's silver lake.

I stand with my friend in Oberon's ballroom. The faeries dance around us and within us, sublimating my desire to dance with her. The world comes to a sudden, silent freeze as the Lord Oberon extends his hand to the Lady Titania, as I extend my eccentricities to you. With open palms the Lord of Fey and I extend our hearts to the Lady in the moonlight, asking her to dance.

She accepts. The faeries burst into wanton chaos as the music plays, and the Lord and Lady of the night set argument aside and for one moment move as one. You and I walk down the hill, dancing in our own way. Our dance is set to Explosions in the Sky and our ballroom is a merry-go-round. We dance not with feet, but with words, neither leading, neither following. We draw close to one another as we trip the light fantastic, sharing an intimacy reserved for moonlit nights and budding friendships.

By the end of the night, our fingers will meet with platonic intent. The music will awkwardly stop as we stand hand-in-hand beneath the spotlight. Our conversation will develop two left feet, and my arm will go numb. Puck has played a wicked trick tonight. What was once magical will suddenly become mundane in the harsh yellow glow.

As quickly as it began, the dance will dissolve. Oberon and Titania will have parted ways once more. The ballroom will be cleared of all frivolous spirits. The music will stop and the instruments put away. The merry-go-round will spin vacant. You will go home, and I will stay here. All that is left is moonlight.