I am very, very depressed right now. I am in a lot of danger, not the physical type. I am not on the verge of ingesting an overdose of drugs, slashing my wrists, or driving my car into a wall. It is the psychic type. I have already been in trouble the last five hours. I have been in a zone of my psyche characterized by extreme fogginess, where I have been inhabiting the last five hours. Prior to this, I was in this place of my psyche for about two hours. These two hours being the time just before I went to bed last night.
Last night, between approximately 8:30 and 9:30, I was talking on the phone with Kathy--the college student that I connected with through the Internet. It was not really a good experience for me. I was trying to impress her, I was trying not to turn her off, and so it was necessary to hide, or gloss over a few important things about my life. When Kathy called me, I was sitting in my chair having just finished reading the Bible. The next thing I was going to do was to pray and after that I'd get to work. Those are both things I needed to do, and not talk with Kathy.
So what kind of psychic danger am I in now? 1) I am in danger of extending this state of mind, and in this way, prolonging my current depressive episode. 2) The longer that this anxiety, this boredom, this disorientation goes on, the more a sense of rage builds up. 3) The more life I lose, life and time irretrievable.
Today has gone, more or less, like this: a) I got up around seven in the morning (not procrastinating very much like I usually do) b) I got ready and then--difficult as it was--I told my mom that I would be going to work with her. c) I worked alongside my mother, cleaning homes, between about 8:30 and 1:30PM. d) When we got home, I helped my mother prepare some beans for cooking because I want to learn (I have been trying to learn how to make different stuff lately) e) As we prepared the beans, I prepared a salad f) Once the beans and the salad were set, I went to the bathroom to take a bath g) After my bath, and after getting dressed, I ate: my salad, refried beans (leftovers) and fried fish (also leftovers). h) As I lunched, I read a story on the news. I found the news story extremely depressing, and actually kind of regretted reading it.
When I had gotten home, I was glad I was done with work and I was looking forward to a productive afternoon. By the time I was done with my lunch, having read the news simultaneously, I had lost a lot of my edge. I washed and put away my dishes. Then I returned to my room and began to review the "12 characteristics" of Sexual Addicts Anonymous. That is when I began to feel very drowsy, so I gave up and laid down in bed to rest. I think that was the biggest mistake of my day.
I think I laid down around 3pm. At first, it felt good to lay down and close my eyes. I was legitimately tired and needed some rest. I had not slept well. I think that if I had kept the nap to a reasonable amount of time, it would have been beneficial and refreshing. At some point, however, the nap stopped being a necessary break and became a simple indulgence. I think this is where my trouble with boundaries comes up. I think people with boundaries sometimes do not know when to stop. This is what happened with the nap after some time.
It's a very specific feeling people like me get when we know we have crossed the line. Prior to crossing the line, you feel like you need to keep resting because otherwise you don't have enough energy. After crossing the line, you get strong feelings of guilt. Your body no longer needs rest. It feels whole again. It is something else that keeps you down now. This mysterious force that keeps me down I think is my trauma of neglect, the feeling that nobody cares about you.
I was in bed, I woke up, felt that I had been in bed too long. I looked at the door and saw nobody there and knew no one wanted or needed me beyond that door so I figured, "What the fuck? Why get up? I'm not needed. I'm not cared for. Fuck it."
There came a point while in bed today when I was completely overtaken by utter despair, the feeling that things are never going to get better, that I will never get better, that it's twice as better to fully give up. I gave up, I raged, I pouted.
I finally got up and was beginning to get myself together. I was on the computer doing something or other when my mother knocked on my door. She was doing her homework for literacy school and she asked me--in an overly polite way--if I could help her. I obliged and sat down with her in the backyard to help her. She was doing reading comprehension exercises. Soon, though, it became apparent, that she needed more than "help." She is far, far behind in skills to do the work in front of her. I felt angry and frustrated. I would practically have to do the work for her, and this would be totally pyrrhic because she would not really be learning anything. I "helped" her for about fifteen minutes--sometimes unable to hide my sense of helplesness and disdain for her hopeless plight--before I simply said "I'm going to my room." I had wanted to say, "This completely fucking useless for you. You are a fucking illiterate. And why isn't your husband doing this with you? Why do I have to do it?" But I said none of this. I just returned to my room with the hope that I could get my self straightened out before the day ended.
A little while ago now (It is almost 8pm), I sat down to finish the book When He's Married to Mom: How to Help Mother-Enmeshed Men... by Kenneth M. Adams. It's a book I started about a week ago and which has done lots to enlighten me about my own condition. The last part talked about how mother-enmeshment is a worldwide phenomenon. I am a mother-enmeshed-male, or MEM, as the author calls it. I get involved in inappropriate, dead-end pseudo-relationships, such as the one I'm leading with Rosy, Irma, Sophia, and Kathy, in order to distract myself from my own life, in order to remain loyal to "mommy." I am 33 years old and living under the same roof as my mother. This is not only socially embarrassing and limiting. It is also emotionally crippling.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Hanging wtih Manuel
It is 10 in the morning. I only recently got up from bed and am just starting my day. There's a jug of juice and half-full cup next to my computer on my desk. I have a headache, I am very anxious, I am depressed, and generally feel very anguished. I am pessimistic about the rest of my day. I long to exercise, to write, and to be, generally, productive, but I also lack the energy and enthusiasm to try anything in earnest except for writing.
Earlier today, I went to bed at four in the morning. Yesterday, I went (after all) with my friend Manuel out of town to volunteer our time at a progressive radio station. On the 2-hour drive there we had an argument because he is really into the New Age movement and into listening to nutritional gurus. He tried to get me to listen to a lecture on CD of one of these gurus. I listened to a little bit, but later resisted. I just was not interested. He got really angry, saying that I "always" refuse to listen to alternative sources, suggesting that I am a negative person. I took that personally, but I did not escalate the argument, at least not that much.
At the radio station, we both had a good time. For me, also, it was very interesting to look at the urban landscape since I live in a suburb. The freeways were complex, there was a lot of graffiti, and buildings designed in a curious way. I kept on thinking, it'd be cool to live here. Volunteering, taking pledge donations by phone from the radio listeners, was interesting. I enjoyed taking calls from strangers, speaking to them on the phone, taking down their information to process the order. There was something subtly special about speaking with people who supported the station, believing in its principles.
In the sound room where the phone bank operation had been set up, a camaraderie developed between the volunteers and the coordinator. The coordinator was an Iranian immigrant who was very cordial, intelligent, and welcoming. He and Manuel got into a deep conversation about organizing and they were friends by the end. This is a unique characteristic about Manuel. He actively seeks conversation and ends up making connections. He became friendly with the coordinator and a young black volunteer that was there too. I, personally, wanted to keep to myself. After a while, though, I warmed up to conversation as well, and made friends with Joe, an older black man, and Priscilla, a Greek immigrant. Then it turned out that the coordinator is friends with an author that I like a lot, and he promised to call me next time the author was in town.
During the drive back, we listened to the radio station where we had volunteered, which was playing an hour of "rock en espaniol" led by a Spanish-speaking DJ. I wanted to listen to this all the way back home, but after a while, Manuel put on a CD. Manuel has a way of doing this. He wants to "share" his music even if you are not necessarily interested. Fortunately, Manuel has very good taste in music and on the CD I heard songs I was glad that I heard. They were John Lennon and Al Green tunes. I had never heard "Working-class Hero." Still, though, it stung me the way he switched out of the radio station because I was clearly enjoying the songs.
We were almost home when Manuel put on the CD of the guru that we had argued about on the way out of town. He doesn't give up. I hated that he did this because I really got the feeling that he was trying to impose all of that on me. Yet, I was not going to argue again. So I just closed my eyes, and tolerated the recording. The guru was talking about Buddhism. He was a good lecturer and his speech was interesting. When we arrived at my house, I did not get the hell out of the car as soon as possible, in a gesture of hatred for his company. I'd listen to more out of respect to him. If to Manuel it was that important that I listen, leaving the car 10 minutes later, I could do that.
Once I said good bye and walked into my house, the first thing on my mind--to be very honest--was to see if "Kathy" had replied to my email yet. At the radio station, during down times, I was fidgety and anxious about having contact with women. I wanted to read an email from Kathy, I wanted to text message Rosy (from Arizona). I did not want to be there, I wanted action! There was nothing from Kathy in my inbox, though. Even though I was very tired, I entered a chat room to fish for women that would like to talk sex with me. I tried for one hour without success before I quit, masturbated, and went to sleep.
At the radio station, I ate a lot from the snack table they had out.
This morning, as I felt when I went to bed, as I felt for the majority of the ride back, I felt empty, angry.
I love my friend Manuel and I also resent him.
Earlier today, I went to bed at four in the morning. Yesterday, I went (after all) with my friend Manuel out of town to volunteer our time at a progressive radio station. On the 2-hour drive there we had an argument because he is really into the New Age movement and into listening to nutritional gurus. He tried to get me to listen to a lecture on CD of one of these gurus. I listened to a little bit, but later resisted. I just was not interested. He got really angry, saying that I "always" refuse to listen to alternative sources, suggesting that I am a negative person. I took that personally, but I did not escalate the argument, at least not that much.
At the radio station, we both had a good time. For me, also, it was very interesting to look at the urban landscape since I live in a suburb. The freeways were complex, there was a lot of graffiti, and buildings designed in a curious way. I kept on thinking, it'd be cool to live here. Volunteering, taking pledge donations by phone from the radio listeners, was interesting. I enjoyed taking calls from strangers, speaking to them on the phone, taking down their information to process the order. There was something subtly special about speaking with people who supported the station, believing in its principles.
In the sound room where the phone bank operation had been set up, a camaraderie developed between the volunteers and the coordinator. The coordinator was an Iranian immigrant who was very cordial, intelligent, and welcoming. He and Manuel got into a deep conversation about organizing and they were friends by the end. This is a unique characteristic about Manuel. He actively seeks conversation and ends up making connections. He became friendly with the coordinator and a young black volunteer that was there too. I, personally, wanted to keep to myself. After a while, though, I warmed up to conversation as well, and made friends with Joe, an older black man, and Priscilla, a Greek immigrant. Then it turned out that the coordinator is friends with an author that I like a lot, and he promised to call me next time the author was in town.
During the drive back, we listened to the radio station where we had volunteered, which was playing an hour of "rock en espaniol" led by a Spanish-speaking DJ. I wanted to listen to this all the way back home, but after a while, Manuel put on a CD. Manuel has a way of doing this. He wants to "share" his music even if you are not necessarily interested. Fortunately, Manuel has very good taste in music and on the CD I heard songs I was glad that I heard. They were John Lennon and Al Green tunes. I had never heard "Working-class Hero." Still, though, it stung me the way he switched out of the radio station because I was clearly enjoying the songs.
We were almost home when Manuel put on the CD of the guru that we had argued about on the way out of town. He doesn't give up. I hated that he did this because I really got the feeling that he was trying to impose all of that on me. Yet, I was not going to argue again. So I just closed my eyes, and tolerated the recording. The guru was talking about Buddhism. He was a good lecturer and his speech was interesting. When we arrived at my house, I did not get the hell out of the car as soon as possible, in a gesture of hatred for his company. I'd listen to more out of respect to him. If to Manuel it was that important that I listen, leaving the car 10 minutes later, I could do that.
Once I said good bye and walked into my house, the first thing on my mind--to be very honest--was to see if "Kathy" had replied to my email yet. At the radio station, during down times, I was fidgety and anxious about having contact with women. I wanted to read an email from Kathy, I wanted to text message Rosy (from Arizona). I did not want to be there, I wanted action! There was nothing from Kathy in my inbox, though. Even though I was very tired, I entered a chat room to fish for women that would like to talk sex with me. I tried for one hour without success before I quit, masturbated, and went to sleep.
At the radio station, I ate a lot from the snack table they had out.
This morning, as I felt when I went to bed, as I felt for the majority of the ride back, I felt empty, angry.
I love my friend Manuel and I also resent him.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Theater and "Angelica"
I have been sleeping for the most part of this day so far. Right now it is two-thirty in the afternoon.
I have a decision hanging on my shoulder (like dandruff) that I don't want to make, that I must, and that I am conflicted about. A friend of mine--we'll call him Manuel--has invited me to the town up the road to act as volunteers in a fund raising drive for a progressive radio station. On the drive up there, he has suggested that we catch up. Manuel got married about one year ago, and since then, we have stopped hanging out as much. Everything about Manuel's idea seems right. It's even tender because he--a friend--wants to catch up with me--another friend. Except for one thing. I have a poetry reading for which I need to prepare, as well as a lot of work to do--as a writer and reader--and I wanted to use this Saturday evening for that, to be alone and undisturbed.
My day so far, until now, has been a disaster. I did not want to get up in the morning--and wasted time there. Then I was up for a while, but my mind was still on last night's outing, and ended up going back to bed for another couple of hours. In the meantime, it is very gloomy today, and there has been virtually no noise in the house today, which I am missing.
Last night I went to a performance of "theater of the oppressed" put on by the local community college theater company. Even though the student staff changes over the years, I know the faculty involved, and then there are the students who continue to work in the theater that you continue to see. My attendance at the play last night was very eventful for me because the performance was very powerful to me at a certain level, but in the end was also terribly disappointing, and because I "fell in love" with a girl there who turned out be married. I was at the play by myself, even though I was supposed to go with a good friend of mine whose babysitter flaked out on her in the end.
Many, many issues came up for me at the theater last night, perhaps too many. They were politics, my personal politics, community activism, my community, a radical minority perspective, whiteness, different perspectives, art, love, age and aging, relationships, being single, and alienation and atomization. Last night was simply not a night I should have been alone, I think.
Theater of the oppressed is where a company creates plays based on real political problems that people face in their communities. On the night of the play, the company performs four short, uninterrupted plays. Afterward, they ask the audience to choose two plays. The chosen plays are then "worked" on. Then they re-perform the chosen plays. During the re-performance, the audience is instructed to stop the action--by literally yelling "STOP!". The person who stops the action, now the "spect-actor," then walks down to the stage, takes the lead actor's role (from where he stopped the action), and acts in a different way that will illustrate an alternative solution to the problem. In this way, an audience "works" on the solution of a community problem through theater by providing original solutions. It's a type of radical art practice.
So all of this was good, to me. I was into it. Then the plays started, and I was even more engaged, and absorbed in the action. The plays dealt with youth gang activity, male Internet pornography addiction, exploitation of immigrant labor, and corporate domination. All of these issues, being very timely and relevant to today's political climate. I thought that all of the plays were well written and performed and I was particularly taken with the one about corporate domination. It rendered the problem masterfully with powerful symbolism.
As the plays ended and the time was coming to "spect-act" I was very, very excited. I can't tell you how much. Then the actual spect-acting began and, while there were a few good moments, I cannot tell you how disappointing it was, how many things went wrong, and into what the entire thing collapsed into. Where do I begin?
I will only talk about three things that I noticed, perhaps the worse things.
To start, the director--who was by extension the moderator--was a white liberal (We will call him Chad). Theater of the oppressed is a radical form of political art, and here was a white liberal leading it. The fact that it was a white liberal made a monumental difference because white liberals tend to be bleeding hearts, they also often bend in their wills (are flip-floppy), and at the bottom, they fear confrontation and have an awful, embarrassing penchant to please people. They want to please everybody. All of these dynamics expressed themselves throughout the duration of the "spect-acting." While it pleased the audience, it was also disgusting.
In the play about gangs, the protagonist is a young woman who is on the street attempting to stop her younger brother from going off with a gang. The little brother, though, has made up his mind. The younger sister is confronted by her brother's determination as well as by the violent, tribe-mentality, of the gang that is making the rounds exactly when the sister attempts to bring the brother back home. In the original performance, the gang walks onto the stage a few minutes into the sister's attempt to save her brother. Once the gang is there, the sister's task is infinitely much more difficult.
During the spect-acting, the director changed the original action by ordering the gang to not enter the scene, after all. What! Keeping the gang out of the scene radically changes the nature of the scene itself. The director did this, because the spect-actors had all decided that the best way to solve this problem was by attempting to lecture the boy into coming back home. I thought that was silly and unrealistic. At that point, a lecture was ill-advised because what was the person going to do when the whole gang appeared, lecture the hard-boiled, violent leader? So the director ordered the gang not to appear after all, like you could do that in reality.
Never mind about another two things. The point was that I had major issues with the spect-acting and directing, and it was very discouraging to me that even with a powerful tool like the theater of the oppressed, this community is unable to engage in serious, thoughtful, imaginative solutions to our pressing problems.
On a personal level, I was having my own little drama in my mind. I am 33, single, and increasingly desperate. When I took my seat in the play, at the beginning, I found a young woman in the audience who I instantly "fell in love" with and wanted to get to know. She seemed perfect, young, Mexican, beautiful, glowing. Additionally, she seemed to show interest in me because she'd cop looks at me. I became completely distracted with her--we'll call her Angelica. I kept looking at her--completely enthralled with her beauty, I was anxious about meeting her and learning who she was, I schemed about how I would approach her once the play was over, so I wanted the play to be over as well.
I overrode all issues and questions such as, "She looks 20, isn't this too young for me?" "Perhaps I should slow down, I mean she may have a boyfriend or be married. Perhaps I should ask a friend here what they know about her, if she is available." The most disturbing thing about my behavior last night, with her, is that I felt a sense of entitlement regarding her, like it would be the easiest thing to get her to give me her phone number, like she should let herself be seduced by me because I am so alluring, good-looking, and so "special."
Since I was interested in her, it was important for me to please her, and to seem like a good candidate. This affected how I behaved, especially during the spect-acting. I did not take as many risks, I did not participate as much, and most importantly, I did not speak enough about the things that I felt were going wrong. I censored myself to try to control what Angelica could think about me. Rather than doing all of this hocus-pocus, I could simply have been my vocal, radical, thoughtful self. Perhaps I could have affected the theater of the oppressed in an important way.
By the way, the projection of my penchant for pleasing on the white liberal director is not lost on me.
When the performance was done with, I did approach Angelica--rather clumsily--and quickly learned that she was married. I felt a hydro-chloric acid shower of envy on my back. My sense of entitlement was so ardent towards Angelica--who I had never seen in my life--that I could not humbly accept that she--already so young--was already happily married. It was like I could not accept that other people actually live. This whole thing was very depressing to me, the ever-anxious spirit. After I had embarrassed myself by approaching a woman who had surely felt my eye on her who was married, I should have immediately left the place and gone home to crawl under my bed. Instead, I stayed around to talk to friends and acquaintances. My mind, or my body, though, was not present in the conversations. I was very nervous and I felt like I did not belong there. I was looking for community and kept on missing it.
I went home, of course, alone, the younger generation of students all gaggling behind me as they boarded their cars (all parked together) and perhaps headed to an after-party. I don't know.
I came home and wrote some notes, but was generally too anxious and aimless. Towards the end, I logged onto www.streamate.com, and stared at young women in bikinis.
Emptiness.
I have a decision hanging on my shoulder (like dandruff) that I don't want to make, that I must, and that I am conflicted about. A friend of mine--we'll call him Manuel--has invited me to the town up the road to act as volunteers in a fund raising drive for a progressive radio station. On the drive up there, he has suggested that we catch up. Manuel got married about one year ago, and since then, we have stopped hanging out as much. Everything about Manuel's idea seems right. It's even tender because he--a friend--wants to catch up with me--another friend. Except for one thing. I have a poetry reading for which I need to prepare, as well as a lot of work to do--as a writer and reader--and I wanted to use this Saturday evening for that, to be alone and undisturbed.
My day so far, until now, has been a disaster. I did not want to get up in the morning--and wasted time there. Then I was up for a while, but my mind was still on last night's outing, and ended up going back to bed for another couple of hours. In the meantime, it is very gloomy today, and there has been virtually no noise in the house today, which I am missing.
Last night I went to a performance of "theater of the oppressed" put on by the local community college theater company. Even though the student staff changes over the years, I know the faculty involved, and then there are the students who continue to work in the theater that you continue to see. My attendance at the play last night was very eventful for me because the performance was very powerful to me at a certain level, but in the end was also terribly disappointing, and because I "fell in love" with a girl there who turned out be married. I was at the play by myself, even though I was supposed to go with a good friend of mine whose babysitter flaked out on her in the end.
Many, many issues came up for me at the theater last night, perhaps too many. They were politics, my personal politics, community activism, my community, a radical minority perspective, whiteness, different perspectives, art, love, age and aging, relationships, being single, and alienation and atomization. Last night was simply not a night I should have been alone, I think.
Theater of the oppressed is where a company creates plays based on real political problems that people face in their communities. On the night of the play, the company performs four short, uninterrupted plays. Afterward, they ask the audience to choose two plays. The chosen plays are then "worked" on. Then they re-perform the chosen plays. During the re-performance, the audience is instructed to stop the action--by literally yelling "STOP!". The person who stops the action, now the "spect-actor," then walks down to the stage, takes the lead actor's role (from where he stopped the action), and acts in a different way that will illustrate an alternative solution to the problem. In this way, an audience "works" on the solution of a community problem through theater by providing original solutions. It's a type of radical art practice.
So all of this was good, to me. I was into it. Then the plays started, and I was even more engaged, and absorbed in the action. The plays dealt with youth gang activity, male Internet pornography addiction, exploitation of immigrant labor, and corporate domination. All of these issues, being very timely and relevant to today's political climate. I thought that all of the plays were well written and performed and I was particularly taken with the one about corporate domination. It rendered the problem masterfully with powerful symbolism.
As the plays ended and the time was coming to "spect-act" I was very, very excited. I can't tell you how much. Then the actual spect-acting began and, while there were a few good moments, I cannot tell you how disappointing it was, how many things went wrong, and into what the entire thing collapsed into. Where do I begin?
I will only talk about three things that I noticed, perhaps the worse things.
To start, the director--who was by extension the moderator--was a white liberal (We will call him Chad). Theater of the oppressed is a radical form of political art, and here was a white liberal leading it. The fact that it was a white liberal made a monumental difference because white liberals tend to be bleeding hearts, they also often bend in their wills (are flip-floppy), and at the bottom, they fear confrontation and have an awful, embarrassing penchant to please people. They want to please everybody. All of these dynamics expressed themselves throughout the duration of the "spect-acting." While it pleased the audience, it was also disgusting.
In the play about gangs, the protagonist is a young woman who is on the street attempting to stop her younger brother from going off with a gang. The little brother, though, has made up his mind. The younger sister is confronted by her brother's determination as well as by the violent, tribe-mentality, of the gang that is making the rounds exactly when the sister attempts to bring the brother back home. In the original performance, the gang walks onto the stage a few minutes into the sister's attempt to save her brother. Once the gang is there, the sister's task is infinitely much more difficult.
During the spect-acting, the director changed the original action by ordering the gang to not enter the scene, after all. What! Keeping the gang out of the scene radically changes the nature of the scene itself. The director did this, because the spect-actors had all decided that the best way to solve this problem was by attempting to lecture the boy into coming back home. I thought that was silly and unrealistic. At that point, a lecture was ill-advised because what was the person going to do when the whole gang appeared, lecture the hard-boiled, violent leader? So the director ordered the gang not to appear after all, like you could do that in reality.
Never mind about another two things. The point was that I had major issues with the spect-acting and directing, and it was very discouraging to me that even with a powerful tool like the theater of the oppressed, this community is unable to engage in serious, thoughtful, imaginative solutions to our pressing problems.
On a personal level, I was having my own little drama in my mind. I am 33, single, and increasingly desperate. When I took my seat in the play, at the beginning, I found a young woman in the audience who I instantly "fell in love" with and wanted to get to know. She seemed perfect, young, Mexican, beautiful, glowing. Additionally, she seemed to show interest in me because she'd cop looks at me. I became completely distracted with her--we'll call her Angelica. I kept looking at her--completely enthralled with her beauty, I was anxious about meeting her and learning who she was, I schemed about how I would approach her once the play was over, so I wanted the play to be over as well.
I overrode all issues and questions such as, "She looks 20, isn't this too young for me?" "Perhaps I should slow down, I mean she may have a boyfriend or be married. Perhaps I should ask a friend here what they know about her, if she is available." The most disturbing thing about my behavior last night, with her, is that I felt a sense of entitlement regarding her, like it would be the easiest thing to get her to give me her phone number, like she should let herself be seduced by me because I am so alluring, good-looking, and so "special."
Since I was interested in her, it was important for me to please her, and to seem like a good candidate. This affected how I behaved, especially during the spect-acting. I did not take as many risks, I did not participate as much, and most importantly, I did not speak enough about the things that I felt were going wrong. I censored myself to try to control what Angelica could think about me. Rather than doing all of this hocus-pocus, I could simply have been my vocal, radical, thoughtful self. Perhaps I could have affected the theater of the oppressed in an important way.
By the way, the projection of my penchant for pleasing on the white liberal director is not lost on me.
When the performance was done with, I did approach Angelica--rather clumsily--and quickly learned that she was married. I felt a hydro-chloric acid shower of envy on my back. My sense of entitlement was so ardent towards Angelica--who I had never seen in my life--that I could not humbly accept that she--already so young--was already happily married. It was like I could not accept that other people actually live. This whole thing was very depressing to me, the ever-anxious spirit. After I had embarrassed myself by approaching a woman who had surely felt my eye on her who was married, I should have immediately left the place and gone home to crawl under my bed. Instead, I stayed around to talk to friends and acquaintances. My mind, or my body, though, was not present in the conversations. I was very nervous and I felt like I did not belong there. I was looking for community and kept on missing it.
I went home, of course, alone, the younger generation of students all gaggling behind me as they boarded their cars (all parked together) and perhaps headed to an after-party. I don't know.
I came home and wrote some notes, but was generally too anxious and aimless. Towards the end, I logged onto www.streamate.com, and stared at young women in bikinis.
Emptiness.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Free Work
I don't feel well. I don't feel "right." I feel awfully guilty, scared, anxious (right now, if Kathy wrote to me, that would appease my fires but then I'd only need more--this is insane). I need attention! An email from The Famous Author would also do me good right now!
It's 4:10 PM and I am sitting in front of my computer, revising a manuscript of a translation of poetry that I have done. The fact that I am doing this is a good thing because I have post-poned work on this particular project "forever." Last night, I had a vision that I had to work on this today, and here I am.
It is something else though that is bugging me.
It is somewhat discouraging, disheartening, that the manuscript of translation that I am working on right now I have not been paid for one cent for. I have been taken on one trip out of state to enjoy time on a ranch. As a result of this work I have socialized with established authors and editors and shared stages with these authors, but I have not been paid anything for this particular manuscript. I'm toiling away in utter anonymity.
This is why I have been putting it off, but I am returning to it because it is really nearly done, and because it takes my mind off of things.
I have finished revising two poems. I am happy with the work and suggestions that the copy-editor has made. It has improved the translations and I am very contented. I put away the document for now and I must congratulate myself because I have come back to this project after several months abandoned.
It's 4:10 PM and I am sitting in front of my computer, revising a manuscript of a translation of poetry that I have done. The fact that I am doing this is a good thing because I have post-poned work on this particular project "forever." Last night, I had a vision that I had to work on this today, and here I am.
It is something else though that is bugging me.
It is somewhat discouraging, disheartening, that the manuscript of translation that I am working on right now I have not been paid for one cent for. I have been taken on one trip out of state to enjoy time on a ranch. As a result of this work I have socialized with established authors and editors and shared stages with these authors, but I have not been paid anything for this particular manuscript. I'm toiling away in utter anonymity.
This is why I have been putting it off, but I am returning to it because it is really nearly done, and because it takes my mind off of things.
I have finished revising two poems. I am happy with the work and suggestions that the copy-editor has made. It has improved the translations and I am very contented. I put away the document for now and I must congratulate myself because I have come back to this project after several months abandoned.
Clothes and money
I don't feel well. I feel awful. I feel ugly, fat, nervous, afraid, and generally, inferior. (As I write this blog, I start to relax and I start breathing deeply, spontaneously). I am hyper-worried about money, I hate my body, I feel ugly, I am frustrated.
I am very, very neurotic right now. The back of my ears feel hot, as I am thinking too much.
I went to the second-hand store today to buy some clothes. The last time I went, I found a lot of good things, and I told myself I'd be back as soon as possible. Well "as soon as possible" did not come very soon. I think it's been well over two months since I was at the Salvation Army last. I always worried about money. "I don't have money for clothes," I'd think to myself. If I did not resort to that excuse, I had other ones, such as, "It's too far of a drive," "It is going to be a waste of gas because, who knows if I'll find something worthwhile," and "Buying clothes for vanity is wrong." However, since last night I spent lots of time by myself, and I had time to think, and muse, I decided that today I would "go shopping" at the Salvation Army. I expected for it to be a sort of treat for me because I really love shopping for clothes.
The second-hand store was not the only place that I went, however. After the first time that I went to the SA ('cause I went twice), I went to the mall in search of a cool key chain and to look at some shoes. By the middle of the trip I was like a nervous wreck. My chest was tight, it hurt. Things of this sort. It feels like it was only an attack of neurosis, or just high levels of anxiety.
I am spent! That was tiring! All that worrying made it worse!
For a very long time now, I have noticed that every time I go shopping for clothes, two issues arise, the shape of my body, age, and money. Today, I am a size W34 in pants, and I want to be a size W32. When I was a teenager, I oscillated between 28 and 30, and I miss those days.
There were some pants that I really liked. The store had tagged them as being W34, so everything seemed fine. On the interior, though, the pant said W32. I did not want to buy non-refundable pants if I was not sure they were 34's. So I went to the back of the store, and asked for a re-measure. The lady came up with W34, but the pants seemed small. Since I was there, I asked the lady if she could measure me. It is not store policy, so she hesitated, but I insisted charmingly until the lady accepted. She came up with 38! I felt devastated! Now what was I going to do?
I felt angry and I wanted to go to my tailor and ask her to measure me and to give me some accurate sizes! I was also devastated because I could not take those cool pants home! So I took the rest of the things I had collected, and left the pants, and drove to the mall.
There was one moment at the SA where I had had enough of feeling fat and I resolved to go on a strict diet and a strict exercise regimen to get back to my normal weight. And I blamed my mom for the fact that I struggle to stay in shape.
My rationale went like this: I live with her, and therefore, often I eat what she makes. Sometimes I just can't say no to her food. If she didn't offer me her food, or make fattening food often, I would not be fat today. If I had separated from my mother already, and was living by myself, living my own life, I would be eating how I wanted to, I'd be in shape and I would not be having these attacks of shame and anxiety at the second-hand store. Aaaaargh!
By the time I was at the mall I began to wonder if I was not spending too much time doing nothing. Despite of this, I relaxed, and spent a lot of time looking at beautiful girls. I also noticed about half a dozen shops that had gone out of business. This reminded me of the economic recession. I did not find a key chain but at Macy's I saw some Lucky You jeans. They were size 34, for $100. I tried them on and they fit very well. I put them back on the rack and returned to the SA for those jeans. Even though they were not as large on the waist as the pants at Macy's, I bought them anyway. They were $7.
So I did what I wanted but I was not sure if it was the "right" thing to do (because what if they still don't fit) and felt resentful because I had to resort to such doubts and debates rather than just being skinny and putting on whatever I wanted without second thought. I am home and I still have not tried them on because, frankly, they look small and because I am going to hate myself if I spent $8 in vain and bought something as irrationally as I did these pants.
I am so exhausted! These small dramas take so much from me!
I am very, very neurotic right now. The back of my ears feel hot, as I am thinking too much.
I went to the second-hand store today to buy some clothes. The last time I went, I found a lot of good things, and I told myself I'd be back as soon as possible. Well "as soon as possible" did not come very soon. I think it's been well over two months since I was at the Salvation Army last. I always worried about money. "I don't have money for clothes," I'd think to myself. If I did not resort to that excuse, I had other ones, such as, "It's too far of a drive," "It is going to be a waste of gas because, who knows if I'll find something worthwhile," and "Buying clothes for vanity is wrong." However, since last night I spent lots of time by myself, and I had time to think, and muse, I decided that today I would "go shopping" at the Salvation Army. I expected for it to be a sort of treat for me because I really love shopping for clothes.
The second-hand store was not the only place that I went, however. After the first time that I went to the SA ('cause I went twice), I went to the mall in search of a cool key chain and to look at some shoes. By the middle of the trip I was like a nervous wreck. My chest was tight, it hurt. Things of this sort. It feels like it was only an attack of neurosis, or just high levels of anxiety.
I am spent! That was tiring! All that worrying made it worse!
For a very long time now, I have noticed that every time I go shopping for clothes, two issues arise, the shape of my body, age, and money. Today, I am a size W34 in pants, and I want to be a size W32. When I was a teenager, I oscillated between 28 and 30, and I miss those days.
There were some pants that I really liked. The store had tagged them as being W34, so everything seemed fine. On the interior, though, the pant said W32. I did not want to buy non-refundable pants if I was not sure they were 34's. So I went to the back of the store, and asked for a re-measure. The lady came up with W34, but the pants seemed small. Since I was there, I asked the lady if she could measure me. It is not store policy, so she hesitated, but I insisted charmingly until the lady accepted. She came up with 38! I felt devastated! Now what was I going to do?
I felt angry and I wanted to go to my tailor and ask her to measure me and to give me some accurate sizes! I was also devastated because I could not take those cool pants home! So I took the rest of the things I had collected, and left the pants, and drove to the mall.
There was one moment at the SA where I had had enough of feeling fat and I resolved to go on a strict diet and a strict exercise regimen to get back to my normal weight. And I blamed my mom for the fact that I struggle to stay in shape.
My rationale went like this: I live with her, and therefore, often I eat what she makes. Sometimes I just can't say no to her food. If she didn't offer me her food, or make fattening food often, I would not be fat today. If I had separated from my mother already, and was living by myself, living my own life, I would be eating how I wanted to, I'd be in shape and I would not be having these attacks of shame and anxiety at the second-hand store. Aaaaargh!
By the time I was at the mall I began to wonder if I was not spending too much time doing nothing. Despite of this, I relaxed, and spent a lot of time looking at beautiful girls. I also noticed about half a dozen shops that had gone out of business. This reminded me of the economic recession. I did not find a key chain but at Macy's I saw some Lucky You jeans. They were size 34, for $100. I tried them on and they fit very well. I put them back on the rack and returned to the SA for those jeans. Even though they were not as large on the waist as the pants at Macy's, I bought them anyway. They were $7.
So I did what I wanted but I was not sure if it was the "right" thing to do (because what if they still don't fit) and felt resentful because I had to resort to such doubts and debates rather than just being skinny and putting on whatever I wanted without second thought. I am home and I still have not tried them on because, frankly, they look small and because I am going to hate myself if I spent $8 in vain and bought something as irrationally as I did these pants.
I am so exhausted! These small dramas take so much from me!
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Mother and "Kathy"
I don't feel well today. I don't feel well about myself and I don't feel well about my life or my future.
I began to feel depressed today just before noon when I was driving with my mom from one house that we cleaned to the next. Everything seemed to be fine up until that commute. During our work break, I ate a salad and a pear and I was texting my friend Rebeca, who I am excited to see this Friday.
Once we were on the freeway, I began to tell my mother about Kathy. Kathy is a very young woman whom I have met through Craigslist. For almost two weeks now, we have been emailing back and forth. She is in town for the summer and is a college student. She is somewhat of a young aspiring artist. She reads about one novel each day and she is working on the manuscript of a novel. I was telling my mother about her, describing what she is like.
I am an aspiring writer too, and my mother knows this. Except that I have been an aspiring writer for close to fifteen years now, and I am very frustrated. I am 33 this year. I described Kathy as "very intelligent," "ambitious," and "disciplined."
My mother listened and when I was done, she said,
"She sounds like she's a very capable young woman who knows what she wants. You [on the other hand] live hand-to-mouth. You only think about tomorrow."
It hurt me to hear my mother speak like this about me. I felt like someone who is short-sighted, childish, and has no vision. I felt "less than," especially in comparison to Kathy. Also as I heard this, and thought about it, my aspirations and pretentions around and about Kathy disappeared, like white smoke in the wind.
It was like my mother's comments brought me down to earth. She did not say, "Don't even think about dating this young woman. You are not good enough for her!" Her words and my consequent thoughts, though, had the same effect. I felt like a cold stream of water run down my back along the spine. It was the sensation of waking up to hard reality.
I told my mother that Kathy had previously said to me in an email that after the age of 18, all the men in her life have been "brutal disappointments."
My mom said, in response, "It sounds like she wants a different type of man. She might be saying that because being what, and who she is, she might want a man who can match her well."
I assented, and said, "Yes, she probably wants a man who is as smart and ambitious as she is, a man who is successful, a hard worker, and accomplished." All things, I thought, that I am not. I felt my heart sink real deep as I said this. I suddenly felt so insignificant and foolish.
I felt lots of sadness and nostalgia as I said, and thought about this. I thought about all of the years that I think I have wasted, years in which I could have been more like Kathy, and had become serious about my art. Most of all, I felt: "Gosh, I really wish that I could be the man that I am describing right now." I wanted to be young, smart, talented, disciplined, and close to Kathy. I felt spite and contempt for whoever I was when I was 21. I felt my heart breaking.
I had thought about these things, a little, before. I had done so ever since I met Kathy through Craigslist. I need to admit here, right now, that I am very tempted to envy Kathy, and that at times, I do. I am tempted to envy her for her age, her ambition, her wit, and the mind that she already has. She is reading great novels and authors right now so that she can get as smart as possible now.
Prior to my talk with my mother, as I said before, I was developing aspirations to fuck Kathy and to date her. Not only these, though, I was also aspiring to entering into a serious relationship with her, if things continued to develop between us.
After the fallout of my conversation with my mom, though, I want to change my expectations for our relationship. So sex with her and becoming her serious boyfriend are out of the question? What is not out of the question is sharing and talking about our art the way we have done until now.
Life goes on. I feel better now.
I began to feel depressed today just before noon when I was driving with my mom from one house that we cleaned to the next. Everything seemed to be fine up until that commute. During our work break, I ate a salad and a pear and I was texting my friend Rebeca, who I am excited to see this Friday.
Once we were on the freeway, I began to tell my mother about Kathy. Kathy is a very young woman whom I have met through Craigslist. For almost two weeks now, we have been emailing back and forth. She is in town for the summer and is a college student. She is somewhat of a young aspiring artist. She reads about one novel each day and she is working on the manuscript of a novel. I was telling my mother about her, describing what she is like.
I am an aspiring writer too, and my mother knows this. Except that I have been an aspiring writer for close to fifteen years now, and I am very frustrated. I am 33 this year. I described Kathy as "very intelligent," "ambitious," and "disciplined."
My mother listened and when I was done, she said,
"She sounds like she's a very capable young woman who knows what she wants. You [on the other hand] live hand-to-mouth. You only think about tomorrow."
It hurt me to hear my mother speak like this about me. I felt like someone who is short-sighted, childish, and has no vision. I felt "less than," especially in comparison to Kathy. Also as I heard this, and thought about it, my aspirations and pretentions around and about Kathy disappeared, like white smoke in the wind.
It was like my mother's comments brought me down to earth. She did not say, "Don't even think about dating this young woman. You are not good enough for her!" Her words and my consequent thoughts, though, had the same effect. I felt like a cold stream of water run down my back along the spine. It was the sensation of waking up to hard reality.
I told my mother that Kathy had previously said to me in an email that after the age of 18, all the men in her life have been "brutal disappointments."
My mom said, in response, "It sounds like she wants a different type of man. She might be saying that because being what, and who she is, she might want a man who can match her well."
I assented, and said, "Yes, she probably wants a man who is as smart and ambitious as she is, a man who is successful, a hard worker, and accomplished." All things, I thought, that I am not. I felt my heart sink real deep as I said this. I suddenly felt so insignificant and foolish.
I felt lots of sadness and nostalgia as I said, and thought about this. I thought about all of the years that I think I have wasted, years in which I could have been more like Kathy, and had become serious about my art. Most of all, I felt: "Gosh, I really wish that I could be the man that I am describing right now." I wanted to be young, smart, talented, disciplined, and close to Kathy. I felt spite and contempt for whoever I was when I was 21. I felt my heart breaking.
I had thought about these things, a little, before. I had done so ever since I met Kathy through Craigslist. I need to admit here, right now, that I am very tempted to envy Kathy, and that at times, I do. I am tempted to envy her for her age, her ambition, her wit, and the mind that she already has. She is reading great novels and authors right now so that she can get as smart as possible now.
Prior to my talk with my mother, as I said before, I was developing aspirations to fuck Kathy and to date her. Not only these, though, I was also aspiring to entering into a serious relationship with her, if things continued to develop between us.
After the fallout of my conversation with my mom, though, I want to change my expectations for our relationship. So sex with her and becoming her serious boyfriend are out of the question? What is not out of the question is sharing and talking about our art the way we have done until now.
Life goes on. I feel better now.
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