Friday, December 21, 2012

Physical companionship and sleeping with silence

It's been a while. I kind of miss it. Not the fucking bit, but the intimate bit. Sharing those rare moments, baring those fears. It's a good feeling. Intimacy is the key word. There is no perfect person. Even the most depraved, broken pigs of human beings deserve a little insight and understanding. They need some mutually fucked up individual to provide some respite. A partner in crime. A seeing-eye there to witness with them life's cascade of excrement. Life is unending potential for complexity. Amidst that chaos, the more you know, the more you understand you don't know. Right and wrong become equipped with some pretty blurry, pretty tricky gray areas. You could in most places definitely use a partner there to speak freely with, without judgement. With patience and without judgement or bias or agendas, that's what you get from a lover that you don't get in the waking world. And how could even ask for that much regard? The world's far too chaotic and complex for every person to lend a sympathetic ear to every story, and see every angle of every point of view.

Breathless (1960)

It's been a while. It would be nice. Certainly preferable to this open diary of a post so few will come across, let alone read, let alone get. Perhaps it's to have my thoughts on paper and compartmentalized. Instead of why bother, here I bother, motives unknown even to me. Perhaps there's a hint toward the back of my subconscious that some scorned former lover might read it. Scorned is necessary regardless of circumstance. There's a connotation that comes with the bitterness of both parties basically saying, "I don't ultimately care about you." It's a truth, people. Like no stone left unturned: No former lover left unscorned. The only thing to be gained from this hypothetical would be pity, a dejected show of sympathy via correspondence. Pity's not so bad, man. It gets a bad wrap. Like one of my heroes Bergman stated, "Even betrayal is better than loneliness." Even a distant, cold touch is certifiably better than none. To a starving, deserted man, some leftover Spaghettios are preferable to gold. To the lonely soul, even belittlement is better than a prison away cell from another's presence. What I wouldn't give for some girl to call me out on this pseudo-evocative prose or some equally challenging comment. Or congratulate me on how little I've changed and all the bad things that implies.

You're probably most happy as a person when you most mimic the earth's atmosphere, in its state and social stances. That's what I believe. There's no real morality to that ideology, except that you're as moral as the majority. That's why ideas about democracies are a bit wishy-washy. A majority isn't always right. A misguided majority can bring about hell on earth, that's why we benefit from a variety of minds and shouldn't push our perfect, utopian ideals on others. Preach if you're inclined, but think twice before you push. Forcing things on people is for rapists, man. I preach that men should be as un-rape-like as possible in as many ordinary, everyday circumstances as possible. That I believe, and believe it would make for a more friendly world.

Lost in Translation

This is getting a bit personal, which brings me back to my previous point. Intimacy is a difficult thing. It's tricky to want intimacy and not want to open up, both at once. My stress conjures most readily the need for silence. Beautiful silence. Beautiful fucking silence. Seriously, shut the fuck up. The line ends up in the old noggin often. I have a lot to say, but I do enough thinking. Intimacy is a primal thing. At least for men, no, I won't generalize, at least for me, quiet is a sublime freedom. The freedom to be quiet with someone says more than words could. It states, your presence is so comforting I'm willing to risk being stabbed by you in my sleep. It says, your personality aligns enough with mine that we can be at peace together without an explicit, written out understanding. That kind of intimacy is the hot ticket, yet hard to achieve without a good amount of social nourishment. But I do enough thinking, where people are easy to read and break down into parts. Call it pathology, regardless, it's my state of mind.

My mind's also like the aforementioned, bolded text, compartmentalized. Reading people and understanding them is the easy part, giving a shit is the harder task. Why should I put up with their hard luck stories and petty woes, or overlook one-sided, ego-centric indulgence. A soul's conviction is an interesting topic of conversation. Complaining about financial woes isn't, when you're living in America where even those below the poverty line have more than 90% of the world. Remember, interesting people don't go spill their guts, because interesting people have themselves somewhat together. And when you have yourself together, you're not a walking stack of Jenga, and your sides don't split with laughter at Adam Sandler, it's not likely you guts are going to spill. There's some merit in stoicism. In short, be Wyatt Earp. That man had his stuff together, from his womanizing, to his gun, to his handlebar mustache. A little humility goes a long way, until you realize nobody champions your ideals because you never vocalize them, and then you're isolated. That's the point at which compartmentalization begins, as you can't drift from zero to fifty without seeming like a social retard. You can't just casually drop a line like, "Shemales shouldn't be seen as second-class citizens because..." because the amount of raised eyebrows you get will eventually convince you you're on the demented side of the fence. No. For the social retard, compartmentalization is key. Not only will you still keep your old friend isolation, you'll slowly gain several different masks of vague personalities you get to interchange in an effort to appear sane. All this in a valiant effort to please the people you like and relate to least.

Let the Right One In (2008)

That's the jagged edge of a compartmentalized personality type. That's the price you pay for being out of tune, and we all pay the price to a degree. Every time you hear someone on live TV slip up and use the word fuck, their apology is dishonesty hard at work. No one who matters a fuck would give a fucking fuck about a curse word, but we've bought into these silly puritanical ideals until instead of a picture you have an imprint, a copy, a negative. Until it reaches a boiling point of repression, where tension precedes every step, where priests prefer little kids to grown women. Until political correctness stunts progress by making you walk on eggshells. Until speech is free to only the person you share a bed with, and sometimes not even then. Until you convinced yourself a certain style of what is the right way of living, at the cost of your integrity. And your integrity is merely trusting what you feel inside to have the final say, beyond the outside influences attempting to bend you to their will. The moment you've given that up, you've given up the freedom to think. If you've given up the freedom to think, you've become an inanimate object, like a flagpole or a donut or a corpse. That's right, without resistance to things you dislike and satisfaction for what you like, you may as well be fucking dead. In a world of endless options, the only restraint to chaos is adherence to what you believe is right and disdain for what you see as wrong.

Right now we live in a morally maligned society by even the most lax standards. People give away their person and personalities for the faintest touch, the lightest grasp of an emotion, for fear of nothing more than where their own minds may take them, and how their new-found beliefs may isolate them. They are taken advantage of not necessarily by bad men, but more fearless men who charge forward while doing wrong and knowing no better. Sure, we live in a society with a reluctance toward truth, but if we stand for it, things might improve. If we don't stand for it, we will inevitably lose. Sure, our minds can take us to bad places, but we've got to trust our minds to take us out of them. Although I don't believe humans to be innately good nor bad, I do believe we're innately equipped with all the right instincts to dig ourselves out of any hole, sans a few tragic cases. There is sickness, paranoia, and schizophrenia some battle with. More damning, though, is the general consensus. The status quo adhering to a false belief will be a woe to someone seeking truth on the fringe. A society that accepts people on the outskirts of popular belief as lesser does itself a disservice. Which isn't to say anyone on the fringe should be admired, either, but they benefit from a base, mutual respect. As stated, it's my belief our society suffers from a moderate to heavy amount of distortion. In other words, we're collectively culturally sick. Isolation is the price for seeking new ideas, and dwelling on the fringe, but it's especially costly in a society you believe is facing the starting line backward. At that point you're digging yourself a hole that deepens and deepens, and you hit the point of no return and cross your own rubicon. Deep down, despite darkness, where objections become indiscernible and where tunnel vision begins to play tricks, you either hope you were right and hit gold, or die. I accept that I might be wrong, but trust my instincts for their decent track record. All that's left is to connect the dots, send the radio signal, and hope someone gets the message. Then slowly turn up the dial, increase the transmission until you finally reach someone, albeit with distortion. The further you stretch your message to make things accessible, the more the essence is lost. But if you go insane by screaming too loud, at least your lunacy will have company.

 Three Colors - White

This has all been a sort of tangent. Now I've got to tie it all together to the bit about companionship. This writing is an indication. It's erratic. Despite underwhelming minority of opinions and people whose belief mimics mine, and a seemingly decreasing give, I'll never concede to the fun and wonderful realm of the batshit insane. Death first! By way of crippling social alienation and implosion. This could've been shared with someone, and saved the wasted time and the typing strokes. Happiness, as stated before, comes from a balance from being most aligned with the earth without breaking your integrity. Do you understand, shitheel? The more shit on earth you agree with that goes on, odds are you're going to be one content motherfucker, and as long as it doesn't collide with anything you morally disagree with. I believe nuns mud-wrestling is not only inoffensive, but amusing and potentially erotic. How could a man with that opinion possibly be content on this planet? Most adults sleep next to someone. That's one area where I don't fall in line with the status quo. It would be nice but currently I sleep with my best friend, and that friend is silence. Silence is the mistress that fucks you with all the information of the cosmos. We're very close, us two. Almost inseparable. And rarely do I break my devotion to her. But that's how life goes, it goes both ways. And you can't have it both ways. You see, there's always a balance, an inherent irony. Like this one time with a woman, I broke up with silence for the night and my soul spoke poetry, enough to make her come and fall in love. The next day she confessed she was drunk and remembered nothing.

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