a foolish consistency

http://koan72.deviantart.com/store/

“I cannot coddle you here. I cannot, must not, hold your hand and give you answers. I will not give you answers you already have. I refuse to dance this dance with you, though I may long to – if only to have you in my arms a while.”

In life, we always have choices. We always have choices, whether we acknowledge them or not, whether we handle them aggressively or passively, trying to shun responsibility. We can choose not to confront things, we can eschew responsibility, but in doing so we never cease to be responsible for just that choice.

I could say that the important thing is always to acknowledge every choice you make; but that is just another choice.

“You can run from this. You can choose to simply not deal with it, as you seem to be doing. That is a choice, a choice. That is your choice to make, and a choice I freely grant you, one I will not challenge, for I refuse to force you to confront me. I have not done so until now. I have always given you full responsibility for your choices. I have not treated you as a child. I have always given you full responsibility for your choices – too much responsibility, perhaps – responsibility you have shirked, denied, and refused – responsibility with which you have not followed through. You can choose to run from this, eschew responsibility, deny concern, and refuse to confront it. It would be consistent.”

Some might say consistency is necessary, preferred. Today, I lean fully toward Emerson’s assertion that, “a foolish consistency is the hobbgobblin of little minds.”

Rendered

http://www.flickr.com/photos/ko_an/40158837/

It’s 4:00 a.m., and I’ve just called; but you did not respond. What have I done? What should I have? You could have made me beg you to stay. It isn’t hard. It isn’t hard to just not go. Is this not what you want? Of course it's so. Assess.

And so another day goes by. I have not cried my love. We have not talked. I do not know the tide. And perhaps, perhaps neither do you. Perhaps you do. And yet I want you touching me.

This isn’t me.
This is not the way I do things. This is not the way I act. I spend a lot of my time wondering whether I’m simply asking for too much, but I refuse to believe it. I just refuse to believe it. I have to. You’re simply not ready for me. That’s the bottom line.

And perhaps you never will be – not for me. But perhaps you will.

And if you ever fully understand what I am speaking of, if my words ever simply falls into place, allowing a mere trace of me to shed its light, then you will... and you will find me. This, of course, only reveals its weight if you already understand. Catch 23. Yes, 23. 24.

This is the time to be mature, to give a little in the way of …

... I’m creating a situation whereby I am automatically thinning out the experience, diluting it in a practical sense in order to concentrate the literal effect. Allow me to explain. I am slitting everything in two: reality and fiction, (Non-fiction and creative non-fiction? Not quite, perhaps.), what I live and what I write, the real and the imagined, what I live and what I live through my writing. I write it. I write it first, because I have the time to write it first, because the time necessitates the writing, because I must live you somehow, I must live you anyhow. I write it. I write it and I imagine it and I create it and I live it. I have lived it. I no longer need to. I am silent. I am no longer affected.

It has passed.

So Every time I stumble upon something provocative, I have tired of it by the time it demands a response. You kill everything by trying to explain it, by trying to distinguish right from wrong.

Conversation. I question why this reinforces, when in reality I expect it to highlight the lack of contribution and understanding, when in reality I expect the focus to shift to him.

Let me be the fool

http://www.thefool.com/vr/index.asp?viewcard=0t

Mother fucking cock-sucker, what can I say? Thank you?
Yes, you have once again exceeded expectations. I AM surprised. I AM hurt. I AM disappointed (though I shouldn’t be. I should not be surprised. It is consistent. When all else fails… in all you fail… at least you are consistent. “A foolish consistency is the hobbgobblin of little minds.”)

“The Fool” story…
You are not the fool. I am the fool. I will always play the fool, now and always. The fool never dies. He is never the main character, only a vehicle, but he does not die at the end. He is but a mere vehicle to carry others, a necessary vehicle without which the real “personages” cannot act, are stagnant, paralyzed. This is my spiritual existence.

Q’s grandmother, a very spiritual woman, once complained that she couldn’t read me at all. While she never quite trusted me, she fell into the trap of assuming my ambiguity stemmed from spiritual strength. In truth, I am nothing to read. Mediums need energy, souls. I am no soul; I carry them. What does it mean to be soulless, to be a vehicle rather than an acting being? I have erased myself. I am a mere vehicle, a tool at others’ disposal, empty if not full of someone else, if not carrying someone else. Empty. Everyone wants a ride, but no one knows his destination. I am only a guide, not even a guide, a vehicle. I am not even instructive, a mere tool.

I told you not to be concerned with “appeasing” me, with doing “the right thing,” with doing anything you don’t want to do, just to “quedar bien.” So there. Fuck me, eh? My bad. I can say nothing now. I just never imagined this is how you would want to leave things. On the other hand, you do tend to push things to their limit. I gave you this one. And now you take it. Fuck me!

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch, mother-fucker. You must never know how you hurt me. You would never comprehend its insignificance.

I am numb. I don’t know what to think. That’s all.

One of the most important things to know is how to say goodbye. We may not always know when to say it, but we must know how to say it. Don’t you know how to say goodbye? Clearly you do not. You have made this clear – before now. You could never say goodbye. But this? This I did not predict. This I do not understand. I feel I must have done something, something awful, to offend you. Perhaps I simply loved you, and this is its own offense. If only you would speak to me, though. If only you would tell me with your words. Perhaps you fear your words; they cannot withstand my own.

I need some time alone

http://pghstf.ath.cx/images/3d/

I like to spend time alone. I used to need it a lot more than now.

But why is it that lover's always bring up the whole "time alone" thing at the most inoppertune moments?

As soon as they have a bad day — no matter why or what the cause... "I need to spend some time alone."

Gotcha.

When your lover is unhappy, it's disconcerting. No matter how confident you are about the relationship, it's disconcerting. People make big changes when they're unhappy. People misdirect their unhappiness? People get confused about what's making them unhappy.

Is that selfish? Is it selfish to think about yourself when your lover is unhappy? Is it only natural?

It's not that you're not genuinely concerned about their happiness. But it's a passing thought.

Am I the cause?
Am I somehow the cause?
Is this somehow related to me?
Will this hurt me, us?

"I need some time alone."

Not a great time to hear it, is it? Not a great time to say it. Thanks a lot, my love.

But we're not allowed to complain. No. No. Of course not. That would be selfish.

So... we swallow it. We keep it in. We hurt silently until it passes. And then we nurse the sore.

"What do you do when you need time alone?"

Sometimes I just keep needing it. Sometimes I find it in my head.

Beat me, bitch!

http://www.janesmann.com/Paintings/2000/Beating_kitsch_detail.jpg

No matter how sound a relationship you have, you always end up feeling beat down.

I used to scoff when people complained about being taken for granted. Hell, isn't that what a relationship is all about — being able to take things for granted? You take it for granted that you're loved. You take it for granted that someone will be there for you when you need them, that you'll have a warm body next to you at night, that someone will be loyal to you, that someone will be kind to you. Isn't that what it's all about?

But it's about a hell of a lot more than just taking things for granted. It's about straight out, genuine, grade-a abuse. Yup. That's right. You'll think I'm wrong — twisted perhaps — and that I have no clear perspective about what a relationship should be. Well, honey, I'm not talking about what a relationship should be. I'm talking about what it is. That's right.

A short while after my sister got married she told me that no matter what... no matter how fair and glorious a relationship you have... no matter how feminist or just your husband may be... you will always end up doing twice the work... you will always end up overextended and abused. Yup. That's right. It's not the way it should be. It's just the way it is.

That's the kind of thing I'm talking about. I'm talking about truth. I'm not talking about ideals or illusions — as I so often do. I'm not dressing things up in pretty metaphors or quaint little literary illusions.

I'm talking about general, mutual, ritual abuse. Yup. In the end — as crass as this may be — a relationship is about tolerating each other, tolerating each other's abuse. It's about not having to watch yourself, check yourself. It's about not just having someone in front of whom you can fart, but about having someone you can treat with whatever kindness or grossness oozes, seeps, or bursts out of you on that particular day, at that particular moment. It's about being able to act however you want. And resenting the fact that you can't, of course.

I know it sounds horrible. I know that there's some beautiful ideal to which we cling that doesn't look like this. But that's all crap. We hold it for a day... or two. We hold it for a while. But it, too, is an illusion. No one loves without hatred. No one loves without resentment. And when you face the resentment... day after day... you're bound to express it. It's bound to seep out of your eyes.

I'm tired. I'm tired of flailing and screaming. I'm tired of feeling like a punching bag. I'm tired of being tired. I'm tired of the things I was taught would hold me up actually beating me down. I'm tired of feeling like the world, my world, should be different somehow. I'm tired of determining value by its weight in gold. I'm tired of trying to unlearn the things I've learned, while trying to retain the experience. I'm tired of expectations and shoulds and ought tos. I'm tired of resistence, and, argument, and slaps.

Beat me. Hurt me. Love me.

Cry your pain

http://www.deviantart.com/view/9313588/

But now you turn to me. Now you cry your pain. You cry pain that is mine, and yet you brought it on yourself. That’s why you cry. Perhaps. That’s why you cry. You cry because you do not know how to walk the wicked world. You cry because you don’t yet know how to live with all your choices. Because you do not know your choices. You refuse to claim your choices. Oh, how the world rolls over me. Oh, the pain I feel. Oh, I disjoint the world. Alas, poor lass, you’re just a child. Don’t blame the world for existing when it’s you who walks the world.

“I’ve been really depressed.” – [[Me too.]] Have you?

“I’ve been thinking mostly of you.” – [[Bullshit. I didn’t get the call.]] Why?

“I don’t know what’s going on.” – [[If not, then who?]] “Going on?”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” – [[Neither do I. You aren’t in my arms.]] “You’re blue.”

“I’ve been here before.” – [[Well, then, fuck you.]] “Then it’s just another time.”

“I need you.” – [[And I need you too.]] “I’ll be there in just a while.”

Back it with action

http://www.wolverlei.com/USA2000/ppages/ppage8.html

He backs nothing with action. Action is void of all philosophy. He is the quintessential existentialist “floater,” the nauseated being, devoid of values, unwittingly, desperately, futilely espousing empty, baseless values… “like a record, baby, round, round.”

At least this much is true. He inadvertently supports his claim to existentialism, despite his lack of intent.

The problem with the most plebeian existentialist elucidation is that it fails to take up the significance, the suggestion, the prescribed course of action. What is it, fundamentally, most simply? Mostly simply put, it is the urgent need for us to take full responsibility for our actions, despite the difficulty, perhaps impossibility, of really doing so.

Of course it’s difficult. OK. In the end, this in itself is trite. We know this. This does not merit philosophical text upon philosophical text. It demands more. It demands a suggestion, a deduction, a murmur of hope. And even existentialism has this, perhaps especially so.

Action.
Action.
Action.
Follow through.
Commitment.
Responsibility.
Trueness.
You-ness.

“Fuck you, mother fucker.”

If he were to have called, I wouldn’t have answered anyhow, but I would have slept better. I might have slept at all.

I would have said all these things to him. I would have, but it didn’t make any sense somehow. They were already too familiar.

Are women just evil?

http://www.androidblues.com/JealousyStepbystep/jealousystep.html

I'm not really into the whole "women are evil / men are just dogs" schtick, but... sometimes it's difficult not to fall into this trap.

I am in a relationship now — if you can call it that. And never in my life have I encountered such adversity. Never in my life have I encountered such evil manipulations, such hostile undertakings, such vile and underhanded jabs.

I am a woman. Yes. But I do not understand women at all. (Not that I understand men either, but... that's for a later rant.)

I have had many lovers, many friends, many acquaintances. I have wished evil on none. I have resented no one's happiness. And I have undertaken no underhanded tactics to destroy anyone's life — or even a piece of it.

In the past 5-7 years, however, I have experienced every kind of underhanded jab imaginable from countless of supposedly loyal women — friends of Q. Friends. Yes, friends. Friends?

So I am told. Though, try as I might, I simply cannot grasp this truth. Friends? How can it be so? Does a friend try to hurt you? I don't know these friends.

Hell, I have friends that tell it like it is. I have friends that occassionally rub salt in my wounds and say I told you so. But... it's not meant to hurt me. Not really. It's meant to make me see. Even when they're wrong, they are not malevolent.

Friends.

Just what the hell does this mean to those freaky-assed women out there?

Friends? Really?

[[And while this may not seem to qualify as a feminist rant, I beg to differ, my friends. I am only trying to protect my own feminist ideal. We are better than this, girls. We are better.]]

I am not impressed

I was sitting at a local coffee shop a couple days ago, waiting for a friend. The coffee shop closed, and I was asked to leave, so I did. I went outside to finish my coffee on a nearby bench by an art school. As I'm sitting there, still waiting, a handsome young man (whom I had seen inside the coffee shop earlier) comes over to my bench.

"I was drawing you inside, and I haven't quite finished. Do you mind if I sit down?"

Yes, I minded.

"No, of course not. Knock yourself out."

"Hasn't anyone ever sketched you before?"

"I don't know." Of course, I know. Yes. So what?

"I don't see a lot of people around here that inspire me"

Yeah, me neither.

"I haven't been inspired by many people since I got back from Spain last year."

Oh, god. Here we go again.

"I was sitting there, drawing you, and I suddenly felt like I was back in Paris."

Does he think Paris is in Spain?

Soon, enough, my friend showed up and wisked me away. Of course, he invited the handsome stranger to join us — assuming he was of friend — but the poor guy was already retreating, intimidated by another handsome man... or perhaps my lack of enthusiasm for his oh-so-European ways.

Ok, I admit, I tend to have a thing for artists — writers, painters, musicians, sculptors. It just works out that way. But... I hate the shtick. I don't have a thing for "artists" at all.. it just works out that way.

What? Am I supposed to jump on the guy because he has an artistic sensibility? I wonder if he can even draw? Or am I just supposed to jump him because he thinks I'm worth sketching? No. no. I think it's his European ways. Yes, that's it. Just mention any place in Europe and the girls cream their pants. Oy!

I'm not impressed.

stupid girly shit

http://net.art-generator.com/src/imgs.html

This might be the beginning of a series of gender-based rants. [[Yes, that's my way of avoiding the word "feminist."]]

Despite my daily inclinations to post about the injustices of being a woman (ha!), I have done everything in my power to avoid the topic head-on.

But.. I'm through with that.

I AM a woman. [[Sorry, is that news to you?]] And as much as I may try to avoid it, this blog is clearly representative of that. Hell, your comments are representative of that. And I am contantly confronted with what this means — what it means to be a woman. And maybe what it means to be me.

This is all quite ironic actually.

You see... I don't understand women. I really don't understand woman... or at least often. I seem to be made of something else — other than the vile sugar and spice that doesn't seem to have anything to do with being nice.

So.. I am going to bitch about stereotypes [[as much as we may trust them]]. I am going to say that they're not fair. And I am going to re-enforce them simultaneously. Ouch!

Please tell me this.

Why is that no matter what horrible terrible things a man does, as soon as a woman opens her mouth to complain about it, she's the nagging bitch? Why is that?

Why is it that women aren't funny? No really. They're not. Well, ok. I know that's not exactly true. Of course, I know that. But... women aren't funny. No really.

There are funny women. Yes. Some. A few. And women can make you laugh. They can even do it often. But.. they're not funny. Come on.. you know exactly what I mean. Why is that?

I'm from Puerto Rico. When we talk about Puerto Rico (we being anyone at all, really), we often talk about machismo. Hmmm.. Fine. Whatever.

But, people, I gotta tell you... I have NEVER experienced the blatant sexism I'm experiencing here in Minnesota lately. Ouch. Never. And the sad part is how absolutely engrained it all is. People don't even see it. They don't even care. Ouch. Whatever. I'm just a whiny bitch.

Why is it that we assume men will use any excuse to escape their "bitches," while the bitches just latch on? Why is that? Why? And why do the bitches just latch on?

Shit, man, let them fly. Here, let me show you the door.

Don't trip over your ego on the way out.

illusions of hesitation

http://albedo.prakope.com/archives/2005/08/glass_onion.html

Perhaps what keeps it interesting is merely my hesitation. Maybe this is what makes it okay, or better still, exciting, brisk. When the hesitation fails, all else is lost. Ahhhh…reality impact. I know about that.

Perhaps my very illusion shatters the glass – construed as reality impact. After all, it’s all about perception. Glass is built on perception, never on solid ground. What is illusion to one is truth to another.

[[If you ask me, there's no difference. Illusions are just as real as anything.]]

If only you would hear me out. If only you would heed my words. Heed me not. I am dangerous. There are things that yet you should not know. In attempting to protect, I do you harm. I want that you act your age, yet not grow up at all.

examine your scenario

I’m an adult. I’m not a kid. You won’t get penalized for one mistake, one misunderstanding, one act that lacks consideration. But you’ll be called on in the muck. Acts accumulate. Slaps add up. And ceaseless jabs demand attention.

Examine your scenario.
I'll examine mine.

You make plans. You fail to mention plans. You mention plans at a distant moment, cleverly or unknowingly phrasing the question as a negative – you’re not coming are you? You adopt reason – which is not your forte – and an understanding air. “I’ll understand if you don’t come.” You spend the night attending to old woes and beating on your phone. You claim incomprehension, say you cannot think, and take the offered out when it is offered. [[And it is always offered.]] But first you establish the break in plans. [[I take the bait and bail.]] You give more reasons. I cringe at the excuses, always seeing options you ignore. “Have fun.” “I’ll call you tomorrow.” ‘Goodbye.”