saml

  • Somebody Fellat Me

     

    Hey, I don’t mean to get all Susan Johanson (“Talk Sex” anybody?) on you guys, but I’m really not a fan of the word “cunnilingus”. Even writing it makes me laugh because it’s so awkward and uncomfortable to say. Well, “fellatio” is symbolically awkward to say too. But physically, mouthing the word is kind of fun. Honestly, the word is sexy and powerful unlike the female term which sounds all choppy and weird. If guys can make one dollar for every seventy cents a girl makes, I demand we make the word “Fellatio” universal. I know I’m a perve. But I really didn’t want to get stuck writing “somebody cunniling me” for the heading. Although- it would have been kinda funny. Don’t mind me; I just saw “Super Bad” last night- let’s face it- vulgarity is a part of everyday culture. And guess what? This is my every day blog…

     

    Noise-canceling headphones anybody? O  -   my  -   G-d. They are sooooooooooooooo good. Listen to your favorite song with them; it’s like being in a fish-tank full of music. MMmmm Heaven. *Please see title*

     

    So that’s all I wanted to say. If you need a reason to live… invest in a pair of those headphones, man. I swear- listening made my whole body numb…

     

    I…Um… don’t know how much more life ranting I’m going to do, just to let you guys/ my shiny red laptop know. For the most part, I have the answers I need for now and my brain is dying for a little less of the self-assessment. I’m always reading, always writing, and always trying to stay in touch. But I’m trying to live outside my own head a bit more. My feeling is that I’ve become stable enough internally to take on some new projects. Like… Decorating my new room!! I’m going to paint a mural on one of the walls; some interpretation of Eden. Don’t worry I’ll be around.

     

                I guess I just want to let you know that I think I’ve come to terms with the fact that life is not under my control; that everything is the way it is. The best we can do is to organize a plan to reach some vague likeness of our goals. Everybody wings it, everybody does. I think some people choose certain routines or conform to certain standards (I don’t mean this condescendingly, if we defied all standards we’d be schizophrenics) to feel more stable… Some people prefer to believe they know exactly what they’re doing… but nobody does. Nobody knows exactly why we’re here or what we’re supposed to do. So I mean its cliché’, but all we have is our potential. We have no guarantees that working hard and trying our best in this societal construct will actually pay off. But we do have statistics, be grateful if you are on the favored side.

     

                Until then- it’s a crazy ride; ups and downs and upside downs. But I don’t know… You always have your friends, your family, a dog, a blog, faith in the unknown, and noise canceling headphones [Sam].

     

  • I’m feeling kinda high today, although I’m not actually- I swear.

    I feel like smiling and watching Super Bad. My usual rants about life will just have to wait.

     

  • I think I’m over him.

     

    I think I’m done. But that in itself is hard. I feel terribly lonely without my old project as I’ve lost all hope that he’ll change his mind. He got caught in the cross fire. I only wanted to find focus and escape reality. He became the target of my concentration and now that target has been shifted toward my own mental growth. I’m scared now that I’ve stumbled upon some Truth regarding existence. I’m scared because I know that I am fundamentally alone. My only sources of company are my goals, my work, a handful of true companions, and the only eternal; hope.  I don’t know. Am I the only one who feels that a lustful trustful relationship would make life so much more satisfying? It’s not that I desire to control another person or even to commit; although clearly that’s what a relationship entails. I’m just a certain kind of person, I just- “I love.” I want to care about somebody who cares about me. I want to make-out with someone and mean it. I want to be accepted; mind and body. They say that it won’t happen until I accept myself. Well, I’m working on it. I just have to let it be. For now I can not satisfy this void my instincts burn to fill. I’d rather be alone than settle for anything less then I desire; A boy who is both intellectually stimulating and emotionally available. I want someone who can respect my opinion and disagree. I want to look at someone and know that I am safe and be hugged and know that they don’t want to let go. I want someone who wants what’s best for me. I want to want what’s best for them. I have the chills. It’s a sad reality I have to face- alot of my age group is scared, brainwashed by their religion or culture or social group, they are apprehensive, they are judgmental, they want to *** around. Well, I don’t. I just want comfort. I want to lie down with someone and feel for that moment that everything’s ok. And I don’t know. I guess most people don’t want that comfort yet. Every boy I’ve ever been interested in has always stood out. They’ve always been special and they’ve more often than not, been older. They catch my attention through their unique way of being and the older ones seem to understand my search for a safe-haven. But always, I am in over my head, I’m always too young, too bubbly, too easy to please, too easy to hurt. I’m too easy to treat like a little girl and I’m too easy to control. After all, I find them because I understand them. And they hold me and tell me everything I want to hear. I can’t help but believe it. I want the security and I can’t resist the urge to believe that I can be a kid again. I still want to trust someone whole heartedly to take care of me. And I forget that I am my own person who has to stand on her own two feet. I soon become a malleable child and it’s my fault. So much of me is scared to take control of my own life.

    That’s why I’m sticking to my age-group. These guys can’t lie to me persuasively, the way I want to be lied to. They will look to me for answers; they will remind me that I can never return to the sheltered utopia of childhood. They won’t call me “kiddo”, or they might but I won’t let myself believe it. I’ll know they’re a kid too.

     

    P.s. So this blog is sort of more poetry than prose. I'm not sure if I'm going to write anymore about this specific guy. I don't know. I don't want to make myself seem all creepy and clingy. Although I don't really care. I also think that if he ever read this hypothetical blog, it might make him ultra- uncomfortable. Then again, his comfort really isn't my problem anymore. Mmm... Maybe I will write. I wrote some kick-ass letters. Plus he never gave me any closure, and I feel obliged to flaunt my creative expression. In my art I have already made the comitment to hold nothing sacred... But I don't know if I need to expose this particular situation to get closure. I feel like I might respect myself more if I let it fade from my thoughts quitely. Any opinions? 

     

  • So I forgot to mention I left school again.

    It was preplanned that I would only be there for a week- so I knew I was leaving the 8th. Where did I go? Well, I can’t disclose my exact whereabouts seeing as how I am a celebrity and all… :) But I can tell you my parents moved across the country the second I left for college. So I’m in my new home for the first time, far away from the place I grew up and lived for nearly 18 years. But that’s ok. I’m with my parents, my brother (though he just left to see his best friend who happens to attend the same college I do, *** you mark, you were supposed to teach me guitar) and last but not least, my little puppy monkey; Sparky. I haven’t seen Sparky in like 5 months. 5 months without my puppy!!! How did I survive? I must be magical…

    On a heavier note, (true to my nature) Why do teenagers hate their parents and honor their social group? Well I sort of know the answer. When you’re an adolescent you become aware that there is a whole world out there- and you somewhat resent your parents for not showing you. You think in a way that it’s their fault you were sheltered from life’s obstacles, it’s their fault you were a naïve little child. But it has much more to do with mental development. As you grow older you become more aware and more to do= more to freak out about. We rebel against our parents because we take this foreign anxiety and direct toward something specific. We transfer the uncontrollable into a plain where it can be controlled. But I am so glad that I’m over this phase. It takes a while to realize your social group cares little about your true needs as a human. Most are concerned with excelling in whatever field of life they determine is most important. To acquaintances you are rarely more than a pawn- a power personality to latch on to or a servant to be stepped on. I was the same way- I truly cared about few in my social group. I was more concerned with being the biggest baddest bad-ass on the planet. But underneath our selfish exteriors, we are all just children who want to be understood and accepted. Remember this and you will be intimidated by few, perhaps none.

    You have to seek out the few special people who are really interested in caring and being cared about. The ones who truly do not give a *** about social status and see it all for what it really is- a shallow fallacy. In the real world, you become a hero by sticking to your tasks, by contributing to society, and by honoring your individuality. Not by conforming to a crowd; be they heroes or anti-heroes. Until you find those people, you have your family if you’re lucky. They are hopefully wonderful people who respect your opinions and love you unconditionally. They care about you enough to not let you live in your own bullshit, they challenge your beliefs, and they teach you all they know. Maybe your brother entertains you and tests your thinking, like mine does. Maybe your mother serves as a role model for competence, like mine does. And maybe your father pushes the envelope of intellectual curiosity. And your dog- maybe he wags his tail when you walk through the door and lies at your feet during slumber. Maybe your home is a safe haven you can escape to free from the insecurity of isolation. Mine is. And it strikes me as ironic that the very place I detested as a prison restricting me from my lawful freedoms, is now the only place I can turn to shield me from this over-complicated over-simplified abyss known as existence.

    G-d it’s good to be at child-like ease once again, even if it is only short-lived. Here I am accepted, here I am respected, I don’t fit in here but it doesn’t matter. I love it.

    Most people at my school are superbly functional- I miss the air of dysfunction that I grew up in. The second I walked into my grandma’s apartment after leaving school (the first time), I was greeted by my retarded brother sawing off scissor loops that were stuck securely to his fingers like stiff constricting rings. And only moments later I spotted a flowery night gown yelling in a distinct Jewish grandmother accent “How could you be so stupid?”

    Home sweet home.

    But still, that was nothing compared to the soothing dysfunction I am greeted with here. Of course, first by my tenacious brother.

    Mark: “Sam, why does Tigger smell so bad?

    Sam: (Thinks hard) I don’t know  ‘cuz… I have no idea.

    Mark: Because he’s always playing with pooh.

    Sam: (giggles) That’s funny.

    O but it’s not over…

    Mark: Ok, ok I got another one. What kind of bee produces milk?

    Sam: I don’t know a milk be.

    Mark: No. A boo-bee.

    Sam: (laughs) What are you, five?

    Ellen (Sam’s mother): I’d say about six.

    Mwa ha ha ha ha.

    Do you see what I mean? There are no boundaries in my family largely in part to my brother’s lack of social filter (due to his mental retardation).  Now that I have out-grown my immature discomfort; my juvenile denial of my parents’ human-experience, no topics are off limits. Not sex, not drugs, not bodily functions… And that is amazing. Knowing I can reveal the extent of my insanity and I will still be loved and respected. No matter how different I am, here there is no reason to be insecure. That is certainly not true for my social environments.

    I know everyone feels different to some extent; which is perfectly rational in the way that everyone’s experiences are in some way unique. But it appears that I have, for the most part, been wildly different from my social surroundings. And as a result I have often felt wildly insecure. In camp I started out as Isolated by shyness, and then I became outlandish and perverse. In public art school I felt isolated by my sheltered experience, and so I became a pathetic druggie bad-ass. In rehab, I didn’t give a ***. My priorities did not involve fitting in, they involved mostly getting    the *** out of rehab; an overwhelmingly imposing reality. So I worked, I worked my ass off, and discovered slowly but surely that it was ok to be the real me. On top of that, every resident was forced to show compassion, it was serious.  Talking behind a resident’s back was strictly prohibited, and we followed that statute simply because we never knew which of our peers would betray our trust in the name of staff’s approval. We played by the rules because we were afraid of getting caught, receiving punishment, and in turn having to stay an extra day, week, or month. O, the horror.  And though the “kindness and consideration” extended by my peers felt repulsively insincere, it still provided grounds for security. They were restrained from making my life miserable, they were forced to accept me, and so I had no social anxiety.  

    And then I ventured into real high school once again. Well it wasn’t really real. The school was centered on a progressive education; in other words, it was just another artsy-fartsy love your neighbor kind of environment. But luckily, no matter how hard the school tried, the students were still as superficial and judgmental as people tend to be in the real world.  And in a class of 36, that doesn’t leave many options. I was also going through a rough transition. I still longed to be accepted but was brainwashed with values counter intuitive to City-teenage life. The result: I tried to present my identity with the concreteness that the cool kids presented theirs. I over-exposed my opinions and my history because I felt the need to protect my identity, to explain to people why I could not be like them. I was hoping they would honor me for my past fearless attempts at sheer hard-coreness. I thought at the very least they would accept my otherness if they knew how I came to be this way. But they didn’t. And I say that this is lucky because I had to face reality sometime. I had to learn that in the real world, compassion and understanding are seldom shown.

    Accepting that Truth was painful, it still is, but it’s an important lesson to learn. It made me realize how lucky I really am to have this brain, this body, and this circumstance. It made me really value my individuality and find comfort in my own skin. Pretty soon life revealed itself to be my oyster, and what other people thought of my self-directed path was out of my control.

    “What other people think of me is none of my business.”- A favorite quote.

     And though I will always be curious and always try to read people- I know that their judgment is due only to their own ignorance. They need to look down at people in order to justify their worthiness as a human being, and that makes me feel sorry them. I’m sorry that their world and circumstances and identity do not permit them to be more open minded. But I understand that, for now they need to be that way in order to feel adequate.

    As for me, I still feel wildly different. I know I am hard to get for most people, and I know most rarely have the patience to try. In my college now, it seems that I grew up rather differently. I had more freedom to raise myself, to be myself, to make my own mistakes, to correct them on my own. Being a product of a dysfunctional family with a past burdened by tremendous loss, immigration, poverty, death, and mental disorders but blessed with intellect, love, money, freedom of expression, honesty, understanding, support, kindness, gratitude, and awe; seems to make me stand out among many who were driven by structure and societal standards. I am a result of Jewish school, hippie camp, then Jewish camp, then art school, followed by rehab, hippie school, and art school once again- I don’t really have your standard set of experiences. I don’t feel the standard pressure most do from their families. But it doesn’t matter. Today, I am pursuing self esteem. Nothing external can tell me whether I’m adequate or not. I was born, I live, and therefore I have a right to pursue my dreams, and channel my opinions toward a writing and art career. I don’t have to shout who I am at the top of my lungs anymore. I can remind myself where my perceptions lie silently in my work, or to the people who care.

     And as for the people who judge. It’s ok, go ahead and judge. The way I see it I have the capacity to be open minded. I have room to let the possibilities in reality overwhelm me, drive me a little crazy. I don’t have to protect my ideals rigidly and condescendingly because I can always respond to anxiety by writing or drawing about it. Others may not have an outlet for their anxiety and so they will protect themselves from feeling it. I feel sorry for you but I also don’t. Whoever you are, you will believe that you are better because you are different from me. I’m a little jealous because only my accomplishments contain enough power to boost my ego. You are simply lucky that you can feel self-esteem more easily. I don’t take it personally, just don’t bother me.

    I do my thing and you do your thing. I am not in this world to live up to your expectations, And you are not in this world to live up to mine. You are you, and I am I, and if by chance we find each other, it's beautiful. If not, it can't be helped.

    -          Gestalt Prayer

     p.s. I’m going to stop taking these sleep meds, they make me completely disoriented. And I still have to write about my new house, my boy problems, and my writing from wilderness; how Native American’s inspire me .

     

  • Tell me something, why is life so blah?

    I remember, back in middle school, when I didn’t do my homework, my mom would fix it with a note.

    To whom it may concern,

    Samantha was unable to complete her last two assignments due to a family emergency. Please allow her an extra day as she has yet to find time to review her school work.

    Best regards,

    Ellen ***

    Well, I’ve got a better excuse this time for not blogging. I just started a new sleeping meds and it makes me feel like ***. It’s supposed to the first couple of days which sucks balls. But I’ve been so fucking week, my throat’s all dry, my heads been killing me… I really couldn’t do a whole lot. So I saved my blogs for today because today the side effects are starting to wear as my body adjusts to its new chemicals. Yay!! So below is my “Why is life so Blah?” blog. Please enjoy. I’ll probably write like two or three today.

     

                    I’m not living in concrete fallacies anymore. Now that I’m older (almost eighteen) I realize how profoundly alone I am. I have to work and make my own choices. My parents might be responsible for my lack of preparation, but it doesn’t matter now. It’s on me- this is my life. If I give it my all, commit 100%, my chances of success are much better. Granted, I still need to balance work with personal needs to make sure I’m mentally stable. I think it will be ok. I know I’m a competent individual; It’s just a little scary especially with these new anxieties. But Its only natural that anxiety becomes more accessible as you get older. More to do = more to freak out about. Luckily my anxiety isn’t social anymore because I’m aware that life is bigger than human interaction. I have existential anxiety now, where inferiority complexes really belong. No human is all-knowing, no human is worth worshipping, but the mysterious fucking planet is. People can be understood but existence cannot. So I’m left looking up at the starry night sky, fully aware of how existentially insignificant I am.  But I have faith that there is more to life than natural being. I think there is an intellectual and spiritual purpose for our continuation, even if it is self-perpetuated. We all need to delude ourselves to some degree; humans can’t comprehend everything and still remain sane. I know that the world isn’t about me, but my world is. And I could be wrong about g-d, but no one has any proof. I feel a spiritual connection to life. I feel grateful for my creation. I feel like life is incredible and who can I thank for all this. Nature can’t explain why I am so conscious of me; nature can’t explain the depth of my soul. Everything is just too beautiful, too amazing to not have a mastermind behind it. G-d must be a boy. Dinosaurs? I mean really. What girl would think it was a good idea to have giant stupid lizards roam the planet.

                    Really, I can’t decide if I’m overly perceptive, if I see reality in many of its truths or if I’m just a fucking nut-case. I mean, I think I make perfect sense, but I’m sure schizophrenics think they make perfect sense too. The general consensus among my peers is that I’m a little bit extra out of my mind. But I think I need to be in order to find success in a creative field. I think I can assume I have the capacity to be more honest about life; I can afford to let the truth drive me a little crazy because I can always write about or draw it.

    Besides, what is mental health anyway? I’ve heard that it’s characterized by the stability of one’s illusions; that normal is when you gain self-esteem and believe whole heartedly in following the societal system. Normal is when you are more or less content to believe the word of higher authority to stay inside your own little box and not let your mind wonder to the actuality of the situation. To just be, trust, and follow… Well, I’m not normal. I can’t perceive life as a system laid out for me. I’m not content to follow cultural routine. I see life more like a shopping spree. It’s this store, this container, filled with all sorts of products and it’s a mad scramble to grab them off the shelf. One must fight for what they desire in life. Yes, there is a general order of things. But life is. It just exists, it’s this boring continuum of absolutely nothing.  I mean, it is strictly what you make it. And I’m wondering at this point in my life. What differentiates a hobby from a resume builder? Is this blog a whiney waste of time or a move toward a writing career? Genius editorial or crazy rant? Honest or shameless? Am I moving in the right direction at the very least?

     

    Someone give me feedback. Am I breaking down social barriers, am I exposing hidden truths. Or am I just revealing what a head case I actually am? My work, is it work? Or is it creative obsession? I have to think about these things, it’s not just school anymore. It’s not just eight hours out of my day and then homeward bound where I can watch TV and eat Mac and cheese.  I need to be productive. I should talk to someone. I should talk to Amy.

    Amy? Peter? How does one make it in their respective creative field? Is it a combination of exposure, networking, persistence, luck, individuality, a degree, talent, intelligence? Really, you promise? Because I’m scared; I don’t really have a day job to fall back on. I plan to move back to New York for grad school. Work as a yoga teacher and pursue an art and writing career until opportunity comes a’ knocking. Till then I’m going to study, learn, dissect the meaning of everything, understand, breathe, sleep, smile at strangers blankly concealing the ever spinning wheels of perceptions within.

    Seriously, sometimes I feel like running up to people and saying “Hello perfect stranger, underneath all the lies of our development we are actually the same.” What the *** are social barriers? They are intangible, where do they come from? I just want to like shake people and say “this isn’t real, this little world, everything is so massive and abstract.” There is no formula, no guarantees; the world is your grand mysterious fucking oyster.” Ahhhhh…. It’s so crazy. I’m either totally encompassed by this moment or I’m constantly reminded of how insignificant it is. If I try to delude myself, I go too far and dive into my narrow logic whole-heartedly. If I break down my illusions the flood gates of truth come pouring in and I get anxious. And I know the answer. There is plan, follow it but be mindful that nothing is inevitable. That this = Degree but from there… You just have to keep trying.

    I don’t have to work my ass off to get a degree, I don’t have to give 100%, but I want to. I like to bear my soul in my work and I would like some justification that hard work validates some higher purpose. I guess I’m just more anxious now because I’m working on my own. No concrete assignments. I’m just studying and analyzing life for my own mental health, for writing and art material, I’m studying this and that out of curiosity. It’s awesome I love it. But I just hope it’s a productive move toward my future, toward exposure, and not just the clinical obsession of a basket case. Either way, it’s got to be healthier then what I used to do to pass the time. ..

     

  • The case for G-d By Sam L

    My final conclusion is that I believe G-d exists. Not that he does for certain, but that I certainly believe. Why? Well first of all; I need to. I have to believe that I exist beyond nature’s intention; that I’m not here to simply make babies and die. I must believe I have a purpose because I can’t carry an imaginary one out. I can’t do this just for myself. I don’t have enough “power” to believe my work is revolutionary and genius and the whole world must be made aware of my intimate understandings of life.

    I can’t flesh out an entire religion, I just assume that G-d’s schemes are divine and beyond my comprehension. This logic gives me permission to believe. Aside from that, there still remains one fundamental argument in favor of G-d. Why does man know he is a man? What intelligent design, what evolutionary purpose explains the need for an animal to know specifically what kind of animal he is? Why did Homo sapiens evolve into a species with instincts as well as complex thoughts? I am under the assumption that a two-legged mammal can survive without being at the top of the food chain? Must we have the neurological ability to reach close to full comprehension of our surroundings in order to continue to survive? I don’t think so. I think we could physically function as a species with half the knowledge we contain. We can climb trees, we have bodily defenses. So what is the answer then?

    Somewhere along the line the primate was metaphorically or for all we know literally cast from Eden? G-d said, “Do not eat the forbidden fruit or you will surely die.” Guess what? All animals will surely die, but man is the only animal who knows this because he “ate from the tree of knowledge.”

     For whatever reason G-d thought it would be kind of cool to see if he gave an animal the option of G-d-like comprehension for the price of death, would he take it? He said to himself, what if I created an animal who knows he’s an animal? I believe the storey presents the idea of blissful ignorance, but bliss isn’t life. Life is crazy and complicated and cool. Totally overwhelming but totally worth comprehending…

    What is bliss then? A coma basically, one we should not exist in but access every once in a while. For now, we have this curse/gift. Take note of this irony: Though this g-d-like comprehension is capable of solving most of life’s problems it will surely never solve one. Of all the things we can figure out, we will still never know why man obtained this higher consciousness. And so I am only left to conclude that G-d gave it to us for some abstract purpose and he/she/ it is watching. Imagine what G-d knows... I mean, we don’t know everything, but we know that we don’t know everything. So the creator must have the answers to our questions as well as information we can’t even think to speculate about. The creator must have some kind of multi-dimensional system of thought. The creator must be very creative.

    Ooo, here’s a nice thought. Maybe I’m not crazy; maybe I’m just creative which is just another way of saying closer to G-d’s multi-faceted level of comprehension. Not to be conceded, everyone is creative. Think about how your creative outlet gives you an entirely different understanding of life. I perceive experiences in words, in images, and in emotions; musicians might register experiences in sounds, scientists in internal structure, mathematicians in numbers or volume or angles... There are certain things in life I put little emphasis on. I pay certain objects or concepts no mind; I do not question them further. Other people though, they value the things I don’t; they understand the things I don’t even notice. The creator must have all these perceptions; G-d must comprehend every known level of truth and then some. Imagine how complex…

     

  • Who wants to demystify sex? … I do.

    Forgive the delay, but the topic of sex often evokes extra-lengthy rants.

     

    Do not misjudge, I’m not a complete and total exhibitionist. I am a fan of keeping private matters somewhat private. But that’s the beauty of writing; there’s no one else here but me and my shiny red laptop. Writing is my pornography, my Avril Lavigne- my guilty pleasure.

     

    Nothing should be held sacred in creative expression. Creative expression is sacred enough.  

     

    So who wants to ponder the actuality of a guy plunging his sharp erect *** (I can’t believe I just wrote that) into a tender and wet ***, followed by heavy thrusting in succession? Who wants to talk about how that sentence alone makes it sound powerful, graceful, and erotic, when really it’s sweaty, clumsy, and awkward? This of course depends strictly on your state of mind at the time.

     

    The goal is to be too caught up in the pleasure to think anything but “Uh Uh Uh.” (Sorry that’s the best I can do in terms of simulated sex noises) But we should all know by now that this is not always the case. Here’s how I see it.

     

    Though biologically sex is strictly fertilization, the act obviously holds much more meaning to humans. We want it beyond our biological cravings, or at least our cravings are strong enough to extend into our thinking. And so because we want Sex with more than just our bodies, it cannot be treated as a mere physical act. There are psychological precautions one has to take in order to ensure that intellectual desires are not sacrificed in the name of bodily ones.

     

    The general rules as I see them:

     

    If you don’t know your “lover” well and you choose to *** them because they’re hot (or along similar lines), you get too caught up in trying to please them. If you don’t care about them enough you will feel detached and become starkly aware of how un-sexy humping really is. But if those things aren’t even in question, you’ll get into it. You may be unsure and nervous in the beginning, but you guys will like each other enough not to let that turn you off.  Eventually, if not immediately, you’ll like it. You might love it. You will crave it.

     

    Good sex Cums (sorry, I couldn’t resist) from the equilibrium of wanting and working to please and be pleased.  Not too much chase and not too much being chased after. It’s that interest, the flirting, the flaunting, that subtle playful putting out, followed by that animal claiming and conquering. There is nothing more pleasurable than the simultaneous satisfaction of “getting off” and the ego boost of getting your “special friend” off.  You’re a slave to and master of sex at the same time.  But this idealistic way of looking at sex ain’t gonna happen unless you love your relationship enough to make sure you both enjoy it. You want to be able to trust the person isn’t faking it and that you’re actually good at what you do. And you want to be comfortable enough to not settle for being a mere sex receptacle.

     

    This is why, casual “no-strings-attached” sex, especially among youth , is complete and total bullshit. I mean you’re a fucking teenager, you hate yourself.  You’re either too self-serving or too much of a fucking sheep to really care about your sexual needs. And so engaging in the promised act of pure pleasure is not executed correctly. What is the result? Rejection, guilt, shame, a tainted reputation…  These things negate half the fun (quick math quiz: what is half fun + -half fun?)

     

    I guess you can argue that some sex is better than no sex. And I would argue that this depends thoroughly on your gender. You would be hard-pressed to find a slutty girl beaming with self-confidence in anything but her body/ general sexual skill. She may think she is a confident girl because she finds pride in her anti-conformist pleasure seeking lifestyle. But this is a fallacy and she will soon see that it is wishful thinking to believe that self-esteem is as easy to achieve as screwing as many people as possible. But why should she not be entitled to this thoughtless behavior, if it is allowed, encouraged even in her male counter-part?

     

    Well, part of it for that very reason. She’s stuck with a reputation he is not. She is shunned while he is revered. I also think it does come down to simple biology. I think girls have maternal instincts that burn with more vigor then the less-necessary paternal ones. I think she inescapably values sex more and in different ways.

     

    But I think promiscuity takes a psychological toll on all genders, hero or filthy whore. It is just girls have to pay a higher price for their foolishness.  Is this fair? No, but it’s realistic. It will always be a man’s world because women will biologically and sociologically strive harder for monogamy. Racism will be removed from this earth before misogyny. Look, I don’t like this dynamic, I’m all about role-reversal. But that is a game that has to be played with strategy. Bottom line ladies, no one is going to support your “cause” if you are mimicking the behaviors you detest in men.

     

    Moving on, I had sex irresponsibly.  I started too young. Taste it and it becomes a craving; another potentially addictive substance to be managed for those of us who have problems with the concept of “too much of a good thing.” There comes a point when you realize, because it becomes true, that nothing in life is free. We live in a world where pleasure reaps its psychological benefits but not without a tinge of guilt and the looming threat of potential over-indulgence. The fact that there exists an act that has the ability to satisfy both mind and body is truly a gift. But it’s a curse, a temptress who calls to us softly and seductively at all hours of conscious and unconsciousness.

     

    I am pro-fucking. But like alcohol, drugs, chocolate, and the like… it has its repercussions. Once it is in your life, you will never want it out, and so it has to be managed mindfully and with caution. You will inevitably feel deprived from too little and distracted from too much. Consider the other problems in your life. Do you have your school work, your mental and your physical health under control? Can you afford to tip the balance by adding on another weight?

     

    If you can… go on, taste the forbidden fruit. After all what is the joy of Eden if you can’t appreciate that you’re there.

     

    But remember, it is still not simple. One of the fundamental desires of us humans is to be accepted even if we only admit it in secret. We want to be adored unconditionally for who we are. Having a sexual relationship is being accepted and understood in your entirety; Mind and Body. I have lots of relationships where I am mostly mind, that doesn’t scare me because to me, I am my mind. My body feels more like an extension of me, a projection of who I am, if you will. So to be only a body to someone; well that’s so strange. Why would my mind want to be only a body? Actually scratch that. I don’t think that’s a good way of putting it because we all want to escape our minds sometimes. I think the question is; how can it be good for a person to abandon the securities their mind craves in order to fulfill their bodily desires? How can it be good to *** and be fucked, completely detached from the fact that you are both intellectual people who have intellectual desires? One can never be just a body, so wouldn’t it be self destructive and deceptive to act as though one were?

     

    Sex is cool, for sure, but it is my understanding that it is terribly over simplified in its cultural presentation. Now you may say, “Sam, stop being such a girl.” I am often told that not everybody assigns meaning to sex. Not everyone views trustless fucking as an anticlimactic move toward ultimate closeness. Some people crave pure, uncomplicated, sexual sensation to fill the gap now occupied by boredom. And do that I say “Bullshit.” Plainly and simply, if you’re bored, you play some fucking solitaire. If you’re bored, horny, and want some company, you ***. But you are left quite literally screwed if the company is fleeting. Wanting companionship is always tied to an emotion, it could be about feeling abandoned or it could be about wanting gratification. But either way, it is an intellectual desire, one that cannot be met by a mindless act.

     

    See, I can’t tell you if it’s worth it; if the pros of sexual satisfaction and cultural heroism outweigh the cons of the emotional bullshit attached to self-deception. All I can tell you is that sex without trust and attraction is not worth it to me. And I say this as a highly sexual human being. I would rather go six months without any form of “getting off” than six months with even one unfulfilling sexual encounter.

     

    Granted it was not thoughtful advice that led me to the certainty of my conclusions. Perhaps my words are still empty and ring absolutely false to some? But that I cannot know for sure either, because no one ever did talk to me about sex honestly. No one did care to inform me that there was a middle ground between the societal motto of “Use a condom” and the religious “Premarital sex= damnation.” Actually, I take that back. From time to time I did hear “Don’t have sex until you’re ready.”  Great … what the *** is that supposed to mean?

     

    Had anyone cared to elaborate, had anyone cared to shake me from my stubborn naïveté and say “Sam, don’t be such a retard, there is no such thing as purity on earth, if at all, nothing pleasurable is without consequence; not chocolate, not alcohol, not drugs… Even masturbation holds the potential for addiction, taste the forbidden fruit and you are forever cast from the blissful ignorance of Eden. “- what would I have said?

     

    Would the light have suddenly come one? Would I have understood and bowed out gracefully from my curiosity? Or would I have said “Thanks for the non-sequitur Saint Marry, but you’re wrong. I, unlike most stupid children, am emotionally unaffected. Sex is [supposedly] fun and fun is fun; like playing on swing sets or petting a kitty.”

     

    But those things were only fun because we were told to stop before we got nauseous and threw-up or before we killed the poor Kitty with our greedy puerile fingers. Our limits and responsibilities were taken care of then, and when we reflect we see those blissful moments as pure pleasure because we were sheltered from the personal struggles of life.

     

    The truth of the matter is when it comes to sex, we have only a vague idea of what we’re getting into. (If you can even call the cultural concoction of the Hollywood sex scenes, the porn, the pretentious boasting, and the blurred biological/religious education vaguely representational) How smart is it to let your curiosity get the better of you at this moment in time? To “put out” with only the guarantee of sexual satisfaction (Which, let’s be honest is non-existent because performance can be lacking on either side) is to rob yourself of the experience that sex is truly supposed to be.”

     

    I know- it sucks. But true to the nature of reality, it’s at least funny and ironic. When you’re little they tell you to treasure your childhood; to not try and grow-up too fast. But I was all “Whatever, whatever, I do what I want.” Little did I know… that when the anticipated time of total freedom came, I would not want to act with the irresponsibility I honored in early adolescence. Cool and life-fulfilling are no longer interchangeable in my mind. I was told that this would happen but I was told in these condescendingly simple words “Everything changes when you get older.” Tell me something, why are life lessons communicated so fucking vaguely?

     

    Why can’t teachers just tell us that optimal arousal is complicated? That it involves ultimate relaxation which involves the reassurance that both parties want to please and be pleased equally. It’s not so shamelessly graphic- at least not compared to some biology classes I’ve sat through… All you really have to say is “In good sex, getting your partner off will make you feel like a g-d. You will want to please them and you can trust that they honestly appreciate your labor. And when you “get off,” well, you get off… need I say more?” Why is it always “just remember to use a condom” or “have sex before marriage and you will burn in the fiery pits of hell”? I mean really.

     

    Why don’t people talk about the psychology of sex? A healthy mind is really the most important attribute in living, is it not? Yes, You could contract aids and yeah, you might go to hell, but it is a guarantee that you will psychologically feel something. Whether is the gratification of “tapping that ass” of the despair of feeling used, you are human and you will reflect on your experience. Especially one as biologically and culturally significant as sex. You cannot just act, as instinctual as it may be, and expect not to think. You are a theological homo sapien unless you are a rabbit or a retard. (I have license to say this, my brother is retarded)

     

    The expectation is unavoidable but here is the best way I can break down the truth about sex: The chase- is exhilarating, the close- is gratifying, and the act- can be both, topped with a layer of orgasmic satiation. (If you don’t know what this alone feels like I suggest you find some good instructions on the internet) But the come-down is inevitable. As with any mind-numbing activity, one eventually sobers up; only you have the power to ease that fall from utopia... Please, allow me one more analogy to drive the point home.

     

    Which option sounds more appealing; waking up hung-over on a Sunday afternoon, book-bag zipped since Friday with a midterm and project due Monday morning or biting the bullet and studying Friday night, still waking up hung-over Sunday but this time guilt-free. Why give into the glamour attached to recklessness [Sam] when you can reap the benefits of responsibility? In theory reckless abandon might seem like more fun because it connotates pure freedom. But what is really more enjoyable, security or uncertainty? Freedom isn’t free anyway. At the end of the day we are bound by at least one responsibility even if it is as instinctual as not to die. So live; live by structuring your responsibilities and pleasures in such a way to cause optimal fulfillment. To put it simply but with more clarity than any public service anouncement I've come by: "Find pleasure in your societal responsibilities and seek pleasure responsibley."

     

  • Must stop thinking or brain will self-destruct

     

    A very interesting phenomenon self deception is.

    When I was first sent away, I was hysterical. I was absolutely devastated and wasn’t shy about it either. I mean, I had completely fucked up my life to do drugs and hang with the cool kids. Once they were gone… what did I have? Nothing. Nothing but the fucking Utah desert and the fucking ***-hole I had dug myself into. It’s like that morning after a drunken stupor feeling- only times a billion. It was just mind blowing-ly overwhelming and I couldn’t do a thing about it. And yet, there is no denying that in the back of my mind there was a presence of relief. It’s over Sam… no more fighting…you lost now give in.

     

    The self-deception made my circumstances actually kind of enjoyable after a while. On the one hand, I knew this Rehab world was not my real society and so I felt no pressure to engage socially. I didn’t give a *** what these girls thought of me, I just wanted to spend every moment I could out of reality. I read, I wrote, I spent a lot of time isolating. It was nice in a way not to feel any loyalty to my immediate surroundings because I felt so attached to my old one, “the real one” in my mind.  And on the other hand I was silently glad to be out of my old lifestyle. It was seriously draining…

    Until High school, I never had to function as a small fish in a big pond. I was used to attention- not just attention- but praise. When I had to walk down hallways, up flights of stairs, past unfamiliar gazes, and sit in crowded classrooms- I don’t think I could ever fully comprehend that this was school. I made it a point to secure some kind of role in my giant community. I would not allow myself to be just another sheep in the herd. But I did become one- Just in a stupid herd. I was in a herd of black sheep if you will; still a conformist only wearing nonconformist eye-liner.

    I always had this desire to be an authentic self. Standards scared me because I never wanted to be a reflex of someone else’s opinions or expectations. But I was. I believed people expected me to be to be crazy- that they lost interest when I didn’t shock them. I became a reflex of expectations I perceived, ones that probably didn’t even exist. And I grew tired and week from the self-perpetuated pressure. I was ready to surrender.

    My circumstances in college were similar. It’s not so much that I was starving for attention. Cool wasn’t on my mind as much as comfortable was. But I think I put too much pressure on myself. I’m a bizarre fucking human being. I think I’m asking too much from my weird self to be comfortable being my weird self in every social situation. Especially when I’m so tuned in to peoples judgments. I think I need to be a reflex to some degree. Nod, smile and walk away rather than fight constantly to be accepted for who I am. I know that I need to express myself, I mean; I plan to make a career out of it. But I have to conserve my energy a little better…

     

    Today I feel that same essence of comfortable withdrawal that I had in rehab; the motivation to diligently pursue graduation with the desire to open up and enjoy the ride. I have enough confidence to know that my opinion is worth-wile. What I have to say may be unconventional at times but I know it holds some truth. I can’t put all my efforts toward convincing my immediate surroundings of this, I have a role to play not just in my social circle, but in my classes, in my college, in pursuit of my career, and in society as a whole. I have to be a contributing member to something larger than the here and now in order to be a whole person. And even though I yearn to be understood, and yes, even praised, I have a better shot at getting my messages across through diligence and hard work. Not many people really want to listen to my inarticulate banter, but they may want to read it in the form of edited sentences or view it in the form of avant-garde art.

    Tune in next time for Sam's opinion about sex.

  • I’m profound, so *** you!!

     

    I didn’t write last night because I’m a lazy ho. No I’m just kidding I’m wonderful.

    So, I’m back at escuela this week… Crazy isn’t it? It feels really weird: Like I’m walking around in this safe little bubble, which I am- essentially.  I might as well take advantage of it. It’s hard for me to think of this campus as school. I’ve never really been able to feel like a part of something big; Never really been able to function as a small fish in a big pond. But this world is kind of big, so I’ll probably have to start getting used to being part of an actual population.

     

    In a lot of ways I feel a lot more prepared for college than I did only a few months ago. I mean even though my anxiety is in full blast and I remind myself at least once a day how ginormous this world is. I feel really lucky and really safe to be on campus. Compared to the real world, this one is a little underwhelming. Which is a good feeling because before I came here I was sort of, well no, I was living in my own world. I was really doing whatever the *** I wanted and nobody demanded anything from me for months. But now I actually have responsibilities to a simulated society and to myself to be a productive civilian. It’s a scary feeling because it means I am less free. But it’s actually a very safe feeling.

     

    I more or less have a role to play. The bare bones of the script are already written. I have just have to read the lines with a little improvisation here and there. And besides, left to my own devices, I don’t exactly have the strength to really hold myself up as a competing member of American society. I have thus far always shrunk back into my own little fallacies. So I don’t have to be so scared right now. I just have to follow a plan and let it inspire me along the way. I’m not going to make money living exclusively in my own head and I’m not going to feel good about myself. I have to expand my Sam world to encompass this college world. And that’s all it is; an expansion of my own little world, demoting the primary goals of my first world to secondary.

     

    Everyone lives in their own little worlds with in little worlds with in little worlds. It’s just as you get older you become mature enough to handle larger more realistic ones, probably because you don’t have a choice. And that’s my opinion, which as an artist I have to express other whys I have nothing to offer society. It is my responsibility to keep talking, so I will even when no one will listen. Being an artist of any kind is after all just a license to continue compulsively speculating about truth and to express your opinion obsessively.

     

  • So life is kinda crazy

    One minute I feel like an insignificant speck on this vast planet, the next I feel like I’m on top of the world. It’s so strange…

    I know I should march through life like it’s a project to be worked on but sometimes I feel so lost in the shuffle. I want to keep going and doing but I inevitably stop and I ask myself why? What for? And the only relevant answer has nothing to do with babies to feed or money to make. The only response I can ever internalize is; because I have to… Because no one is going to do it for me. Because I occupy my body and I’m stuck with it. If I Stop, I will be lost in introspection, I must keep pushing further and trust that some good will come. I just want to speak my mind and hope that I can make money doing that…. And sometimes I don’t think I’m good enough but honestly success really isn’t measured in talent- Its measures in perseverance. There are tons of talentless nobodies making a fortune and tons of creative geniuses stuck in the oblivion of insanity. I am not so conceded that I can speak my mind believing that I deserve the attention. But I know I have to continue to express myself I because if I didn’t I would really be nothing. I would have no purpose. I was born with an ever-spinning wheel of perception and I need to use it or render myself useless. Hopefully somewhere along the lines I can inspire somebody and live for some other reason than to just be. Hopefully I will cause little suffering and lots of joy. Then I guess life is my creative project and like all of my projects I am compelled to make it distinctly mine. Hey Jordyn, thanks for being my audience. I really do appreciate it. I believe in what I have to say but sometimes that’s not enough you know… thanks for that little something extra. It helps, really it does.

     

  • A tangent about G-d and my unique self

    (Pardon the hyphen in G-d. It’s a Jewish school thang.)

    So, I’ve established that I’m a very sensitive person. I am not quick to judge and I often look to understand the structure behind the projection. I am always aware that there is one. Or I believe that there is. No one and nothing simply is what it is. Everything is a result of…

    I am groping violently for the truth, for the deeper meaning. I am not content to leave anything simply. My creations;  my school assignments, my artwork, my everything, always has to reek of my thoughtful perceptions...

    How can I justify that? Why do I have the right to attach myself to my creations? Why must everything; my clothes, my room, my demeanor, my passions, my style, why must it all bear my individual stamp? What makes me so fucking rebellious, so anti- conformist, so soul-searching? Why do I care so fucking much about being true to myself?

     

    I am told it is because I am a creative person. But that is too esoteric an explanation for me. True to my creative spirit, I must search for deeper meaning…

    Let’s define creative shall we, ok, I will; How about… One who is inclined to apply internally constructed logic? Think about it. My main creative outlets are writing and art, both in which I try to recreate exactly what I see and feel. I am conjuring ways to express the truth. Conjuring implies internally constructing and the expression of truth is a synonym for logic. In trying to represent a 3-d apple in two dimensions, I must engineer an effective way of doing so. In trying to describe the visual, I construct sentences using a series of words that I think will best convey experience.

    I do approach life creatively, I will agree with that. Not just in creative outlets. But I am trying to find meaning in this world. I insist on having a system of thought, on talking about what is deep, real, and hidden. I am not content to be an average anything and that in itself is creative. It’s not about being the best. It’s about being me. Not denying any part of me for anyone or anything and questioning the rules and given society imposes on me. And how am I to explain the presence of this creative or internally constructed logical thinking? I have no fucking clue.

    When I was in rehab my father always used to send me these letters. Again and again he used the word; empowered. He wanted me to feel empowered in my competence as the unique individual that I am. He wanted me to strive for something great because he believed I was destined for it. He wanted me to believe it too. The temptation of a life pleasure seeking was beneath me. He insisted that I not reduce to my potential to just that. Although he did think I was rather brave and creative for trying…

    So, in devoting myself to a life of pleasure seeking, I was assigning an uncommon meaning to life. I had come to the conclusion that life was about nothing more than pleasure and I followed through with my application of that logic. Now I know sex, drugs, and rock and roll isn’t exactly original, but still… Is it not creative to reject societal standards and instead search for my own?

    So why does my father believe that someone who has dedicated their life to being their own person is profoundly competent. If anything I would say they were rather incompetent for taking themselves out of the culturally imposed rat-race toward success. How can he be so trusting of my potential? Does he really believe I hold the power to make it in this world only conforming to the rules that I, the one in drug rehabilitation, see as fit?

    And if I do then riddle me this: how am I supposed to find this “power” in myself?  How the *** am I supposed to exceed the expectations of a mere mortal and yet except that biologically, that is all I am. I am just a fucking evolved monkey. The complexities of my thoughts and emotions are just the result of a bunch of cells fucking each other, or whatever they do. My personality is just an intricate web of lies I instill to protect my self-perceived vulnerabilities. And my particular way of approaching life, my reasoning, my logic, has not proven to be anything close to superior.  

    I suppose I could think that my genes and impressions mixed in such a way that makes me predisposed to some unique power. But I don’t think I’m content to explain my potential as an individual as some biological and experiential fluke. Scientifically, I am but a natural being, with hardly a devine purpose, and yet I don’t believe that for a second. How can I justify thinking that I am special?

    Perhaps the question is not how can I? But why am I trying to? Why am I not content to accept the widely accepted? It seems that it is not enough for me to know that I am unique in genetic makeup; I have to prove that I am something more than a lucky compilation of x and y chromosomes. So I end up unconsciously creating (there’s that word again) different ways of being, of thinking, and doing; all to fully express and discover the unique self I insist exists within.

     

    And as far as I can tell, in every environment that I’ve been in, my ways of being, thinking, and doing have been extremely different from those around me. They’ve been extremely different from every societal norm. Socially, I fit in well, and yet fundamentally I relate to few. I love human contact because in the moment it negates the profound isolation I feel in my worldly perceptions. I just feel so fucking different. And of course no one can understand the totality of my “self.” I don’t even understand the totality of my “self.” But I think I do more than most people. I think I’m much more in touch with my distinctions. I care a lot about what makes me specifically me. So it is only natural that I ponder why over and over and over again. Why did I do this? Why am I this way? Why is it so important for me to justify?

     

    Because I am an artist. And it is my nature to try and understand things as they are and not to conform my ideas to readily available labels. Labels are so blatant in their connotations and I see nothing as good or bad. I see nothing as black or white.  To reduce something to a label is to oversimplify its beauty and to extract a lot of its truth. But to assign it too much meaning is to give it too much attention, too much of oneself. I have an intense urge to comprehend the meaning, the truth, the intention of life. Why the *** am I here? How the *** did I happen? And I am not content to just shrug my shoulders and take my place in society. I need to know. And so I try to understand and fasten an understanding and that in itself makes me creative. And the products of my creativity, my writing, and my art, are just a testament to the yearning I have to comprehend truth. My creations are how I can show society that my unwillingness to conform to always search for deeper meaning has a purpose. With my art and my writing I say, “Here is how I understand and this is the best way I can describe it.” But what I still have yet to figure out is how I can believe that my opinion, one of a genetically endowed mortal at best, matters?

     

    Could there be a divine purpose for my existence after all? Maybe I think I’m extraordinary because I am destined for something extraordinary. Perhaps I am meant to continue on this self- excavated race for personal success. There are too many signs, to many coincidences… My life feels like it makes too much sense.  Like there are too many external interconnections to believe that human existence is just a biological fluke. Though I can’t except a G-d of anyone religious understanding, I have a hunch that there is a creator; that he or she or it developed a cosmic pattern that is developed. Do I think that I have a destiny? Not quite. But I think that every kind of choice is followed by a perpetuating circumstance and that there are atmospheric patterns we can sometimes observe. But every pattern in life experience cannot be exposed because how is one really to communicate the extent of their experience. But we already have proven patterns in psychology, in nature, in math… If man generated math; a system of numbers that work together in intricate ways, then maybe I can think of G-d as the generator of  atmospheric mathematics; one that is mimicked by every pattern in existence to a lesser and lesser intricacy. Maybe G-d is really just some convoluted pattern? I don’t know.

     

    All I know is that if I was simply intended to make babies and die then I would have been born a fucking rabbit. I am a human for a reason. I am me for a reason and I have a duty to be that self; to thrust every inch of me upon this mysterious world. To work my ass off and show everyone and myself what I am capable of. Why? I have no fucking clue. I don’t think I’m self-centered enough to believe the whole world would improve if only everyone embraced my philosophical views. I don’t want to contribute because I think the whole classroom of society deserves to hear me. I have the urge to contribute, to speak, to thrust myself onto this world for my own satisfaction. I want to be part of something bigger than me and yet I want to be nobodies ***. How am I to do both? How am I to contribute to a society with social standards that go against my own?

     

    By the grace of G-d?  And where is this G-d now? And if he exists does he really want to get involved in my personal life? Am I to believe he will hear my prayers and provide salvation for the bratty teenager over the starving child in… everywhere?  If so, G-d should really fucking reassess his priorities.  No, I think I must conclude that if G-d exists it would be in some removed form.  One who will not directly tell me what I should do with my developed individuality.  One who will let me go on pondering  why  I have been so persistent  in cultivating it. In short, I believe what I have to say is new and relevant. And I ask how can I go on believing this unless I believe my perceptions are special? And how can I justify believing my perceptions are special if I am but a figment of biology? Am I content to believe that my genes and circumstances intertwined in such a profoundly unique way, or is it something deeper?

     

    I want to say this to G-d; “Promise me I am not wasting my time on this Earth. Promise me that my rigid commitment to self-discovery, my constant search for meaning is not in vein. Promise me I am not isolating my mentality from the rest of societies and standing up for who I am for no good reason. Promise me that I can handle the burden of living up to no particular standard, that I can handle the struggle of being true to myself even if that means sacrificing comfort. Tell me I can do this, tell me I should do this, tell me at the very least that I know deep down the right thing for me to do.” Hmmm…Maybe G-d reveals himself as a conscience. Maybe he is that thick stream of guilt diffusing through our blood when we know we have wronged. Maybe G-d is that humble grip of confidence we feel when we know what we did was right. Maybe the advice of Jiminy Cricket is worth noting? Can I trust myself to “let my conscience be my guide?”

     

    Wait a second...Could it be?...Is Jiminy Cricket in fact, G-d?

     

  • This is Sam’s almost fundamental Dilemma

     

    Hold that thought, I’m going to brush my teeth. I’ll be right back...

    K, so for whatever reason, I really like talking to, listening to, and helping people. I really like being supportive. I don’t know why. I like to think I’m just a very compassionate and generous person but I know there is some personal gratification involved. I’m trying to figure it out. I don’t think it’s so much that I want to be a hero… I think it’s more that relating to people reminds me that I’m not alone… we all struggle. I also really like seeing the man behind the mask. It’s interesting to study the difference between what a person is and what a person shows… It’s gratifying for me, to really understand someone and why they’ve adopted the habits and character that they have. I guess it’s just a form of learning that I really enjoy. I don’t know. But sometimes it’s really hard. People are usually comfortable being sad with me, letting me know what pains them, what scares them… and that’s hard. When you hear things that make you so sad, you can’t even handle it and you wonder how on earth the person who is dealing with it directly can. It burns. Anyone know what I’m talking about?

     

    For example, I love my grandmother. She’s an inspiring human being. She’s been through so much. I mean even just imagining… She was born in 1920 in Germany. Think about what that entails. There’s surviving the post WWI conditions, the anti-Semitism, then the actual conditions of concentration camp, her brother’s death, her survivors guilt, the her mother’s death, immigration, raising her family, her husband’s death… seriously. The list goes on and on. She is nothing short of a living heroin. But of all the things she could choose to complain about, she lingers on one and only one.

     

    She remarried when my mother was twelve to a very wealthy business man. He had a son who was severely mentally ill. In hasty mumbles my family will sometimes throw in the word schizophrenic. Apparently he was a very difficult child and on top of that he was spoiled by his father and his wealthy family. And now… Now his condition resembles that of an elderly man in a nursing home.

     

    Uncle Steve. I knew him. He disappeared from my life before I hit the double digits and we weren’t exactly close before that. He was strange. He was fat. And as a little girl that was reason enough for me not to like him. But he was nice. I don’t really remember anything he said except for one short dinner conversation where he gave a lecture about not using his drinking water to wash out his shirt-stain because it would just make his shirt more wet. Sounds rational enough. Nothing really loiters in my memory as particularly crazy. But then again, I was young and I wasn’t around him much. I’m told he was functional enough to piss away 2 million dollars in gamboling and “business endeavors”.

     

     He didn’t quite give up on life until one of his oldest and dearest friends was shot and killed. Although I cannot present the facts in their entirety, I know the story goes something like this: His friend owned and managed a well known deli in the east village. He often went to the bank to deposit large sums of money after a night of work. My uncle was there, as he often was, dining on complimentary deli food, when his friend asked him to accompany him to the bank. My grandmother is under the assumption that he wanted my large uncles company for security as he held an envelope stashed with cash in his hand. Anyway my uncle declined for whatever reason and that night his friend was killed.

     

    Since then Uncle Steve has been nothing but a hushed topic and a childhood memory. However. Now that I am older I realize that the pleasure dome of family security is a fallacy; that the promise that there is no pain under family protection is a lie. The reassuring grins are as dishonest as the people who bestow them and the safety net is nothing but a fragile web of secrets.

    Still, I am not bitter… on the contrary.

     

    Yes, it was a little shocking at first to reach the point of intellectual awareness that there is no heaven on earth. Safety zones only exist on baseball diamonds or in some juvenile variations of tag. There are no oases, it is my belief they do not exist even under g-d’s protection. I say this because I visited the old city of Jerusalem this past May. Even at the height of my adolescent cynicism, the old city remained the last symbol of true magic in my mind. It stood distantly as subconscious permission to cling to my thread of youthful optimism and Jubilance.  But symbolism once again reduced itself to abstraction,  as the streets of the old city revealed themselves as sketchy as those of the South Bronx. The definition of faith manifested itself, once and for all, as blind.

    I am in some way relieved to be starkly aware of this truth and freed (for the most part) from the confines of immaturity. I am in someway relieved to know that I am my own moral guide, my own parent, and home is where I live. Of course, I still have the comfort of financial dependency which I’m sure will be a whole nother shock to shake me from my infantile ignorance.

    Yes it’s scary, but it’s real.  And the sooner you come to grips with reality, the sooner you can take charge. Once you know you are not a slave to any person, to any system, to any moral code, you are free. Not saying that I don’t choose to abide by rules, but that is the key, I choose to. And in most instances it is because I believe it is worth it and not because I am afraid not to. Now that I am conscious of this human independence, I am in fact almost completely mentally independent. There is no going back. I think I am in reductionistic reality, alone, and therefore I am- Existentialism.

    My grandmother seems grateful that she no longer has to put on a happy face and waste her energy sheltering me from the truth. Instead, she tells me everything. And everything involves things that I’m not sure I’m ready to hear. It’s not so much the holocaust experience, because I am so detatched from that level of suffering. It’s much more so Uncle Steve.

     

    Uncle Steve, her stepson, who is now arthritic and living out each day confined to his mattress. Uncle Steve, who has a slew of infections, diseases, and is living without teeth off ice-cream and mayonnaise. His father, my grandfather, at 94 is still working diligently and though he walks with a walker, he is still equipped with every last molar and k-9. And his step mother, my grandmother , is apparently the sponsor for his misery. She was and is in his schizophrenic self-invented reality, the evil step mother. And she, beneath the protection of disgust and frustration, feels guilty for never being able to love him.

    She doesn’t say this. All she does is repeat over and over again the pathos of his circumstance, the inevitability of his psychosis, and the error of his externally placed blame. It’s heavy to hear. But I listen because I know I am one of the only ones that will.

     

    She does not want to burden her immediate family, who is attached to his development, with the truth of his condition. So instead she burdens her two eldest grandchildren; my brother and I. My brother, unlike myself, gets a sense of satisfaction from hearing the stories of Uncle Steve’s adolescence. It thrills my brother to know that there are those who are more hopeless and psychotic than he. However, I don’t think he is made aware of the extent of hopelessness in Steve’s current condition.  I don’t think my grandmother would tell him because she too is alert to my brother’s tendencies toward comparison.

     

    So I am left with the burden of this secret. Well, actually now you are too. What is my dilemma is that I don’t so much mind knowing as long as I can share some of the burden with my laptop, but I am left to wonder if the secrets will add up and take their toll. If I am in fact burning myself out. Because it’s not just my grandmother:  I invite people to share with me the totality of their pain. I know I do. Why? Well, I’ve been trying to figure it out. I think a lot of it is the sympathy I feel for those living with secrets, which is everybody. Everybody feels like a victim to their own vulnerabilities and childhood shames. Even if that vulnerability is just that there life was too perfect, that they feel like they are too bland and feel some kind of survivor’s guilt. I relate to that feeling too. I relate to and have empathy for most scars and vulnerabilities and I’m scared that will make me weaker. That in trying to understand, to imagine what someone might feel like by tapping into my own emotional memory-  I am inviting too much pain into my life. Perhaps there is a way to feel and show compassion without trying to comprehend the extent of a person’s hurt? Maybe in relating I am not actually unconsciously reliving, and so I shouldn’t worry. Maybe I just have a sharp and accessible emotional memory.

     

    It is also possible that I can understand other people’s emotions because I am not afraid of my own. They do not dwell at the bottom of the ocean suppressed under the current agenda. They are with me always, always evoked, in reading, in writing, in listening, in talking… I think they call that sensitivity. And yes, there are times when I give my emotions too much power and there are times when I give it not enough. And that is why life is about balance. Learning to channel your sensitivity when you need it, and learning to close it off when you need not to have it. And I think that to do that you always have to pair your actions and emotions with understanding. You have to take a moment to say “This is why I did this, this why I feel this way; this is what I can do about it…” And after that, you have to shut off the guilt, anxiety, and expectation. You can only go over the same thing so many times in one sitting. Stop, shut it off, and make a note somewhere to come back later if you need too.

     

    It’s not impossible. It’s not. Try it. I shut off my excess emotion by turning my vague sense of experience into a legible literary work. I Shut it off by putting spoken words to the feelings and impressions, therefore redefining puzzling physical and emotional circumstance as a total reality. I Shut off the excess burden mostly by sharing but now I am learning to self-satisfy. I’m learning to clear my head and free my mind. No drugs involved.

     

    I use music often but I’m trying now to shut off my brain using nothing external. They call this mediation. Before you write it off as hokey new age bullshit, know that it is the best way to practice controlling your mind.  I mean honestly, have you ever been in a situation where you just didn’t want to feel. Where you just don’t have the experience to cope with reality effectively and you just want to shut down. Well, I have. And I have shut down in many many self-destructive ways. And those are very effective. You can prevent yourself from feeling one pain for a while just by replacing it with another. Or you can stop creating problems for yourself [Sam], and accept that life is uncomfortable, clear your mind, and hop along anyway.

     

  • She’s not a girl who misses much…do do do do do do…

    I agree with Olive. Music. We should all turn off our brains once in a while and just listen… Just learn… Scratch that, I think we should all leave our brains off and only turn them on when we make a conscious decision to do so. The answers aren’t all in our heads. Plus I think self-sabotage is part of the human condition. We get so preoccupied, we over-complicate everything, sometimes it’s just about acceptance… this is it… this is your reality…

     

  • More wise (ass) words from the mind of Sam

    Sam is happy. Sam is happy. La la la la la. Alright. So we’ve established that step one is admitting you have a problem. Awesome. Step two is figuring out that you’re a crazy mother fucker just like everybody else on the planet. Step three is to admit you have feelings and emotions and to deal with them in healthy productive ways. Step four is figuring out that everyone else has feelings and emotions too and some people try to protect the fact that they are vulnerable by being ass-holes. (I promise you those people are unhappier than you inside, not that you should take comfort in their misery, only that you shouldn’t try to be an ass-hole to protect yourself) And step five is to realize that only you are in control of your happiness. (Listen to me; I sound like Buddha only I’m slightly slimmer and a lot more cynical) Ok wonderful. Now what? Then I recommend studying some philosophy or something, reading some self-help and psychology books, getting a therapist (If you can afford one, they rock, you pay a trained listener and helper to listen and help you, score!!), and really understanding the truth of your circumstance as the particular human being that you are. Ok, now this is where I hate to be the bearer of bad news but I have made this mistake before and I want to spare myself and anyone else I can from making this mistake again… Once you understand what you have to do, you have to practice doing it. And in order to practice you have to stay conscious of your new-found truths. Now how does one do that? Ah yes… Writing helps. Writing blogs helps a little more. Therapy helps… But I think there are bigger steps one has to take. I think one of the best things you can do is to use your insight toward helping others. Not like in a preachy-did-I-ask-for-your-opinion? kind of way. But when someone does need help… help. Do some community service, write a blog, I don’t know… But teaching helps you learn. Have you ever noticed that? When you teach someone else, even a school subject, it really cements your understanding and/or brings the lack-there-of to your attention. So to with mentoring. I think. I don’t know I’m not there yet. Now, I would recommend a support group, like AA, or Alynon, there tons out there for everything really… But I do find these things get a little cultish. I mean they do. There are run by humans after all. Some of who are power hungry and some of whom would rather not think for themselves. I hate those dynamics. I’m not a strong enough person to look past and be unbothered by them. You might be. I don’t know. But also- It helps to write down what you learned. Sum it up as best as you can. And read it every day. Kind of like a prayer. But you’re not asking g-d to take care of you. You’re reminding yourself to take care of you. So that is my advice to me and to you. I’m going to follow it and I’ll let you know how it goes. I do have a commitment to myself and my beautiful new laptop to be honest. So if one day I’m feeling miserable as *** and I can’t find the strength to be a gay little fruit cake. I’ll let you know. But all in all I just think life is too short to waste time being stuck… If you feel paralyzed you should spend some time figuring out why, and what to change, and how to change... So here’s my brother. I fucking love this kid. Telemarketer: Hi this is (*insert male name*). I’m calling on behalf of (*insert business name*). We would like to know if you are open to some of the new investment opportunities that we’re offering this season… Mark: No I am not. I’m very narrow-minded and I’m not open to absolutely anything. Dial-tone. He’s so entertaining. Someone who is capable of that much thought and humor should channel it into something society has to offer. There really are so many possibilities now a day’s… Anyway, Peace.
  • I have to write this

     

    I know that I already blogged like an hour ago but consider this last night’s blog.

    My Grandmother used to send me presents every day. Little toys, dolls, jelwery… She just showed me these little porcelain dolls she once bought but never gave to me. AS I held them I recognized their design and placed their features and curls among the many dolls I received from her in my memory. But this time- I felt nothing. Holding them didn’t elicit any emotion like I know it used to. I remember first the pleasure at my little girly presents and then the embarrassment at my little girly presents. And finally the resentment, that I was expected to enjoy these little girly presents at my level of maturity. But this time…nothing… only a small moment of nostalgia for the times when toys and dolls held enough power to stir up internal reactions.

    And then, what felt the most foreign was that she didn't try to give them to me. I couldn't feel for myslef so instead I felt for her. How sad it must be to have to accept that your little girl isn't a little girl... She didn't even try, she didn't even try to pretend, she knows now...