Life is backwards

“The whole scheme of things is turned wrong end to. Life should begin with age & its privileges and accumulations, & end with youth & its capacity to splendidly enjoy such advantages. As things are now, when in youth a dollar would bring a hundred pleasures, you can’t have it. When you are old, you get it & there is nothing worth buying with it then. It’s an epitome of life. The first half of it consists of the capacity to enjoy without the chance; the last half consists of the chance without the capacity.”

– Mark Twain, letter to Edward Dimmitt, July 19, 1901

Observing the relationship between the complexity of relationships, and the consequential contentness

Definitions

Definitions of "hook-up" vary, so I will go ahead and define it for the sake of the situation as "a non-committed relationship incorporating a physical connection beyond that of a platonic friendship." Furthermore, I use the word "relationship" to mean any connection between two people (or concepts), not just a relationship status as defined by the Face book. This includes friends, siblings, colleagues, etc. That is, the dealings with others, and, probably oneself.

So.

Hook ups are an extremely complicated aspect of my current culture. We are liberal, young adults in an age of understanding and widely available birth control; sexual relationships without commitments are plentiful and confusing the modern lady and/or gentleman as to the minimalist-yet-complicated question: "What are we?"

Who knows? If an acquaintance acquiesced to admit she had been hittin’ it, hooking up with the frosted tip prick from physics, you would know nothing more than you did in the immediate past; ten seconds of statement require ten minutes of explanation. Additionally, individuals can be "hooking up" for YEARS without attempt (or success) at "defining the relationship."

The recognition and fear of acronyms like "DTR" and "FBO" further define the waters in which we wade: The former pop-machine options for interpersonal titles continue to exist in theory, but their borders continue to fade and ripple. I have begun to assume that these nice conciseities curb belief in the possibility that our relationships exist on a spectrum.

Now, in a seemingly unrelated question: What is a word? I propose to define a word simply as "a verbalization with the purpose and probability of communicating." As such, these WORDS we use to define relationships ARE words, however… How can one break down the countless media – jealousy, love, needing nothing to say vs. having nothing to say, days, weeks, sleepovers – how can we chop these down and form them into easily digestible figurines? Our words spin through the listener’s gears and filters from society, religion, one’s nation, 'how mama raised me', and spits out it’s own definition.

"Dating" "Boyfriend/Girlfriend" "Lover".

I suggest that one cannot truly define a relationship in these colloquial lies,

They are all either too ambiguous or constricting to explain something as complex as the sub-textual points in physical conversations; motions, emotions, oceans of interaction curbing traction, tracking attraction remit of commitment.

The verbal definition conflicts with the delineation posed by our physical collaboration. What one meant when met by the dissonance between the audible, tacit, and the unspoken contracts we sign with another individual are not represented in

TRUE WORDS and PROMISES,

but by

ACTIONS and REACTIONS holstered in HONESTY.

One cannot use words to fathom expressing effort, emotions, trials, passion, fear; we can only label the cardboard box into which these experiences are placed along a shelf next to dusty printers that weren’t worth the price of new ink. I now measure my relationships in the quantity and quality of relationship related things, or RRTs. The quantity of relationship related things: spending time together, love, respect, sex, proximity, exclusivity, bond, etc. can help define the relationship much better than using 1-3 word basic titles.

But there’s a huge *ASTERISK*

In my own meandering experience, it is not simply MORE RRTs=HAPPIER RELATIONSHIP.

There’s a balance to it… One that is very unique: Relationships are the only thing I can think of where ½ is less than both one AND zero.

See…

The very left would be “just friends”,

A few centimeters down would be a “physical only hook-up" without being friends,

The far right would be a committed, close proximity, loving, sexually fantastic relationship.

Now have any of you have fallen in the middle, and found yourself unhappy? There is sex, there is fun, you like each other… but there’s no commitment, it lacks honesty, it lacks… something? Something that brings it past the middle point…

Whereas

.5 is less than 1

and

.5 is less than 0

…Why then is it so hard to get out of the middle?

The Three Types of Criticism

There are three types of criticism:

The kind you agree with,

(“you’re a slob” “Yeah, I know”)

The kind you DISagree with,

(“you’re stupid” “That’s fine”)

Then, the kind you don’t WANT to agree with…

(“Your problem is you always make excuses” “No I don’t!”)

Mi Ani?

There are so many me’s.

I remember the man I used to be. Funny, fun, friends with everybody, fond memories of yester-me, a lesser stress level and never let messes muster my content demeanor.

Not that the qualities have been released from these pastures, but have had the gates locked by responsibility, medication, interpersonal complication.

I used to think this wasn’t me, just situational. This was just me on Adderall, and there was still a fun me waiting to come out once it wore off.

Fast-forward four years of daily consumption. I’ve lost practice at this claw machine, I don’t really know how to control my non-medicated self anymore. Over the summer I got to be in a new social situation, free from meds, and had a mostly negative experience.

I felt more self-conscious, impulsive- I didn’t like myself

I used to not like my medicated self.

Well… who am I? Am I a motivated entrepreneur finishing my undergrad or an adult with ADHD relying patient on medication to achieve my goals?

Am I a serious person?

I never used to be. I used to basically be fun and comfortable with anyone. Now… if I’m going to meet new people I try to time the effects wearing out. I want to like myself, and be liked by others, be successful, without drugs.

I figure you might as well like who you are, because you’re going to be you for a long time.

If I could be any part of me would I choose to laugh and love and lack responsibility

Or given the chance to be someone I want to see proud on the cover of TV and magazines

Could I Choose Just One?

I miss me. I’m proud of me. ani mitga’ageah ha chaim she’yhiu sheli. Ani rotzeh l’hiot bsimcha, im chaverim tovim sherotzim l’echol haochel simchoni mitachat lashamayim.

Most days are fine- no one relies on me. I am responsible for myself only, my rent. My food, sleeping more or less, evenings,

working mornings early early wording work or worry deleted twitter tweeting preceding impeding response possibilities, responsibly pollenate (sung) pentatonically

Other days are modally totally different

I convinced myself I would change once I graduated, live a different life, professional private practice actively perusing my passions with free time, a dog, a life beyond that which is my present. Past, and immediate future.

And that’s bullshit.

My life will continue to fly down the freeway, 5 miles per hour above the speed limit, passing some cars, getting cut off by others.

Momentum, my experiential inertia, intrapersonal kedusha, busy body branching out, balancing responsible interruptions with non immediate priorities, productivity prior to prioritizing, prying open an agenda and then the momenta go get some somayach kshe ani bli hafsaka: I’m alive.

I lie awake, I truth awake, I wonder what path passed I didn’t take could make breaks in my brittle branches, cracks and snaps with breezes I bend, with gusts twigs fall around me. My leaves change color the freezing nights, some sunny days, rays to my roots route round serendipitous sidewalks and roundabouts searching for the next step

Big toe dipping slow into the water, ancient thermometer,

conquer or want her or ponder or proctor

the last step I took, and the step to come.

You know that walking is really just allowing yourself to fall?

Every step is controlled release. Could the chemical crutches I utilize really be my rise to my greatest potential? Could it be the petrol to my locomotion?

Or

Can I be like the sun? Will I ever have enough energy to support autonomous fusion?

My mantra was: “I can do anything.” I forgot it for years, but I remember it now and want to try it again. I can be my own sun.

I think I can.

A little orange pill, 10 to 20 milligrams of incarceration, or do these chemicals jingle with keys of freedom? Locked in a car, you can still go hundreds of miles.

How can one define the authenticity of means to an end? Authenticity, or, credibility, or one’s ability to fend for the feeling that ‘this is the right choice, and I believe I am right.’

I figure it’s somewhere between “I think” and “I thought”

In that case, I think I can do anything.

In the style of Louis Jenkins II

Do any of us really know what we want? I act like I do, from time to time; however, there are very few outcomes for the predicament. One can either reach this want, or not; then move on. I even tend to find what I want, look it in the face, and realize it wasn’t what I was really looking for. I take a note of it, desire for my next want, and move on.

I have reached my destination. I’m reflecting on my journey, considering myself in a mirror posted on my 36 dollar-a-night motel’s wall, my face striped-red from the neon bar sign across the street shining between experienced blinds; and I ask myself,

“now what?”

I love STRANGERS

So, I ask myself:

What do I want to do with my life?

Well, what do I not want to do? There are two ways to describe anything: What it is, and what it isn’t. I don’t want to be a doctor, but I like trying to fix people. I don’t want to be a rock star, but I kind of do... Art means a lot to me (I mean art in the general sense).

Art is everywhere. I see art in the good, in the bad...

Some moments, I can’t explain why, are just really artsy to me. Some things are more obvious, like when a flurry of cars swerve and merge into the same lane from various directions concurrently, and merge perfectly into a line; or when a baby cries, and then some native sound matches the pitch, or harmonizes, or creates a dissonance

(Especially if it’s dissonant).

Some things aren’t as obvious, I guess. At least, I’ve never been able to (or tried to) explain them. Like after a night of drinking (usually, but not necessarily) when you wake up, and for a second or two…you have NO IDEA WHERE YOU ARE, even if you are in your own bed.

I love that, it just screams art to me.

Getting a phone call from someone you want to talk to, but you are in a situation in which you can’t pick it up. Getting a phone call from someone you really don’t want to talk to, but being completely free.

Freedom.

Freedom from responsibility for another person, having someone who feels responsible for you.

When you look in the mirror, and say, "DAAAYUMNNNNN."

When things happen just like it was a movie. When things subsequently go wrong, because LIFE ISNT A MOVIE.

Those people you see that you think look really great, but you kind of know that they don’t get told that very often.

The smell of cold.

The feeling of being overcome by sweat.

When something awful happens, and everyone looks at each other and just laughs, because, "what the hell do we do now?"

Going to the bars, and feeling good for being hit on, without trying to go home with anybody.

The spark when you first meet someone who thrills you. The moment you realize you could totally make a move. The fear of making a move. The dive of making a move. The success of making a move... The failure of making a move.

Making moves to prove you choose whether to win or lose, using booze can help on who you use to reach that state of confidence, pompous on your sexy jeans and tight button up shirt, you flirt, maybe getting hurt, but move on.

The journey. Seeing someone up close for the first time, and still thinking they are beautiful.

When you do something for the story.

That feeling when you scratch something off of your to do list... Which reminds me:

what do I want to do with my life?

I have had the good fortune to look at my recent life and feel like I’m finally making it as a musician. I feel like I am good enough to be hired. My time is worth good money (on college student standards). I can afford to pay rent AND eat. I always have gigs, and I'm busy all of the time. But… I really miss one of my true loves: strangers.

Strangers make me feel excited, the spark of a ten second relationship. Like, when I am handing out flyers on campus. I get these ten second relationships with strangers, some we laugh, some are awkward, some people are douchebags, some people are attractive and laugh at my jokes, some people are weird and hang around for a while,

but they are all STRANGERS and I LOVE THEM.

When I order food at an airport food court and crack a joke with the girl at the counter. Is it just that I know I owe these people nothing, and they expect nothing from me? Whatever I do (within reason), most likely I will never be accountable for my actions?

try-cycle

I’m so used to it by now:

Meet.

Chit-chat.

Flirt a bit.

Text a few times.

Hang out the next night.

Maybe share a drink or two.

Lie down and enjoy each other’s bodies.

Wake up early the next morning.

Reflect on the evening’s events.

Was it worth it?

Am I lonely?

Might be.

Repeat.

Break-up poetry, in the style of Louis Jenkins

I’ve never had my heart broken; but I’ve had it chipped, or cracked, a few times. Kind of like an old car, sitting on the side of the road, or in someone’s front yard with a “for sale” sign, only $200!, in the back window. A man and his wife drive by on a cool fall morning. “I could fix that up, make it good as new” he says. She knows it would just be a burden, sitting in the garage collecting dust for a few summers until they disposed of it in the same way. It looked like a nice car, it just never quite got the love it deserved; and Lord knows she wasn’t going to supply it.