Darren Endymion's Blog, page 9

Misery’s Company

Last entry I mentioned that I had figured out why I have been stalling and not doing anything — and I mean anything — to forward my life. That means writing, going out, looking for another job, looking for another place to live, visiting the state I want to move to…nothing. I would constantly deride myself to do these things, but I just haven’t done them.

I’ve been honest (perhaps too much so) about occasional bouts of depression, but that comes and goes. Misery is a state of being, and it isn’t until I really took a step back, got totally out of where I was and looked at where I came from and where I had to return to, that I fully realized how bad it is.

I’m taken back to that quote from Anne Rice’s Wolves of Midwinter, which I’ve mentioned here before. The father is talking to his son and says, “Why don’t people do what they really want to do…why do we settle for what makes us profoundly unhappy? Why do we accept that happiness just isn’t possible?” It wasn’t until I got out of where I am for a solo vacation that I realized how profoundly unhappy I am, and it took me all of one single day back to fully realize what causes the misery.

Whether you believe in the astrological ramifications or not, Mercury is retrograde at the moment. Astrologers say that communications, transportation, technology, etc. are all challenged during this time. Belief doesn’t matter at this point, because I use it as a chance to look back and see what’s going on, where I’ve been, and compare it all to where I want to go.

However, things have been odd…like good. They seem to have gone back in time to when they were good (also something that happens during Mercury retrograde). Moments from the past come up to kick you right in the taint with nostalgia. This has happened and helps put things in perspective. For one, a movie I went to see the first time I ever hung out with an old friend is turning 20 goddamned years old. People at work have started to go back to the way they were — good and bad, but mostly good. Lots of other little things have happened, but tonight was the kicker. I was watching an old episode of Bar Rescue on my DVR, and I’ll be goddamned if I didn’t see an old, old, old friend. It was nice, however vicariously, even voyeuristically, to see her again and good to know that she’s doing well.

It made me think about all that has happened in the past 6 billion years and to see that there were times, and a great many of them, which were wonders of happiness. When we become so mired in the present, we fail to see the good, the road we’ve been on, and sometimes think that our present course is all that there is, that there is no other way.

Totally false. Complete bullshit. At the risk of acting like some illegitimate Pollyanna, I don’t believe that there is no other way, or that our current trajectories of misery are fixed. Realizing the staggering extent of my own state, of how long it has lasted, about how hopeless I was becoming, and about how I allowed it to not only become this way but to remain so, I am better equipped to fix it. So…I’m fixing it.

Another Writing Quote

Okay, this one is going to earn me some derision, but hear me out. You’ve gotta trust me on this one. I love Sailor Moon, and when I get particularly down a sure fire way to pick myself up is to watch it or to watch/read Harry Potter. However, I recently watched an episode of Sailor Moon Super S which slapped the hell out of my sensibilities.

In the episode, a book has come out which has taken Japan by storm. It turns out that Lita (Sailor Jupiter) knew the author, Tomoko, when they were students. In fact, Lita was Tomoko’s beta reader. Buckling under the pressure of her fame and the destruction of her original inspiration, Tomoko is holed up in her house refusing to talk to anyone, missing her deadlines, not writing, unable to do anything, and refusing to talk to anyone. Lita isn’t having it, and that’s where my quote happens.

Lita waits until everyone is gone, stands outside Tomoko’s door, and begins shouting at her like a pissed off barbarian. Lita’s ghetto-ass shouting kicked me right in the chest. She says:

 

“Come to the window and stop hiding! You used to write such beautiful stories, but because of your shyness, only you and your desk drawer were allowed to enjoy [them]. Maybe it wasn’t shyness; maybe you’re just a coward! If there’s just one person out there who enjoys reading your stories, isn’t that a good enough reason to keep writing more? That was your dream, wasn’t it, Tomoko? The world you created in your stories isn’t just yours anymore!”

 

Yeah, it’s a little puerile when written out like that, but it still hits home and did even before I ever published a sentence. I’m hardly an incredibly popular writer, even in my genre, but I do have a few fans. When you read the few reviews for my novel, the general consensus is that people were touched by it. There were more than a few references about my novel making people laugh and cry.

The most heinous example of this latter is a woman I knew through an online group. She was about to undergo chemotherapy and was saving my book for that time. She got to the part where most people cry and was reportedly sobbing her eyes out…when her daughter walked in the room. Of course, her daughter freaked the hell out and was eventually able to get it out of her why she was crying. A bit later she relayed this information to me in an e-mail, and if I remember right, she was both touched and amused by her daughter’s reactions. (And I’m happy to report that she is now in remission).

People who read it generally wanted more. One reviewer mentioned that she had read the book and came looking for the next (since it’s pretty clear that there will be another one) and was disappointed to find out that there wasn’t another one after all this time. It’s like when Lita yelled at Tomoko that the world she created isn’t just hers anymore.

Not only that, but Lita also said that it was Tomoko’s dream to write and she wasn’t doing it. That’s me. How often have I lamented that I’m not doing it at all? I’ve also realized, fully and totally, what’s stopping me. It’s so obvious that it’s laughable and so sad that it’s tragic (I’ll be going into it more in my next blog entry).

I used to make CDs and playlists where I would put a sound byte from a show or movie before a song whose content or artist humorously reflected the quote. When I first decided to move out on my own, I went deeper with the quotes and some of the music and titled the playlist Last Night in the Nursery, after something Wendy says in Peter Pan. It was, of course, a sign of growing up. I am making another one, primed for my next big change. The title is still about growing up, but more about changing and becoming more of the person I want to be.

Lita’s quote will definitely be on there.

Painful Passage of Time

When I was on vacation I received an e-mail which, under normal circumstances, would have depressed me in a big way. One of my short stories, “The Snow Queen,” which was published in an anthology retelling fairy tales, will be returning to me at the end of this month.

There’s nothing bad about it; the contract simply expired. I’m not being booted from the publisher or anything scandalous and dramatic. Not only that, but it was a short story that was attached to an anthology and this is to be expected (it happens to everyone. Believe me; I checked).

With “The Snow Queen,” the rights revert to me and I can do whatever the hell I want with it. I can retool it, I can expand it, I can get a new cover for it and upload it for sale (or free) on Amazon, or I can let it sit there and collect dust. I can write a bunch of short stories and publish them on my own or see if the publisher will take them back in a collected form (I imagine that this will depend on my popularity, which is laughable and, I imagine, negligible at the moment). As far as that goes, I have a lot of options, but there’s still a sting to it, you know?

That’s not the source of the sting, though. The real point is that the contract on the short stories is good for two years, and the novels are good for (I believe) three years. This means that the short story I published in the Mythologically Torqued anthology, titled “Threads of Discord,” will be returning to me some time next year.

What’s bothering me is that my novel , Winter’s Trial, should be returning to me sometime this summer, I believe. Well, I don’t know how that all works, but Winter’s Trial is the first in a series of four books. If that returns to me, then what’s the point for anyone in me branding it as the first in a series? Not only that, but it forces me to look at my accomplishments — or lack thereof — and really come to grips with it. I’ve wanted to be a writer for as long as I can remember. I didn’t think I would start with gay stuff or stay in that genre, but it’s a good publisher with nice people, and you have to start somewhere. And, with that logic, the years rolled by.

To date, I have published one novel and two short stories (both as parts of separate anthologies). Winter’s Trial is a long book and took all of three months to write, so the fact that I have not written and published more is absolutely absurd. There are no excuses. Life happens, and I used it as an excuse to put my writing off. My confidence is easily shaken, and I had ideas for no less than three huge novels in that time in diverse genres (and more ideas than that if I’m to be honest), but they would have been so big and so involved, that I felt I didn’t have the skill level or the practice to do them right. Yet. I still think that’s true, but I let it stop me. Again and again. (And how the hell do I expect to get the experience I feel I need if I’m not writing?! Makes no sense, does it?)

So, three years later and I have brushed past my life-long dream. I have come within striking distance of the beginning and no further. And time marches on. It’s painful. Looking back at all this, looking at all the time I’ve wasted, at all the excuses I’ve had (some actually legitimate, most not), the only conclusion I have come to is this:

There’s no use beating myself up over it. I cannot turn back time — nor would I want to. Yikes, those have been three rather ghastly years. All I can do is see where the fault lies, realize that I am here 100% because of my own inaction, and vow to myself to do better.

In the meantime, I have sent an inquiry about how this whole process works while telling the publisher that I am writing the second novel in the series. There’s no going back now. Gotta get my ass in gear. Personally and professionally, there is no other option now.

Alas, I’m Back, part 3

So, we return for the third (and final) vacation reminiscing. I visited the city I have been, in a way, lusting for for years. It was like going to a different planet in some ways, and I’m really sort of trying to separate the overwhelming beauty of the city with the emotional response it triggered in me and balancing that with the realities of my current situation (divorced from the knee-jerk overwhelmingly negative reaction it elicits from me). It’s a cerebral and emotional journey, and at the end of it, I hope to reach a conclusion and a plan of action — to change things here to settle in, or to start the process of getting a job and moving hundreds of miles away.

With that said, we reach the final part of my journey there and back again (to rip off The Hobbit) and maybe this section will help elucidate the conundrum of my conflicting feelings.

Emotional:

The impact of this vacation on me emotionally cannot be overstated.

I knew that everything was gorgeous and beautiful and I was awed by all of it. But on my first long night walk with my headphones in, I realized something. I was singing. Yes, I’m a stereotype. I’m gay and I like singing. I’m also pretty good at it. But I don’t do it, or if I do, it’s sad songs and I only do it when alone. I was walking around and singing. Not full voice, but loud enough to where I noticed it. I was singing aloud without embarrassment or modesty, and all because I was happy. I literally cannot remember the last time that happened.

When I was there I didn’t have one nightmare. I was irritated only one time and that was with Google maps for changing my directions no less than five times. I wasn’t bottled up. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t dreading anything, and when Sunday night came and I was sad, my new friend came over and we talked and hung out and cuddled for hours. Conversely, I can’t remember the last time I WASN’T angry at home. Work, home life, relationships, whatever, it’s all infuriating.

I was open there. I talked to people. I laughed a lot. I looked at myself there and realized that so many things just aren’t important, things I get worked up over.

When I was leaving on the plane, I looked out at all the green, at all the city, at all around it, and I became profoundly emotional. Tears were in my eyes, and it wasn’t sadness at what I had to return to — that came later — but rather what I was leaving behind. Beauty, kindness, the mysteries of a new city, and someone special (even if he and I never talk again, my new friend was, all too briefly, very special to me…and it’s a moot point since we were just texting each other today. Something I sincerely hope continues.) As I watched all that disappear below me, I had to look away. I couldn’t watch it. I wasn’t sitting by the window, but the guy next to me wanted nothing of the view. He closed the window, only opening it again as we began our descent. Therefore, I was treated to a stark contrast. As we took off, I saw the verdant greens and thriving, living colors of the city I was leaving. The next thing I saw out the window was the brown and gray of my city and my life. It was like Dorothy leaving Oz to go back to Kansas. Only I never wanted to return home. Fuck this place. I HAD to return.

My first night back I had a nightmare about work. I jerked both my legs into a fetal position and was rewarded with the agonizing pain in my legs that I am so distressingly used to but hadn’t dealt with in my time in Oregon. That day I slept a lot and watched Forensic Files. It was like nothing had changed.

But everything has changed. I have changed.

I left with a feeling, the knowledge that I will not be gone for long. Saying goodbye was more like saying, “See you soon.” I’m always talking about taking a step back, of being able to see everything at a distance. I’ve done that. That city has everything I need and some stuff I didn’t know I even wanted.

So, I am left with an ache and a mission. I can’t stay where I am. I knew that before. Before, this magical city was a myth, a fantasy, a blank page I filled in all the details for with my imagination. Then the imagination was made real.

Nothing compares to it. So, when I said that I have some weighing to do, I wasn’t wrong. I need to look at everything and weigh it logically and emotionally. I need to let go fully. I need to prepare, because when I do, I know that things will go very, very fast.

And I can’t wait.

Alas, I’m Back, part 2

I have thus far not said where I was visiting, where I was scouting to live. Then I thought…why not? Granted, I don’t say where I live now other than Southern California and what’s nearby, so I shall do that here (and just about anyone can figure out the actual city). I went to the state of Oregon, a beautiful state all by itself, to a large, progressive, gorgeous city. And I can’t wait to go back. Today I will (verbosely) go over the social aspects of my recent trip.

Social:

On Saturday I went out and went online. First, maybe because I was fresh meat in the city, I don’t know, but when I went online I was…popular. I ended up meeting someone, a really great guy. He’s smart and cute and sweet and in all ways totally adorable and has a ridiculously sexy sideways smile that should probably be regulated. Somehow, he must have enjoyed my company, too, because we ended up spending a great deal of time together. He showed me parts of the city that I would never have seen otherwise. Sure, I missed the big touristy stuff, but I saw a lot of the city I would otherwise have missed.

Another thing he did shocked me and left the indelible impression on me that I was, in fact, in a different place. The day we met we hung out and talked and for hours. Then we were hungry, so walked to get sushi. We agreed to part ways after because we both had something to do…and he kissed me. On the street. In front of everyone. Just little pecks, but they were full of attraction…hell, maybe even romance. And he kissed me not just once, but twice, three times, FOUR, even. We weren’t slobs all over each other, drooling into the other’s mouth, and being obnoxious. They were sweet little kisses and long hugs that happen when two people who like each other are saying goodbye.

Being from California himself but living in that lovely city for more than 10 years, I think he was a little amused at my reaction. Those who think that all of California is liberal and free like L.A. and San Francisco are sorely mistaken. I live maybe 40 minutes from L.A. and this area is strikingly conservative. This whole COUNTY is. If the same thing had happened where I live, there’s a very good chance that we would have been the recipients of several insults, possibly some hurled objects (in the rougher places), and at least looks and mutterings of disdain and disgust.

In this magical city (which wasn’t the land of Oz masquerading as a US city. I checked), people who passed us either didn’t look twice or smiled at us. Later the next day while on a walk I saw an interracial lesbian couple holding hands pass me, and this athletic, beautiful older woman (who could have been a vivacious neighbor on The Golden Girls) looked their way and grinned like she was seeing old friends. Like she was proud of them. Like she was proud of her city. The fact that they were interracial was no issue. The fact that they were lesbians wasn’t a big deal either. That they were holding hands on a bridge, taking a romantic walk in the afternoon was just as sweet and unremarkable as the dozens of straight couples doing the same thing. Ditto later when me and my new, uh, friend met up and he kissed me on another bridge. Or when we were in the park, shoes off, with our feet in a man-made waterfall and he scooted right next to me and put his arm around me and held me like that for a while. Mothers with kids didn’t bat an eye. The adolescents said nothing. The trio of teenage boys looked and looked away. Their faces didn’t change, they didn’t laugh, they didn’t whisper to each other. I talked to people and did research and there is a “gay part” of the city which is only a few tiny blocks long, but on the whole, the entire large city is this way. It’s just people.

If anyone is bored enough to follow me on Twitter (@darrenendymion), you know that I went to a bar and saw some unwelcome nudity to which nobody reacted. They didn’t even grimace when he plopped his nekkid ass down on one of the leather-upholstered stools scattered about the bar. They didn’t look twice. He was just there. I told this story along with a story of me getting hit on by a guy in public and some of the other stuff I saw and the only response I got was, “Welcome to our city.” Indeed.

And the people were nice. Like, they talked to each other on the streets (except when I had headphones in). They say hi and chat and they didn’t know each other before. They smile at each other for no other reason than that they are human beings.

People in the office I work in will pass each other and say nothing. In fact, they will walk past each other staring straight forward as though they have tunnel vision, as though nobody was there, but if they see a friend or acquaintance, the tunnel vision is abruptly absent. It’s willful ignoring. It happens all over the place here, not just at my work. Like they think a simple smile is an invitation to sexual relations. Some will look, ignore the smile, and move on. Sometimes a part of me wants to say something hateful and insulting (as it’s usually women who do this). I want to say, “You might want to simmer down that ego. I’m gay and you’re a 5 at best. I was just going to smile and acknowledge that you are another human being.” Maybe I need to be a woman for a day and get ogled. I’ve been told that people don’t know I’m gay, so maybe these people are afraid to see something licentious in me. Maybe these women have tried to be nice in the past and paid for it in lewd conduct and unwanted advances. But they do it to other women, too. Guys do it too, so they aren’t exempt in any way. In any case, is the solution really to ignore the humanity and kindness of people around you? Are they all just shy? Complete assholes? Are these people so caught up in themselves and their own issues or destinations that they can’t look out and around them?

Whatever the case, this city had some of that, sure. But all of the people I talked to were nice and friendly and open. I didn’t get one cranky person I talked to — from random passersby to the hotel people to the two guys landscaping and cleaning the various shrubbery around businesses to the server at Denny’s during peak crazy time.

Very few people were too busy being assholes to offer a simple smile as they passed each other, most likely to never see each other again. A small kindness, a recognition of someone else’s humanity, a smile. It costs nothing and it can mean so much.

And that’s it for tonight (Jesus, isn’t it enough?!). On Monday I will finish this vacation and travel entry with the impact it has left on me and what my plans are for the future. I just need to come down off my Vacation High to be able to tell you. Until then!

Alas, I’m Back, part 1

I flew in yesterday and it was not at all fun. I’m currently sorting all my feelings about it because it was really more of a scouting visit, to see if I liked the city and if I could live there. The short answer is yes, but it’s an answer with a plethora of weighted feelings which I have to put in proper perspective. We aren’t here for that, though. The vacation itself was wonderful. To me it was nearly miraculous, if I’m to be honest. I’ve written an entire entry that is too long for even the most patient of souls to read, so I will edit it and break it up into three still very long entries where I go over the various aspects of my time there. So, let’s start!

Physical: 

My leg has had problems for over a year now, to varying degrees. The end result (aside from walking like a 90 year old man well over 50 years too soon) is that my once strong legs withered and atrophied because I simply couldn’t walk without intense, painful spasms, or without the leg literally cramping up or giving out. I couldn’t walk anywhere. My chiropractor has given me exercises and put my skeleton back in proper order, my doctors have given me pills and tests, and I have become disheartened. I walked the 1.7 miles home one day and I thought I was going to pass out and couldn’t walk for days.

When the plane landed and I called Uber to get me from the airport to my hotel, I realized that EVERYthing was within walking distance…to the healthy person I used to be. The blocks there are maybe a fifth the size of what they are here, so when looking at Google Maps, things looked deceptively far away. As an example, on my last night there, I looked for a Thai food place and it was 5 blocks up, 2 blocks over. It took 5 minutes to walk (maybe more because by that time I was totally exhausted). Here, going 7 blocks is about 3 miles and would take roughly 1 hour and 5 minutes to walk.

I checked in, went to my hotel room, and went to eat. I went back to my room and unpacked a little, sat down, and did a few things…but I couldn’t sit there. There was so much city to see and so much to do. So, I got out my phone and a list of the places I wanted to visit and found it was quite close, so I walked there. Like 4 blocks or something. Closed. So, I called Uber and went somewhere else. Got bored with that so I walked somewhere else. That was the first and only walk I underestimated. But I was out and seeing the city and having fun just exploring.

So, I walked and walked and walked some more. Tired, I got to my destination and sat down. I stayed, I had fun, and then I left. I took Uber back and collapsed on the bed, watched the Hobbit on the hotel TV, and passed out. In the morning I lazed around, ate, and lazed some more. At night I went exploring again and went to at least three different night spots. I met someone and he took me all over the city, or so it seemed. My leg and Achilles tendons were screaming…but they held up. They were fine. They were stronger and my determination to get out more profound. My curiosity was limitless. And, for the first time in over a year, my body mostly kept up. Nobody was more shocked than me.

Environmental:

And the scenery of the city! Sweet, gentle, baby of all that is holy, I have been in forests and on mountains which had fewer trees. The air there is pure. The quality of the air is unquestionable. You can see the mountains in the distance. You can’t do that here. You’re lucky if you can see the crusty brown hills only a few cities away. Green everywhere (and no, I wasn’t in Seattle. Stop trying to guess).

There’s a huge river that cuts through the middle of the city. There are trees and water and rain and sunshine. There is natural beauty all around. Shade is plentiful, even on the busy streets of downtown there are enough trees to block out the sun. Trees everywhere. It’s like a city sprang up in a forest (which still surrounds it) and very little was done to molest the trees in the area. They line every street. The whole place is green and thriving and beautiful.

And on days it’s sunny or warm, everything changes. People go out in droves. They walk, they ride their bikes down near the river, they jog, they work out, they thunder out of their homes and workplaces. They do act as though it’s the end of the world, though. It was 80 degrees and people were dressed like it was 95. I was thinking, “Well, welcome to my life.” The day I left it was supposed to get up to 87 and the local news was saying that was a record breaking high. Not to belittle that, because it’s all about the threshold of tolerance and how much you can take because of what you are used to, but I found myself wondering what they would do with a week of ghastly Southern California Santa Ana winds, where the heated air off Satan’s taint flies around to slay the noses of anyone nearby. I admit that I was a little smug.

Then I was put right into my place by a very nice Uber driver who was originally from Nigeria. He explained to me about the heat there and what it is like and how it’s totally inescapable and cloying and during the rainy season how bad it is…and I told him that I was whining and then he wins. So much for being smug.

The only thing to add to this section is that as we were landing in the city, I saw patches and patches of green. Green everywhere. Unabashed, unmitigated greenery. On the flight back, all I saw was brown. Brown fields, brown and gray streets, palm trees (of which I did not see a single specimen on my vacation). It was like watching The Wizard of Oz in reverse…or forward for that matter. Only in my version, rather than wanting to go home, Dorothy was pissed off about it.

So, I shall end for tonight. Thursday I will talk about the social aspects there, which were the things that blew me away the most (and is the longest section by far).

I Can’t Believe I’m HERE!

So, I’m here in the city. My first plane ride was fine…after a bit. I was insanely keyed up and nervous but had the fortune of sitting next to a delightful couple. She was very nice and we chatted a bit. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t take a Xanax as the plane started to move, but then laughed at myself (albeit in a very calm, relaxed manner). There was nothing to it.

I landed…and had no idea what to do. Haha. It was insane. Like I had never used Uber before. So, I did all that and talked the poor man’s ear off. He was very nice and enthusiastic and didn’t even seem to judge me when I made about 6,000 comparisons between this state and California. He dropped me off, I checked into my hotel (which I switched from the one by the airport so that I could be closer to the stuff I wanted to do), and was in my room for all of 10 minutes before taking off.

My ex found out that I was going to visit this city, and in his admitted jealousy said that I probably wouldn’t leave my hotel room. I didn’t do it to prove him wrong, but rather because I was starving. One of my best friends and I are always talking about ditching responsibilities and going to Denny’s. It has become a byword for a haven, a place away from the stupidity of everything. And, of course, there’s a Denny’s visible from my room window. Could that BE more appropriate? Probably not. So, even though there’s plenty of other places to eat, I ate there. It seemed right somehow.

After, I wanted to check out some place close to my hotel room, but I wasn’t sure that my leg and throbbing Achilles heel would let me walk the few tiny blocks to where I wanted to go. But the map said that it would take 9 minutes by foot. Hell, I could do that. So, I did…and my leg hurt, but like 30% of what it normally does. And then it sort of went away. It was amazing. I walked and walked and walked.

Unfortunately, the place I was going to had ceased to exist in the meantime. Bummer, but that’s what I get for using an old website. So, I called Uber and the almost indecently nice guy took me to the “happening place” in the city (so he said and was eventually corroborated with). I walked around there but didn’t feel like going into a dive bar for long and I had just eaten, so no food. I found another place I wanted to visit almost a mile away and thought about Ubering it again. Instead, I decided to walk. My legs hurt, my Achilles tendons hurt, and my lower back hurts, but I made it. I had fun where I was, but there was a feeling that Thursday nights may not be the optimal time for it to really come alive.

Finally, I summoned Uber again and rode with a wonderfully nice lady (with whom I made some ridiculously awkward conversation initially), and she told me all the places to go and really see the city. She dropped me off, I chatted online, and decided to write this, passing out in the process. Now I am holding on to the last threads of consciousness. On my first night I have done more than I thought I would in two or three days. I’ve explored, walked, talked to people, chatted, and found some good stuff from locals.

The air here is ridiculously clean. It was bitingly cold and wonderful. All I kept saying to myself is, “I’m home. I’ve come home.” I suspect the overwhelming experiences of the day have made me biased, so I shall roam and see more tomorrow. And I can’t wait.

Wish me luck!

It’s Almost HERE!

I have the potential to be a great worrier. It’s sincerely annoying, and it’s something I need to reign in because I often allow it to limit me and my choices. It has tried to kick me in the teeth lately, but I had a moment where it all came clear. In that moment of clarity, you know what I said to myself?

“Not today, bitch-brain!”

Today is Monday. On Thursday I’m leaving work an hour early. My roommate will be picking me up from work and driving me the 15ish minutes to the airport. I have never been on a plane in my life. Well…that’s a lie. My mother told me that she and I took a trip to Washington (from California) on a plane. I was 10 months old. I probably cried and pissed everyone off. Since then, all my vast (ha!) travelling has been within driving distance and to dry, hot places. I hate dry, I hate the heat, but I don’t mind long drives since I have always been the passenger.

In recent times, my pathetic travels have taken me to Palm Springs, California and Las Vegas, Nevada. I have also been to Arizona, but when I was much younger. Hot, hot, and hot. I enjoyed every trip, even as a kid, but it wasn’t what I wanted to do, or where I wanted to go, and it certainly wasn’t the temperature I wanted to deal with.

Getting back to my trip, my roommate has offered to walk me through as much as he can, but after a time, I will be left on my own. I will go through security alone, I will board alone, I will fly for the first time ever (which I will be alone for), I will land alone, I will get off alone, I will call the hotel alone, get on the shuttle alone, check into the hotel alone…and then I will be in the city for 3 full days, 2 half days, and 4 nights.

Alone.

That all should terrify me. But it doesn’t. I should be worried that my leg is still funky and doesn’t work the way I want it to, even if it is getting better (however slowly). I should be worried that I have no real destination — I’m not job or apartment hunting (though if I come by both, I wouldn’t turn the opportunity down). That doesn’t scare me. I actually want to check out the night life, which does worry me because I don’t know who that social person is. I don’t give a shit about the nightlife where I am and haven’t since…I can’t even remember when. I want to visit some of the landmarks and see the city. That DOES worry me because public transportation is difficult with my leg and I don’t want to spend a fortune on Uber. Not only that, but my hotel is far away from everything I want to do.

But I don’t care. I’m not worried. I can and will pay for Uber. I’ll stand on the bus, since my leg only really freaks out when I relax and then stand up. I will eat out, I will walk, I will enjoy the 60-70 degree day weather and the 40-50 degree nights, I will enjoy the clouds and the forecasted rain. I will enjoy the people and being social (something I rarely indulge in where I live). I will enjoy myself. I’m there with one purpose — to experience the life there. That entails the climate, the people, the city. To see how I like it. To see if I can live there.

If I do? When I get back here, the real search starts. I will immediately look for a job, an apartment, a way out of here and a portal there. Worried or not, scared or not — and believe me, I am — it doesn’t matter. I will get out, I will find the bravery, and I will start anew.

The saying goes, “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.” On Thursday it will feel truer than it ever has in my life. And I can’t wait.

“Cleeeeek!”

The members of my team at work are backbiting, gossiping troglodytes…sometimes. I’m the lead of our team and do the quality assessments for their work, which is a large part of their stats and reviews. As with any team, there is always going to be a few people who are not as apt or who do not put forth the effort that others will. When receiving their quality scores, these slackers blamed me. They accused me of picking and choosing their bad e-mails and generally raised a fuss. (Bless them for thinking I have that much time or care enough). I went to our manager and was told that the evidence spoke for itself and that the accusations weren’t being taken seriously.

I thought it was over. False. The main perpetrator (who we will call “Cletus”), realizing that his accusations weren’t being taken seriously, knowing that I confronted one of his cohorts and she backed off, decided to defame me further. Or tried. At one point Cletus took a picture of me at my desk on my break reading an article on Yahoo and sent it to our manager as proof that I…what? Wasn’t working? That I can’t be trusted? I don’t get it, and neither did anyone else. I thought it was just me he was attacking, but I found out it was just about everyone else. His ploy was to try to point out everything “bad” that other people do so that his offenses would seem less egregious.

However, most people didn’t know about the pictures Cletus was taking of me. I play things pretty close to the vest, but I have no fucks left to give. The field in which I grow my fucks is as barren as my womb (since I am male, you can understand how barren my uterus would be. *cackle*).

In an unrelated debacle, Nellie — Cletus’ cohort — sent an IM about our coworker Allan. She mentioned that Allan’s work is terrible, that she doesn’t know how he has a job still, and that she’s sick of cleaning up his messes. Allan isn’t terrible, he’s more potential than effort, but he comes off as exceedingly average. Unfortunately, instead of sending the IM to Cletus, Nellie sent the IM to Alan. Essentially, she shit-talked directly to the person she was trying to malign. Alan handled it maturely, but (true to form) the whole team was talking about it.

One of my coworkers was having computer issues and I was helping her when she chose to talk about the Cletus/Nellie/Alan conundrum. None of the players were around, so most of the team jumped in. Sad, but whatever. Since my Field of Fucks is so very dry and barren, I told the captive audience about the picture taking, and that Cletus, who takes 2-3 hour lunches, was trying to say that I don’t work. Then I told them about an early South Park episode in which the kids go to Costa Rica. Cartman is staring at some prostitutes and they say in a thick accent, “Why dontchu take a peeecture; it will last longer!” Cartman holds up a fake camera and says, “Okay! Cleeeeek!” while clicking (or “cleeeeeking”) the fake shutter button.

Everyone cackled and talked about how stupid the whole thing was, as was the behavior of both Nellie and Cletus. I joked that I needed to stop helping them (even though that’s my JOB) or someone would take my picture and try to rat me out. The girl I was helping turned to me and said, “Cleeeeek!” Someone else called me over for help, so I went a desk away and was helping when our supervisor came and teased me about distracting the team. I said, “Distracting them with help? I can totally stop.” My coworker peeked around the corner, giggled, held up a fake camera to her face, and said, “Cleeeeek!”

Cackles abounded. For the rest of the day I kept hearing exclamations of “Cleeeeek!” whenever anyone would say or do something off color. My team is horrible. They gossip, they backstab, they are petty, and they have an inflated sense of entitlement. But they weren’t always this way. It’s the rotten apples in the bunch rotting those around them and bringing out the bad in them. Sometimes, even after all the years of stupidity and slander, the people they can be — the funny, smart, practical, kind, and even generous people — will come out. It’s then that I am reminded that things were good once, and I’m sadly reminded why I don’t talk to almost any of them anymore and try to avoid social interactions with them at any cost, rather than get caught up in all that nonsense.

But sometimes something happens and you just have to enjoy and squirrel it away to remember in a sort of mental picture you put in the “Good Memories” chest. This was one of those moments.

“Cleeeeek!”

 

 

Life Lessons in Quotes

Have you ever been reading or listening to an audio book or even watching a movie when you are struck so hard by a quote that everything else in the world sort of shuts down while the words etch themselves into you?

With my recent semi-depression (which I am happy to say is now lifting noticeably), I suppose that I might have been particularly susceptible. However, as mentioned in my entry about the Tower, where I talked about existing structures breaking down and giving way to something better, I have been thinking about the things we do and allow and perpetuate that give us an odd sense of security, but are actually quite horrible for us.

That’s why, as I was listening to Anne Rice’s The Wolves of Midwinter, I was so struck by the following exchange between Phil (the father) and Reuben (the twenty-something son):

 

“Why don’t people do what they really want to do, Reuben?” [Phil] asked. “Why do we settle for what makes us devoutly unhappy? Why do we accept that happiness just isn’t possible?”

[Reuben’s response] “…I don’t know why I woke up every morning with the idea that I had to adjust, had to accept, had to go along with.”

 

I was cooking in the kitchen, listening to this rather wonderful book, when that talented hag Anne Rice had to go and hit me right in the feelings. I mean, right in the center of what was been bothering me, what HAS been bothering me on some level for years on end. More years than I can count, really. And to have it so amazingly articulated? I was in a particularly vulnerable state anyway and then that jerkface had to go and make me have emotions. The unmitigated gall, right?

I love Anne Rice. Love her. She has a way of making you see, taste, smell, and feel everything she is describing. Her writing is visceral and flowery and portrays a striking depth. She makes you yearn for the worlds she creates; she makes you miss and long for places you have never been, makes you nostalgic for centuries you will never know.

But this day I was none too pleased with the woman. It struck me right in the heart, a heart that was trying to repair itself anyway. I stood in the kitchen, eyes blurry with annoying tears, and backed up the audio book to hear those lines again. And again.

All this was on my mind anyway. How long have I gone along in this job that I hate with toxic coworkers ready to stab everyone in the back at the slightest provocation (or with none at all)? How long have I tolerated living in a climate I can’t stand? How long have I just gone along, living in a strikingly conservative and intolerant county in an otherwise decently open state? And when, when in my life did I become so utterly convinced that this was all there is, that happiness is a state of mind — which it is to a large extent — and that I just needed to learn to put up, to be stronger, to be tougher? At what point did I decide that happiness was unattainable — that having a job and friends and a life you love were not possible, so I had better just be happy with what I have? How did I come to inwardly aspire for more but doubt that it was actually possible and therefore never try?

I know I’m not alone in this. I’m strong, I’m tough, and I’ve learned a lot. But why stay? Why do any of us continue in this misery instead of trying to change our circumstances? Why do people stay in bad relationships? Why do we stay at jobs we loathe? How did we become so convinced there’s nothing better that we don’t even TRY for anything more?

Like Phil said in the quote, why do we settle? And by settling, we become complacent, we don’t try for better, we accept our lot, embrace our misery, and revel in our apathy. Then we turn 30 or 50 or 100 and wonder what we did with all that time. We wonder why we didn’t write that novel, change jobs, go back to school, ask that person out, take that vacation… We think about how happy we could have been if only… “If only.” It has a terribly sad ring to it, doesn’t it?

I’m reminded of another quote from an unknown source that ties into all of this, and so I’ll end with that.

 

“Every day is another chance to change your life.”