Simple Gratitude

Lately, if you knew me personally you would often hear me say, "I've outgrown this life." This is my way of saying that, although my life sucks, I myself am pretty great and it is simply time to move into a life that fits me better. The other implied option, of course, is to adapt to my existing, uncomfortably unrewarding life and remain put. This is no simple choice. Although one option is clearly more virtuous, it is also scary and intimidating. If a hermit crab has the same feelings we do, I imagine that the moment of starkest terror for him is that of leaving his familiar, comfortable, but cramped shell behind for a spell while he searches for one that fits his new, larger self. If I were him, I would (and have) put off the move for as long as possible. It is now the moment of truth, however. Any further delay, and my situation will cease to be uncomfortable and become disfiguring. I feel, in short, like a Chinese foot; in order to remain here, bones must bend and dislocate until toes touch heels and a new--unnatural--comfort is reached.

Recently, I asked a wise woman whom I have known for years but am only beginning to appreciate, "Gina, what is the secret of your abundant life?" Interestingly, she replied that the secret was gratitude. This makes perfect sense; why should God entrust me with a bigger life when I am so discontent with what he has already given me? It is true enough that I have nothing, that I don't even have a physical space to call my own. However, am I not blessed with an amazing, beautiful and expansive self in which to reside? The idea that I am cramped at all disappears when I realize how blessed I am to inhabit this person. In fact, I suddenly realize that I have been, as Zora Neale Hurston puts it, "pacing a cage which isn't there." My contorted wrestling against a confining life turns out to have been an unwitting mime, and I snicker to imagine myself pressing desperately against the air. I wrote a poem about it, and, although it is not one of my best, I think it carries the sentiment:

* * *
Pressing Matters

I followed the instructions
And “drank me,”
partook of myself,
and suddenly I’ve outgrown this life.
It is beyond uncomfortable in here;
I am in imminent danger
of being mashed,
and I am still growing.

I’ve been here before,
pressing my face
against the glass ceiling
between me and my bigger life.
At first it is only mildly uncomfortable—
My features amusingly disfigured
against the glass—
but this is becoming critical.
I’m cramped beyond room in this life,
and the floor is rising.

I can’t push any harder.
Organs and muscles are burstingly strained,
herniating unnaturally,
and capillaries are rupturing like
twisted handfuls of bubble wrap,
but at the last possible moment
before my hull breaches
and I become a smear on the universe,
a passerby is heard
laughing at the mime.

Perceptive Synaesthestia

Well, I've had my fill of feeling for a bit (no doubt you have perceived that I don't emote by half-measure), and have decided to return to thinking for a bit, which is at least something I know I do well. By way of brief personal update, I am moderately content today, and do not anticipate a scena for the perceptible future.

It seems to me that the nature of successful poetry is synaesthesia, an orderly upending of the senses. At its most basic level, we are all synaesthetes and, by extension poets. We instinctively speak of loud ties, soft aromas, and juicy chords, all synaethetic combinations to which we can relate without much trouble. Perhaps this is simply a trick of language, whereby we conflate vocabulary for all of the senses to expand our adjectival capability. I prefer to think that when I say "he embraced me with his eyes," or something else suitably poetic, I am really conveying that a certain visual sensation touches the same part of my brain as another, otherwise unrelated tactile sensation. To think of it this way eliminates an unnecessary intermediate step in language. I needn't justify my comparison of a certain painting to cordurouy or pimento; I can simply say that the three things strike me in the same way.

This explains the allure of such ridiculous questions as, "If you were a tree, what sort would you be?" Since all sensory expressions are purely arbitrary, and are simply cultural agreements for denoting the activation of a certain synaptic path, I am perfectly justified in saying that Nathan (yes, I'm still a bit hung up on him) reminds me of Rodin's Age of Bronze, even without any real resemblance. He simply touches the same part of my brain. Elizabeth Barrett Browning reaches in and touches the nerve that is also attached to lace and fractals. Mustard is connected to stainless steel and snare drums, and writing this blog is like listening intently to a fugue or folding wool socks.

Shit-Colored Glasses

Lest you think I'm just being dramatic (a fair charge), I think it appropriate to iterate the distinction between what I feel and what is. Who knows, I may even clarify things a little for myself.

What is #1:
A man I barely know didn't respond to my affection. Even though I am confident he is attracted to me, he has no room for me right now.

How I feel #1:
I jumped into a relationship with my heart on my sleeve, holding nothing back, and, once again, I wasn't enough. There must be something wrong with me.

What is #2:
I had the opportunity to take a stand for other people growing and suceeding in my city, and I wasn't committed enough to make it materialize. Neither were a multitude of other otherwise committed people whom I continue to admire anyway.

How I feel #2:
I am a fundamentally weak, broken person. Once again I let my fear run me and (although nobody else may ever know it because my actions and words spoke otherwise) I held back just enough of my self to ensure failure.

What is #3:
I am a fun, smart, handsome, nice man with a remarkably clear, honest perspective. I have several friends who see through me well enough to insist that I be authentic. I am insanely well-connected in my city, and after all, I am only twenty-eight.

How I feel #3:
I have nothing. Five years ago I was married with a good job and a nice house that I owned. Today I have no intimate connections, a job in Flourescent Hell From Satan's Anus, and no space that is authentically mine. And I am insanely lonely.

What is #4:
I have the opportunity to take on my life in a huge way: no real connections, nothing holding me back, and a degree behind me. I am young, healthy, energetic, articulate and eminently employable.

How I feel #4:
Like hiding under my desk and letting the world turn over me.

Just in case history looks back on this later and wonders, this is the third day in a row I've seriously thought about killing myself.

Wallowing in Poo

Two things have me backed up right now, and I spent last night considering whether I suck so badly that I should be excised from the universe. I don't feel quite so despairing this morning; I simply feel numb and pointless, like a tumor on existence. My intent is to record things here as they really are, with as much of the dramatic black paint scraped off as I can manage; perhaps things will emerge from the process of palabrazation a little clearer.

To begin with, I seem to have made the mistake of investing myself in somebody who doesn't quite want it. I may just be making this up so that I can feel bad about it (when given the option of inventing an explanation for something, I inevitably lean toward the tragic), but my experience is that he doesn't feel about me the way I do about him. I think to myself, therefore, "Why did you you jump in and get all poetic when he's just another kid who doesn't know what he wants?" He has much going for him: he is sincere, open, emotionally accessible, doesn't spook easily, hasn't insisted on jumping into the sack, and--wonder of wonders--keeps his word. This last item absolutely blows my mind; it has been my experience that when a guy says he will call, it is anybody's guess whether he will or not. Not so with Nathan: so far he is batting a thousand. And did I mention that he's beautiful? Honestly, he's a work of art. Now for the bad news. An acceptable relationship status for most gay men is "dating a few people." Perhaps I'm narcissistic, but it simply doesn't work for me to be one of a few people. My experience is that Nathan wants to play, to be dating a few people. I don't fault him for this; most people go through a phase of playful experimentation, but I am done with mine and insist on a man's full attention. It seems that he's afraid to settle for my company, which is a rather highly prized commodity, on the slim chance that something better is waiting out there. I am not asking for him to settle down in the sense of buying a house and adopting a himalayan orphan, but I do ask for him to trade "what if?" for what is. It boils down to this: either he will step up to and through his fear, or he won't. I don't feel compelled to judge his decision as good or bad, but I insist that he either poops or gets off the pot. And perhaps I will be left alone again.

The second item that has me backed up involves my career. I have been offered a job that pays approximately twice what I'm currently making, along with the opportunity to make a difference in the functioning of my native city. My current job has been eating my soul, and now I am being asked to work Sundays, to sacrifice something that has become the highlight of my week: worship in the choir at church. This new job would solve both problems, and help me out of the financial hole that has been filling up around me even as I try to extricate myself. The catch is, I percieve that this new job is one of the most difficult I have ever imagined, and I am scared shitless. Honestly, I have seen this job devour several people, and I am highly comestible. But I know that if I chicken out, my soul will hate me for sucking so badly. So I am left with the option of taking the scary job, which may be a door out of the boxed life in which I quickly becoming cramped, but may also be another nail in the coffin of my self-worth, or selling out on my soul and continuing to disintegrate in a flourescent-lighted hell. I want to crawl under my desk and hide, until somebody else makes the choice for me. Again.

Don't be surprised if this is the last post in this blog.