This post is a ramble. To quote Nina Simone, "this is a showtune, but the show hasn't been written for it yet."
I am forever trying to understand my own mind, likes, wants, desires, fears, cares and the whole gestalt of who I am, and what makes me so, and whether I can call myself a good person.
I call myself an empath.
Empathy is intrinsically the base trait of goodness, defined as how we treat/relate to people and living beings around us, even the environment. But, empathy may also leave you vulnerable to abuse, being taken advantage of, being disrespected, and carrying emotional burdens that weigh you down mentally over time.
The moral of this story? Lash out when you're being disrespected, regardless of the consequence.
Over the years, I have worried about the unsaid things that swirl in my mind, what I often refer to as the noumenal locutions that I cannot express, both because I am resentful of needing to do so, and because I simply have difficulty expressing myself, often not being able to find words until well after the fact, and never in the appropriate moment when it matters.
Thoughts and ideas that I struggle to express leave a lacuna between who I am and how i present myself. That Liminal link thins and increasingly makes it hard for me to fully express myself.
Not everyone who claims to be a victim is (and not simply because said person means to deceive-- psychopathy). Sometimes, you can scream and cry that you are right and still not be right.
Lawsuits or tears? Pick your weapon of rightness. We equate tears and cries with victimhood. If you cry, literally or figuritvely, you must be the one worthy of sympathy. But this is not true.
Did Lance Armstrong not sue people who accused him of doping?
As paradoxical as it is, you can like/love a thing and still recognize imperfections and problematic aspects of that thing. I can like Star Trek Discovery, while still admitting that the show has many flaws. Flaws within a thing or person doesn't make them disposable.
I have some thoughts about internet culture, black lives matter, and the frustration of hearing viewpoints dominate the mainstream consciousness that lack , well nuance.
I hate mob mentality.
Internet: you are cancelled.
Me: This is absurd
Internet: Let's get Bill Maher fired
Me: Let's not. He's entitled to his opinions.
Truth: I hate arrogance, vanity, narcissism and phoniness/insincerity. That explains why I hate celebs, which is a generalization (I don't hate all). It explains why I avoid reality show stars, influencers, social media stars, and attention-seekers. And the distaste Prince Harry's wife leaves in my mouth.
Truth: at the end of the day, a person's character matters more than melanin.
My Mind works like this: Nuance
Internet: you're either with us or you're with the terrorist
Me: Here's an analysis of A, B, C, and oh, also, D, E, F, G, H...
Internet: you are blocked/racist.
FACT: Racism exists on a spectrum. You don't have to be a card-carrying Neo-Nazi to be racist or harbor racist sentiment.
Amy Cooper would've voted for Obama a third time if she could.
Internet: only conservatives can be racist
Me: I don't give a damn about your political affiliation
Internet: you give a pass to Justin Trudeau for blackface
Me: I have no power over what Justin Trudeau does/gets
My mind works like this:
Me: Is Lea Michele guilty of racism or bullying/diva antics?
Internet: it does't matter. Her victim is black.
My mind works like this.
Internet: Sasha Exeter is a victim of Jessica Mulroney's white privilege
Me: who's Sasha Exeter?
Internet: Tomi Lahren is racist
Me: I don't care about this person and don't like you putting this person in my consciousness.
Internet: Tomi, Tomi, Tomi
Me: silent pouts, shuts down, shut off device
I always look forward to October, the month when the world --the western world--celebrates the occult. I have been a fan of witches, ghouls, eldritch, and the macabre forever!
October 2018 was no exception. I looked forward to it, and even the black cat that slipped across my path on Halloween night got me excited.
It was bad omen, of course. Exactly a week later, I experienced the worst tragedy of my life.
My mom slipped from the world.
Every day I wake up and think about the circumstances -- how I could've prevented it, and all the things I did wrong, like being upset she was sick, again, and also not taking her to the hospital in the morning.
I was stupid and selfish, and wished we did more together. But all that has passed. I have no magic wand or time-traveling contraption to return to that day in November 2018.
This October feels sober.
I have all the same feelings of excitement, but they are muted. Each time I allow myself to feel joy, my guilt, pain and sadness stifle that joy.
As the one year anniversary comes up, I admit, I still don't know how to cope.
But I have been dong so for nearly a year and will try ...
I sleep on it. I wake up and think on it. Consider it. Fodder it. Entertain it. Sustain it. Dismiss it. Then I sleep on it. Dream on it. Inspired by it, I wake up. And I linger on it, tinker it, cuddle it, and nurture it ... my heart's full of it.
And the days drift, and I lose it. Then I regain it, pulled from a coil of a dream of it. Then I desire it. I repeat it. And I recycle it. and praise it. And I go on to shape it, imagine it, but never fully grasping it.
I owe it, a birth into existence; hence the persistence. I'll never grow it, and I know it, but I put all my hopes on it ... until the day I die.