Breadcrumbs

I haven't written in over a year.  It doesn't feel like that to me but that's because I have written, I just haven't published. Below are my unfinished thoughts from the last fifteen months or so. 


 On Friendship and Being "Bored"

Near the end of summer 2013 I went to a big annual house party thrown by some friends.  It has a cutesy name and is generally populated by a mixture of a bunch of people I genuinely like that I see all the time, a few people I genuinely like that I don't see often enough, a bunch of people I never see but like fine in small doses and few people I really don't like at all.  This year I was feeling really into this party.  Like seriously looking forward to it, pre-planning to get pleasantly (ok, unpleasantly) drunk and attempting to rally the aforementioned "friends I genuinely like that I see all the time" up to my level of excitement.  Truthfully, I was at one of those social low points where it felt like I hadn't done a single fun thing in forever, my life was boring, etc.  And internally I was blaming it a little (or a lot) on my friends.  My friends who mostly have spouses and kids and busy schedules and were failing to entertain me to the level I demanded.

I got an little insufferable at this party, calling everyone boring and generally airing grievances through a comfortable cloud of alcohol.  I'm not sure anyone really noticed.  It was definitely one of those times when my feelings manifested themselves through mostly excusable drunkenness. Still I did feel somewhat guilty afterwards since I knew that I was basically feeling unsatisfied with my life and choosing to blame that feeling on others.

A scant six months later and those feeling are all but forgotten.  In fact, probably the last couple of months I've been going through a real introvert phase where I have to make myself do anything social.  The truly odd thing is that I'm probably happier and more satisfied with life at the moment than I was when I was craving social interaction.  For me content equals alone time is great and unhappy equals hang out with me and distract me.


Reason and Imagination (I imagine this made sense at the time)

Reason and imagination don't seem likely companions. Reason equals fact based conclusions, measured analysis, sanity. Reason. Reasonable. Imagination equals flights of fancy, outside of reality, what is not real. Imagination. Imaginary.

Reason: the power of comprehending, inferring, or thinking, especially in orderly rational ways. But how? How do you comprehend? How do you infer? How to you think? To comprehend you imagine the problem into perimeters that you can understand. To infer you imagine future events, consequences, reactions, possibilities. To think is to imagine.

Who says imagination can't be orderly or rational.

Why do we think that to be rational, reasonable, realistic that we have to accept, accept, accept?


Unlikely to Take a Husband


I am perpetually single and seemingly about 80% less interested in changing that then most single women. It's true that I have some barriers, which are obvious to people in my life, to finding a significant other.  However, surely if I were really serious about finding myself a big hunk of man I could work on these.

Fundamentally I think I do have less of whatever it is that makes people need romantic relationships. I do lust, but I think less than the average person.  I do feel lonely on occasion, but again, less than the average person.  More than the average person, I am very adverse to allowing a significant other control over my happiness and well-being.  In fact, I know that I have never met a man that made me think I could commit a month to him, much less the rest of my life.

Perhaps I am just weird.  Generally what I think, undoubtedly delusion-ally, is that I'm just really independent and self-assured.  That I look at couples and think, "that looks nice," and not, "I must have that now or I will surely grow old alone and die unhappy."  Also, I am scared.  Scared of opening myself up, scared of rejection and just scared of having someone possibly really fuck up my life.

Reading this it must seem like I have some serious issues.  Like I had some horror show childhood where I was abused and mistreated.  Some reason for being so guarded.  The truth is that I had more of a storybook childhood.  That I am blessed.  That I mostly like myself.  That I like to spend time alone.  I trust my own decision-making capabilities.  I require little input from others regarding how I live my life.


Arthur Jones is not his name

Arthur Jones was the name of the boy I chased around the swing set behind our Nursery School, or maybe he chased me, but I doubt it- I probably chased him. It is the name of the familiar, nerve relieving face I saw on my way into the first day of kindergarten. The name I idiotically gave when another kindergarten boy asked me who I had a crush on and the name that was subsequently repeated to the entire playground.

Had anyone asked me, I would have given the same name in first grade, second grade, third grade, fourth grade, fifth grade, sixth grade, seventh grade and eighth grade. The name of the boy across the street. The name of the boy who I helped with his homework and gave advice about his girlfriend. The name of the boy who would let his friends make fun of me and then apologized about it later, rudely disturbing my active campaign to forget . The name of the boy who told me his secrets while I kept my secrets to myself.


On Death

In January of 2011 my maternal grandmother passed away unexpectedly.  As unexpectedly as an 80 something year old can pass away.  I did expect her to die sometime, just not that month or day or hour.  It was sad but, in a way, not sad.  She wasn't a happy women.  Maybe ever, but certainly not for quite a few years.  She suffered from depression, which went untreated when she didn't take the medication prescribed to her.  Her marriage was not good.  It was never ideal but it had deteriorated with her mental state.  It was hard to see her unhappy, to see the lady from my childhood disappearing.  Death seemed like a kind escape.  Missing her would be a privilege as I'd started to forget the woman that I'd actually miss.  As time goes by I remember that women more.

My maternal grandfather followed her in death a little over two years later.  His death was expected, he was on hospice care for several weeks.  I saw him waste away from kidney failure and it is something that will stay with me for my whole life.  For a dignified death it was decided undignified.  As I'm beginning to expect is true of most death.  But still, perhaps it was a kindness.  He had a good life that he was no longer able to live.  The books he loved were lost to his diminishing eyesight and ability to concentrate.  His hobbies lost to his decreased mobility.  Even arguing about politics and religion had lost its luster.  Politics don't matter when you were on your way out and religion is maybe a little too close for comfort.  After all, you are about to find out about the afterlife firsthand.