I haven’t updated this blog in a pretty long time so I figured I would get some thoughts that were running through my head this morning/afternoon. Grad school hasn’t made much time for personal or “creative” writing.There is not any particular “plot” to this, or maybe there is; it’s up to you. Pardon the frequent semi-colon use. And apparently I have 343 people following this blog. I don’t know who any of you are, but thank you, meaningfully and truthfully.
Did I ever tell you about the person I was named after? Maybe I will another time; that’s too personal for right now.
I went for a walk this morning around Lake Ella. I wore black boots, dark green denim pants, and a blue shirt. My roommate insisted my outfit did not match; I insisted I did not care. You can all eat roaches.
The weather predicts stormy weather for this afternoon. As a result, I was probably the only one walking around Lake Ella besides the girl who asked me to sign a slip which would allow the daughter of Bob Graham to run for Florida State Senator. I would have signed despite being neither a Republican nor Democrat, but I am not registered to vote in Leon County.
One lap around the duck inhabited lake and then I met with my roommate, her boyfriend, and his roommate at a Chinese Super Buffet. They went for hangovers; I went for companionship. I decided not to eat because it’s a Chinese Super Buffet – tautologies be damned. My companion’s immediate complaints upon finishing their food were, “I shouldn’t have eaten here. I feel disgusting.” This confirmed my hesitation about eating at a buffet restaurant where children are most likely slapping their snotty hands on the creepily creamy shrimp and awkwardly present macaroni and cheese.
After breakfast I returned to Lake Ella and continued walking with a copy of Walden in my hands which I never ended up reading. Typical, right? Reading Thoreau at Lake Ella. I saw a Mexican family that was at the Chinese Super Buffet.
The father wore a cowboy hat, cowboy shirt, and had two knives attached to his belt. He and his wife had five children present – I think all boys. They stood by the water and enjoyed their Sunday.
The capricious winds in the capacious environment precluding the storm calmed and grounded me. I thought of a girl I dated recently and wondered why I still thought of her. It wasn’t logical, but emotions are not concerned with logic.
I haven’t spoken with her in weeks and I know she has forgotten about me. That’s a typical recurring fate I encounter, a curse I can’t escape from, a repeating destiny.
Her mellifluous, melodious singing still haunts my apartment, resonating, echoing in that open space, that grey area between Self and Other, where we see the physiological effects discussed in Affect Theory. Memories haunt, and I know she is somewhere else, laughing, dancing, smiling. I still don’t know if she ever heard, understood, listened, or knew me. It’s memories all the way down, memories to fill that abyss. Echoes are always heard but never able to be grasped. They are an objet a that damages the psyche. They permeate like parasites and find their cures in addiction.
The forecast predicts stormy weather; it always has. I have inherited a particular gene structure, call it a fate, call it Fate, call it something we can’t determine or know or see in a microscope. It’s an inheritance by any other name and one defined by accursedness.
How do you tell someone you are cursed? Where’s the proof? It’s a feeling, and feelings are too underrated.
I know the Myer-Briggs personality type test is bullshit but I consider it to be similar to Wikipedia. You can’t use Wikipedia in a paper, but it helps to take a quick look for a brief summary of a subject. That being said, I fit the profile of an INFJ quite well. The test profile describes me better than I can describe myself.
Apparently we are only 1% of the population, the rarest breed, and one that is not easily understood. An additional note reads, “The INFJ individual is gifted in ways that other types are not. Life is not necessarily easy for the INFJ, but they are capable of great depth of feeling and personal achievement.”
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t think I’m some unique fucking snowflake. But I do know I feel the world in ways I believe most people can’t. I feel in ways I don’t often find others capable of. I feel empathy sometimes to a fault. I meet people who claim to be empathetic and I soon discover they don’t even know what the word means. They can be as be enjoys as the next scorpion. Maybe I should stop here.
Have you ever met someone who displayed a particular set of personality traits only to discover you were deceived? In the beginning they were genuine and they listened; in the end they were fraudulent and solely self-concerned. These realizations can be disappointing.
But I do want to help people. When I see a person cry, hurt, or experience injustice, I have an overwhelming need to help them, save them, and end the oppression.
Did I ever tell you who I was named after? I still don’t think right now is the right time, but I will tell you that the forecast has always predicted stormy weather. Paradoxically, the capricious rains and tempestuous winds settle me.
The singing of someone long gone still haunts the claustrophobic apartment I pay rent at. I hear the singing of a spirit who has freed herself, already unfettered, but who I keep around as a matter of object cathexsis. It’s not a home and I’m not sure if I have ever had one in several years. I’ve just paid rent at a series of locations, moving quickly like the winds that rush across my skin. Another apartment, another haunting.
There is a claustrophobic inside and commodious outside. There is neither specificity nor generality. It is all just feeling and perception. The present consists only of memories. The memories consist only of perceptions. After that it is all confusion.
These topics are not easily discussed. You don’t just walk up to someone and tell them you are cursed. These are not medieval times where we can cure melancholia, the black humor, by bleeding a person out. Nor can we ascribe supernatural causes to events which are not easily understood. But to feel the world, and to understand what it is we are surrounded by, requires a sense of feeling, a sense, ability, and faculty that is rare and often misunderstood.
It’s really nice to meet you.
Let’s skip to the part where we reveal our skeletons. You already know I have no patience for the in between.
Before you I didn’t have any missed calls and I didn’t need to leave the porch light on. None of that will change with meeting you, I know; I’m sorry if I gave the impression I might think otherwise.
Well, maybe I did think, for a moment, when you smiled at me and looked in my eyes and held them in your hands. But I know I don’t need to check my phone to see if I have any missed calls to tell me where I won’t be this Thanksgiving.
You won’t have to tell me why. I’ll ask the skeletons what they think. I remember what I wish I could forget.
If Byron could drink from the River Lethe to forget the cursed past, I can share the same body of water for the same reasons. I look out my window: grey skies, naked trees, a storm fast approaching. I’m beating my heart until it stops beating.
Ye know it, and I cannot utter it
Maybe next time, if the weather is different, I’ll tell you about who I was named after. You will know this curse I have inherited.
I look out my window and see that the clouds are getting darker, the winds are gaining speed, and the storm will soon no longer be a neighbor but a resident. The rain is now pouring down like I should have stocked up on batteries and non-perishable foods. It’s all grey skies and naked trees. Memories and vague perceptions clouded by whiskey and Ativan. Raindrops collect on the window like perceptual misunderstandings, disfiguring visual perception.
The storm is confirming the prediction. The present is confirming the fate. The curse is predicting the future.