Dear Ajé:
I was doing the dishes this morning and my thoughts were spinning around in my head regarding how people don’t listen. Even when they ask a question people rarely wait for a complete response because they’ve already chosen their own response. There are times when I do feel like people are in tune with me, but it seems that when I really just need someone to hear me out all anyone wants to do is tell me their interpretation of my thoughts. I appreciate the gesture, but not letting me have my own thoughts/feelings makes me feel like my thoughts/feelings aren’t valid.
This got my mind on a roll and I started thinking about how at some point in time it is a possibility that I would kill myself. I’m not suicidal, and I’m not in any hurry to die, but if nothing else kills me first I think it’s possible that I will just get bored one day and the next realm will seem like a good journey. It got me wondering what I would say in the letter I would leave behind, to help people understand the way I think and why things will be okay. I was concerned that the religious people in my life wouldn’t get it so I tried to explore how I would explain it for them. I think if the Christian God is an omnipotent being that he would have known long before any of us existed every single step that we would take. Not so much in a way that God created our fate, but more like he was the only person who got to watch the movie of Life before it was made. Which means that all people who have committed suicide were given life even though God knew that they would end it by their own hands. And if there’s a pre-existence all of those people would have known what they would have to sacrifice in order to have this experience in an earthly body, including the sacrifice of that body itself.
These bodies are simply hosts and our energy is the parasite within.
Love,
Yourself
Friday, August 20, 2010
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Death of a Farmer
Dear Ajé:
My grandfather died a few days ago. There is a part of me that is sad his journey has ended, but I am more apathetic than anything. I feel that I am the only member of my family who was prepared for his death. This bothers me because it makes me feel even more distant from them. I am trying to determine why I care if I am different, but I still do not know the answer to that question. Which is fine. Perhaps it is the wrong question to be asking.
I don’t believe in funerals. I can empathize with those who do, I believe that I understand the concept behind them. I get the need for closure. I do. But I have more-or-less been preparing myself for the end of this life since it began. I wrote my first will when I was 14. I still have it glued to the inside of my journal. It describes how I want my body to be prepared down to the underwear and nail polish. I have my pall bearers picked out, as well as people whom I had chosen to sing and/or speak. It was written on a yellow piece of notebook paper with blue lines. I wanted to wear the cream Victorian dress my aunt Candy had given me; the same dress I wanted to be married in.
Anyway, my gramps was a good man, from what I could tell. He’s been relatively the same for as long as I can remember. He had grey hair, which he kept long on one side so he could comb it over to cover the bald spot. He made fruit cake every year for Christmas, waking up early so that he could prepare it all in one morning. I’ve never met anyone in my life who liked fruit cake, but Grandpa made it anyway. He lived on the same plot of land for all his life, at least as far as I know. First in the house next to mine that was built by my great grandfather, and later in the house he built for himself and my grandmother. He worked his farm and that provided them with enough to care for themselves, their children, and the rest of their lives. It’s beautiful really, when you think about it. For my entire life he raised cattle which he would purchase at auctions. I vaguely remember a time when he had pigs as well, but it was a long time ago.
Even though I loved my grandpa, I am not at all surprised that he died. He was eighty-five years old, had some form of cancer (pancreatic or prostate or something) and he had a pace maker. All three of these things say to me, ‘prepare yourself for the inevitable’. His pace maker was malfunctioning and to fix it they had to knock him out and do a minor surgical-type procedure. The anesthesia resulted in an immediate onset of advanced Alzheimer’s. Which sucks and in all reality could have been avoided if he hadn’t relied so heavily on advanced technology. Technology gave him a false heart when his real heart had decided that it was time to move on, and it also helped the people in his life delude themselves into thinking that he was invincible.
The death of an 85 year old man with a false heart should never come as a shock to anyone.
The problem I am facing is that I feel a bit cold hearted at the moment. Not because I actually view myself as cold-hearted, but because I think there are people who come into my life from time to time that see the world differently than myself, and because of this my viewpoint seems quite cold. I am aware that my personal beliefs may in fact leave me helpless and alone at some point in time. But no one owes me a thing, and I don’t owe anything to anyone. There is a part of me that wants to be there to console my family members who have been surprised by my grandpas passing, but I truly believe that I will not be a comfort to them. I cannot tell them that he “has gone to a better place” I cannot say that he is “no longer in pain” or “with god”. I also cannot say that I am shocked. I am sorry for my grandma because she has lost her best friend of many decades. But I am sad for her the same way I am sad for someone who’s best friend moves away. That is how I view death. It’s just a move to a place that doesn’t permit you to call or write the people you love.
This is why I hate funerals. People get so weird at them. I want to let people grieve however it is they need to grieve, but not if it is at my expense. I still remember being ‘kicked out’ of a funeral the summer after 8th grade because Vicki’s friends didn’t like me. They even tried to kick my ass the following Autumn, but I was tipped off so I avoided them. The time Mikayla killed herself and her father wouldn’t let Robert in because he didn’t like him. I was especially irritated at my dad’s funeral when Stephanie asked if it was okay with me that she was there. I get that funeral’s are supposed to be for those who are grieving -a way to find closure- but they are also for the deceased. No one who loved or was loved by the person who died should be denied the opportunity to attend the funeral (if one is taking place.) And no one should have to provide explanation for attending/missing said funeral. We all grieve in our way and no one’s grief can be measured against another’s.
I’m not even sure what I’m trying to rant about here. Nothing even really happened except for that I’m the only one not surprised by this death, and I am fearing that now that my family knows how to reach me, they will bother me once they notice I don’t show for the funeral. But death is a part of life, and I am fully aware everyone that I love will die. And if they go out at 85, I’ll consider it a life over-lived, not one that was taken too soon. This goes for me as well.
Love,
Yourself
My grandfather died a few days ago. There is a part of me that is sad his journey has ended, but I am more apathetic than anything. I feel that I am the only member of my family who was prepared for his death. This bothers me because it makes me feel even more distant from them. I am trying to determine why I care if I am different, but I still do not know the answer to that question. Which is fine. Perhaps it is the wrong question to be asking.
I don’t believe in funerals. I can empathize with those who do, I believe that I understand the concept behind them. I get the need for closure. I do. But I have more-or-less been preparing myself for the end of this life since it began. I wrote my first will when I was 14. I still have it glued to the inside of my journal. It describes how I want my body to be prepared down to the underwear and nail polish. I have my pall bearers picked out, as well as people whom I had chosen to sing and/or speak. It was written on a yellow piece of notebook paper with blue lines. I wanted to wear the cream Victorian dress my aunt Candy had given me; the same dress I wanted to be married in.
Anyway, my gramps was a good man, from what I could tell. He’s been relatively the same for as long as I can remember. He had grey hair, which he kept long on one side so he could comb it over to cover the bald spot. He made fruit cake every year for Christmas, waking up early so that he could prepare it all in one morning. I’ve never met anyone in my life who liked fruit cake, but Grandpa made it anyway. He lived on the same plot of land for all his life, at least as far as I know. First in the house next to mine that was built by my great grandfather, and later in the house he built for himself and my grandmother. He worked his farm and that provided them with enough to care for themselves, their children, and the rest of their lives. It’s beautiful really, when you think about it. For my entire life he raised cattle which he would purchase at auctions. I vaguely remember a time when he had pigs as well, but it was a long time ago.
Even though I loved my grandpa, I am not at all surprised that he died. He was eighty-five years old, had some form of cancer (pancreatic or prostate or something) and he had a pace maker. All three of these things say to me, ‘prepare yourself for the inevitable’. His pace maker was malfunctioning and to fix it they had to knock him out and do a minor surgical-type procedure. The anesthesia resulted in an immediate onset of advanced Alzheimer’s. Which sucks and in all reality could have been avoided if he hadn’t relied so heavily on advanced technology. Technology gave him a false heart when his real heart had decided that it was time to move on, and it also helped the people in his life delude themselves into thinking that he was invincible.
The death of an 85 year old man with a false heart should never come as a shock to anyone.
The problem I am facing is that I feel a bit cold hearted at the moment. Not because I actually view myself as cold-hearted, but because I think there are people who come into my life from time to time that see the world differently than myself, and because of this my viewpoint seems quite cold. I am aware that my personal beliefs may in fact leave me helpless and alone at some point in time. But no one owes me a thing, and I don’t owe anything to anyone. There is a part of me that wants to be there to console my family members who have been surprised by my grandpas passing, but I truly believe that I will not be a comfort to them. I cannot tell them that he “has gone to a better place” I cannot say that he is “no longer in pain” or “with god”. I also cannot say that I am shocked. I am sorry for my grandma because she has lost her best friend of many decades. But I am sad for her the same way I am sad for someone who’s best friend moves away. That is how I view death. It’s just a move to a place that doesn’t permit you to call or write the people you love.
This is why I hate funerals. People get so weird at them. I want to let people grieve however it is they need to grieve, but not if it is at my expense. I still remember being ‘kicked out’ of a funeral the summer after 8th grade because Vicki’s friends didn’t like me. They even tried to kick my ass the following Autumn, but I was tipped off so I avoided them. The time Mikayla killed herself and her father wouldn’t let Robert in because he didn’t like him. I was especially irritated at my dad’s funeral when Stephanie asked if it was okay with me that she was there. I get that funeral’s are supposed to be for those who are grieving -a way to find closure- but they are also for the deceased. No one who loved or was loved by the person who died should be denied the opportunity to attend the funeral (if one is taking place.) And no one should have to provide explanation for attending/missing said funeral. We all grieve in our way and no one’s grief can be measured against another’s.
I’m not even sure what I’m trying to rant about here. Nothing even really happened except for that I’m the only one not surprised by this death, and I am fearing that now that my family knows how to reach me, they will bother me once they notice I don’t show for the funeral. But death is a part of life, and I am fully aware everyone that I love will die. And if they go out at 85, I’ll consider it a life over-lived, not one that was taken too soon. This goes for me as well.
Love,
Yourself
Thursday, July 22, 2010
a place in this world
Dear Ajé:
I deleted my facebook about five minutes ago. I think I may already feel more human than I did earlier today. Or possibly less human depending on how you look at it.
Sometimes it feels that no matter what I do, I lose sight of myself. But what exactly is this self I’m trying to keep sight of?
I suppose it’s time for me to introduce you to yourself. You love people but are easily over stimulated. So often you present yourself as angry or sad and when people try to look deeper into this it only reproduces the cycle, because inquiring creates more stimuli.
You are a game that I can’t win.
And I try to beat you everyday. I want to make you my slave; cater to everything in me that feels good at any time. My efforts to contain you only make me a prisoner within myself. And all I really know how to do is prance around how I really feel.
Sometimes I just want to bitch like crazy. I’m trying so hard to find the positive in things. Not to reproduce negative energy with negative words or thoughts. Trying to not hold things against people because I really do believe that nothing is personal. We are all products of our environment, but we are all products of choice as well. To a certain extent we have no control over how we feel about anything. But there comes a time where we have to take responsibility for ourselves, for our emotions, and for our actions. I try to live my life as though just the thought ‘I am happy’ is enough to get me through each day, because I really do believe that thoughts become things. But only to a certain extent. I mean, I can’t think “I will win the lottery” and expect to actually win just because I thought that. That’s a ridiculous concept.
I think I’m just angry. Because I no longer feel that I have the right to blame others for my feelings. And because of this I don’t believe in making people feel guilty for their comments/behaviors. But sometimes the things people do/say is absolutely infuriating! How am I to find balance in these situations? I am hoping that I will learn the answer to this question, though I fear the answer is something similar to mere tolerance and I am not fond of that answer.
I’m starting to care about what people think again, and I hate that. It’s silly. But people see me and come up with all of these ideas based on stereotypes or one-time experiences. I am rarely what people see and I always feel like I have to explain this to folks. It’s draining and it scares me in an ‘I feel judged’ way. I also really hate it when people make comments about my eccentricity. People will tell me I’m “so brave” because I can dye my hair to match the new box of neon Crayola’s, or because I wear clothes that don’t match, or because I wear makeup that takes up half of my face. I wake up, I feel an urge, I follow. I am not special. I am not brave. I am simply following my impulses. Some people have an automatic desire to wear sweater vests and ties every day. Some people have an automatic desire to wear skirts every day. Some people are automatically different every day.
But folks make a big deal out of anything that’s not mainstream. Mainstream has never appealed to me. That’s why I don’t fit into that category. But none of us really fit into categories.
I don’t get it either.
I suppose this rampage has gone on long enough. I’m a little drunk. A little annoyed. Somewhat depressed and utterly confused. But I’m hoping that despite all that, I’ll be able to stop giving a fuck what anyone says about anything.
Love,
Yourself
P.S. My new goal for the week is to learn how to say “What’s it to you?” and “None of your business.” without caring if someone thinks I’m the biggest cunt of all time.
I deleted my facebook about five minutes ago. I think I may already feel more human than I did earlier today. Or possibly less human depending on how you look at it.
Sometimes it feels that no matter what I do, I lose sight of myself. But what exactly is this self I’m trying to keep sight of?
I suppose it’s time for me to introduce you to yourself. You love people but are easily over stimulated. So often you present yourself as angry or sad and when people try to look deeper into this it only reproduces the cycle, because inquiring creates more stimuli.
You are a game that I can’t win.
And I try to beat you everyday. I want to make you my slave; cater to everything in me that feels good at any time. My efforts to contain you only make me a prisoner within myself. And all I really know how to do is prance around how I really feel.
Sometimes I just want to bitch like crazy. I’m trying so hard to find the positive in things. Not to reproduce negative energy with negative words or thoughts. Trying to not hold things against people because I really do believe that nothing is personal. We are all products of our environment, but we are all products of choice as well. To a certain extent we have no control over how we feel about anything. But there comes a time where we have to take responsibility for ourselves, for our emotions, and for our actions. I try to live my life as though just the thought ‘I am happy’ is enough to get me through each day, because I really do believe that thoughts become things. But only to a certain extent. I mean, I can’t think “I will win the lottery” and expect to actually win just because I thought that. That’s a ridiculous concept.
I think I’m just angry. Because I no longer feel that I have the right to blame others for my feelings. And because of this I don’t believe in making people feel guilty for their comments/behaviors. But sometimes the things people do/say is absolutely infuriating! How am I to find balance in these situations? I am hoping that I will learn the answer to this question, though I fear the answer is something similar to mere tolerance and I am not fond of that answer.
I’m starting to care about what people think again, and I hate that. It’s silly. But people see me and come up with all of these ideas based on stereotypes or one-time experiences. I am rarely what people see and I always feel like I have to explain this to folks. It’s draining and it scares me in an ‘I feel judged’ way. I also really hate it when people make comments about my eccentricity. People will tell me I’m “so brave” because I can dye my hair to match the new box of neon Crayola’s, or because I wear clothes that don’t match, or because I wear makeup that takes up half of my face. I wake up, I feel an urge, I follow. I am not special. I am not brave. I am simply following my impulses. Some people have an automatic desire to wear sweater vests and ties every day. Some people have an automatic desire to wear skirts every day. Some people are automatically different every day.
But folks make a big deal out of anything that’s not mainstream. Mainstream has never appealed to me. That’s why I don’t fit into that category. But none of us really fit into categories.
I don’t get it either.
I suppose this rampage has gone on long enough. I’m a little drunk. A little annoyed. Somewhat depressed and utterly confused. But I’m hoping that despite all that, I’ll be able to stop giving a fuck what anyone says about anything.
Love,
Yourself
P.S. My new goal for the week is to learn how to say “What’s it to you?” and “None of your business.” without caring if someone thinks I’m the biggest cunt of all time.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
good lord, it's people
Dear Ajé:
I find technology to be quite upsetting. I admit that I have fallen victim to it's cunning a time or two, and I am disgusted by myself and my inability to save myself from this atrocity.
My head spins and I feel nauseous.
My grandfather who is eighty-five years old recently went to the hospital to discover that his pace maker was not working at it's full capacity. They had to send some sort of device through his urethra in order to fix this problem and make his pace maker function like a Real Life Heart. I find this to be utterly ridiculous. Don't get me wrong, I love my gramps, but he's eighty-fucking-five years old. You're heart is supposed to fail when you're that age. Our bodies just give out on us after so long. It's nature. It's really not that big of a deal. Worth mourning, yes, but inevitable. We were not created to cheat nature, and we will never fully do so. What is there to do with one's life when they're eighty-five anyway? Adventurous traveling? Romantic sexcapade getaways? I suppose there are those rare circumstances where older folks have the health of a child, but realistically we're all just going to be worn down and bored by then, if we're still alive at all.
And all of this over-population. Ugh. Women need to be sterilized after their third child. It would really help. I think it's fantastic that nowadays women/babies are less likely to die during childbirth than they used to be, but we're running out of space and supplies. We are animals. Survival of the fittest has worked since the dawn of creation. It is even true of our planets. If two planets/stars/moons get too close to one another the one with stronger gravity will destroy the other. We're putting premature babies in incubators and fake hearts in old people. It's expensive and unnatural and I'm incredibly annoyed by how much it all bothers me.
I know that if this world was still build on the motto of 'whoever is most fit shall survive' that my family would have been wiped out by now. I come from a line of decent, mostly hard-working people, but we're not rich and were not overly skilled and my family line probably would have disappeared a few generations ago.
How many families would have been wiped out in the last 30 years if it wasn't for government assistance? It's crazy to think about.
I also don't understand people freaking out about the end of their family line, or the end of human existence. Who cares. You don't see the Dinosaurs making a big fuss about it. If it's meant to happen, it will happen and we cannot stop it. The Universe is superior to man and it will have the final word. Our species is merely an organ of this planet and our planet is merely an organ of this galaxy, and this galaxy is merely an organ in a greater Universe. So who are we kidding, we don't really have that much to say about the grand scheme of things.
But what really gets me is how difficult it can be to have opinions that aren't mainstream. How people constantly feel that they are owed explanations for things that don't directly concern them. I believe that part of the reason I felt so crazy during much of my youth is because I was the only person I knew that wasn't completely brainwashed by this idea of incorrect, mindless blame. I still remember being in ninth grade and having my group of friends turn on me because Jessika had swallowed a bottle of ibuprofen. It was 'my fault' she did it because I was upset at her for hitting on my crush and was taking a few days to calm down before brushing it off. (It was just a boy, but it still hurt.) But I wasn't there when she took the pills. I didn't suggest it. I didn't shove them down her throat. And I seemed to be the only person who realized that suicide was a personal choice, regardless of whether or not it was well thought out.
I think I may have always known that how we feel - how we view the world - is a personal choice, but I had no language to express this during my youth and now I am having a difficult time living it as an adult. I just know that blame does nothing but poison our own hearts and that I often respond to things in a way that contradicts my soul.
It's hard to follow the path that speaks to you. But I guess that just means to try harder.
These irritations also make me nervous about the day I'm trapped in a small space during Armageddon and people are freaking out and turning on each other over the dumbest things.
We live in a scary world.
Oh well.
Love,
Yourself
I find technology to be quite upsetting. I admit that I have fallen victim to it's cunning a time or two, and I am disgusted by myself and my inability to save myself from this atrocity.
My head spins and I feel nauseous.
My grandfather who is eighty-five years old recently went to the hospital to discover that his pace maker was not working at it's full capacity. They had to send some sort of device through his urethra in order to fix this problem and make his pace maker function like a Real Life Heart. I find this to be utterly ridiculous. Don't get me wrong, I love my gramps, but he's eighty-fucking-five years old. You're heart is supposed to fail when you're that age. Our bodies just give out on us after so long. It's nature. It's really not that big of a deal. Worth mourning, yes, but inevitable. We were not created to cheat nature, and we will never fully do so. What is there to do with one's life when they're eighty-five anyway? Adventurous traveling? Romantic sexcapade getaways? I suppose there are those rare circumstances where older folks have the health of a child, but realistically we're all just going to be worn down and bored by then, if we're still alive at all.
And all of this over-population. Ugh. Women need to be sterilized after their third child. It would really help. I think it's fantastic that nowadays women/babies are less likely to die during childbirth than they used to be, but we're running out of space and supplies. We are animals. Survival of the fittest has worked since the dawn of creation. It is even true of our planets. If two planets/stars/moons get too close to one another the one with stronger gravity will destroy the other. We're putting premature babies in incubators and fake hearts in old people. It's expensive and unnatural and I'm incredibly annoyed by how much it all bothers me.
I know that if this world was still build on the motto of 'whoever is most fit shall survive' that my family would have been wiped out by now. I come from a line of decent, mostly hard-working people, but we're not rich and were not overly skilled and my family line probably would have disappeared a few generations ago.
How many families would have been wiped out in the last 30 years if it wasn't for government assistance? It's crazy to think about.
I also don't understand people freaking out about the end of their family line, or the end of human existence. Who cares. You don't see the Dinosaurs making a big fuss about it. If it's meant to happen, it will happen and we cannot stop it. The Universe is superior to man and it will have the final word. Our species is merely an organ of this planet and our planet is merely an organ of this galaxy, and this galaxy is merely an organ in a greater Universe. So who are we kidding, we don't really have that much to say about the grand scheme of things.
But what really gets me is how difficult it can be to have opinions that aren't mainstream. How people constantly feel that they are owed explanations for things that don't directly concern them. I believe that part of the reason I felt so crazy during much of my youth is because I was the only person I knew that wasn't completely brainwashed by this idea of incorrect, mindless blame. I still remember being in ninth grade and having my group of friends turn on me because Jessika had swallowed a bottle of ibuprofen. It was 'my fault' she did it because I was upset at her for hitting on my crush and was taking a few days to calm down before brushing it off. (It was just a boy, but it still hurt.) But I wasn't there when she took the pills. I didn't suggest it. I didn't shove them down her throat. And I seemed to be the only person who realized that suicide was a personal choice, regardless of whether or not it was well thought out.
I think I may have always known that how we feel - how we view the world - is a personal choice, but I had no language to express this during my youth and now I am having a difficult time living it as an adult. I just know that blame does nothing but poison our own hearts and that I often respond to things in a way that contradicts my soul.
It's hard to follow the path that speaks to you. But I guess that just means to try harder.
These irritations also make me nervous about the day I'm trapped in a small space during Armageddon and people are freaking out and turning on each other over the dumbest things.
We live in a scary world.
Oh well.
Love,
Yourself
Thursday, June 24, 2010
the house that is me
Dear Ajé:
It seems I had another episode of temporary amnesia. That whole nasty cycle of forgetting who I am from time to time. Though I’m starting to remember that I only forget who I am when I start trying to find myself. Someone was kind enough to remind me that the brokenness inside doesn’t mend. We cannot fix things that no longer exist, and the past is gone. When I feel lost and can’t find my way it’s because I’m searching for a ghost. Not a ghost of what could have been or should’ve been, just a ghost. All the glue in the universe couldn’t piece together a fabrication of my imagination. A dream. An idea. This doesn’t mean that the past needs to be forgotten, it just shouldn’t be mourned obsessively. Nostalgia is good, but not if its an addiction. Not if it makes you hollow.
Take a house for instance. If you’re building a house and you bend a nail or break a board, either you say ‘damn it’ grab a new nail/board and just keep on building, or you have to do a little bit of first aid to take care of the splinter, scrape or throbbing finger. This event doesn’t stop you in your tracks and devastate the process of development. It’s just a thing that happened and that’s all. Sometimes the story attached to it is too dull to even mention, other times you have a scar to remind you of that damned nail. But the house gets built none the less because you’re not spending your life trying to fix a broken nail or a fucking 2x4.
I suppose one of the other mistakes I make is thinking that my life is a blueprint for something greater. I must remember that the blueprint was something I created a long, long time ago. The planning phase is over and I am in the process of building. During this process I have smashed my thumbs, boards have fallen on me, I have shot nail guns through windows, I have been buried beneath mountains of flooring, and have been challenged with many bad weather days. But despite these mishaps and storms my house has remained standing. I’ve had to rebuild a wall or too, but my foundation has remained in tact. I can try and deny this fact all I want, but my mere existence is proof of the solidity of my core.
Yourself
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