This is the inbetween time, where we call ourselves adults, even while through our tear stained eyes, we know better.
This is the inbetween time, where we call ourselves adults, even while through our tear stained eyes, we know better.
The rain falls, and I wait for my love. The fog of previous lives has not left me. Maybe it never will. If not, she is the island I walk upon, and take refuge in during the inevitable storms of life and consequence. She is the path, the long jagged coast I walk, never to know her import, to me or others.
The pain she gives you is the kind that you feel in your gut when finally realize this long walk along a foggy dangerous shore has not been alone. The pain she gives you is all sweet and no bitter, as much as I would prefer bitter and painful. The pain she gives you takes your breath and ego away, rending you apart, while somehow leaving you with hope and need. While somehow leaving you with more than you had to begin with.
I walk this path, because it is mine. I live this fog covered dream, because I am the dreamer. And she is still the solid ground I stand upon in these tormented and troubled times. She has professed her love to me a hundred fold, even while I drunkenly attempt to push it all away.
My own, personal, war-torn reality, where I cannot quite breathe without the immediate threat of death. As she has sadly stated, I cannot live without life having an expiration date. And while true, she does not know the pain I face indulging such an “ideal” knowing she’s forever waiting for me.
So I walk. I stumble. Sometimes I run. In the end, my inevitable displacement will be nothing if she is my starting point. And I wish her always to be the home I come back to, even as my mind ravages me. With out Renee, this girl, to guide me, I would be nothing.
My ex-wife, there was a girl. No, there was a woman god damn it. Every time I drink, every time I eat salty fish, drink kvass, or sunflower seeds, I think this to myself. There was a woman. You Americans, you don’t get this idea, the idea of Ira in my head now. She was woman. She was the ideal for, and in some ways, far too many ways, still is this ideal.
She has colored the rest of my life in this deep blue, this cold, this nihilistic strangeness. And I still love her for it. Good, bad, strange or indifferent. She has colored my world view in a way most will never understand.
Every vodka tonic I swill, I think of her. I think of her culture I was immersed in for so long. It was not wasted time, the five years I was married to her. She forced me to grow, she forced me into finally becoming an adult. And even as I know we would destroy each other, I still miss and love her. So I continue. So I must.
The entirety of this is aimed at Ms. Barbie Angell or whoever loves a good movie:
So, Melancholia. In all it’s glory, it affected me (had an effect) in a way I did not see coming. Fresh off the depression induced self-hate for me that was Albert Nobbs, I dove into it expecting, really… nothing but two hours of sadness.
It opens, of course, with a naked and serene Kirsten Dunst with dead birds falling about her. And despite knowing the entire planet, everyone we’ve ever known, is doomed, it becomes a story about a woman falling because of knowledge. Dunst portrays an almost, but not quite, suicidal depression that I have not seen the likes of for almost a decade. Of course, this becomes personal now, but ten years ago I was looking in the mirror at this ragged person who wanted to die. And I was thus affected.
The effect the film brought on was strange and wonderful. Melancholia was about the relationships of a family expecting imminent death, while essentially attempting to ignore it. While the idea of the entire human race dying out is tragic and macabre, Dunst’s performance made the picture, even while having such wonderful supporting actors.
The film spoke to me on the level of the futility of life. As an ardent atheist, the fact that any kind of god was not, or barely, mentioned was quite the revelation. It was as if they knew there was nothing waiting for them, and understood the true cost of death. No angels, no gods, just the few days they had left. Everything they did was futile. Nothing had meaning anymore. Yes, they continued on somehow.
As should we, despite whatever stumbling blocks we might wander over. Life is precious and short and temporary. The only permanence we have is the cold vacuum that where our planet once lay that we shall return to. We must make life better for those around us, but, infinitely more importantly, for those that will come after us. It is the greatest calling we could ever have.
Melancholia made me sad. It brought up some tears. It brought up some emotions I have not felt in years or even remembered ever having. It was glorious and nihilistic. It was a reminder that we all should be living for others, for everyone. Our small little corner in this vast universe is ours to protect and prolong. Let us all remember that.
At some point I had considered labeling, this, my writing, my whining, “The Drunk Diaries.” I realized then what I know now, and that is I’m only prolific and descriptive when inspired by pain and drink. Little else brings it out in me any more. The drunk poet who never wrote a word is still hiding in my throat, itching to tear its way out, but for the most part it is silent. Maybe when I have more to complain about.
Essentially I am at the best emotionally I have ever been, though maybe that’s why I’m clouded by this depression, this need to forget so I can remember, so again, in the morning cotton-mouthed and red-eyed, I can know I have dealt with a little bit more of my past. Restructured the memories so they don’t hurt so bad, and placed them back into myself, newly made, and thus mine. Maybe I know that this is the only time I have to start dealing with the old raw feelings, categorizing them and understanding, if only so I can keep moving.
In my line of work, god I can do naught, but that. So I place one heavy foot in front of the other. Move a mountain a stone at a time, and all that. Tonight’s “pick your cliche” night. A real barn-burner of a theme, methinks.
I am both in transition and stasis now. And I hope my love will tolerate me as she has in the past. Nothing’s worth much if she doesn’t.
In other news, no news is good news, right?
I currently work the front desk in a hotel downtown. This fits somehow, despite the fact I feel like I should be scowling at every guest and chain-smoking my way through reservations while swilling cheap scotch in a glass just for the excuse to smell like I do. Or would. It is that kind of place. It has two stars, and by god it earned them. I make courtesy calls and wake up calls while making sure rooms are clean, and the lights outside on, even as dusk dies for the night to live on for a slightly longer time. I wish I could romance a nine dollar an hour life, but Jesus, I’m hanging on until I can breathe a wee bit easier.
It would work a bit better if the boss were not such an anal micro-managing bastard, but he maintains the only independent hotel to make such business in the area, so I have to assume he knows a thing or two. And despite all the curry jokes the painfully white ‘necks make at his race’s expense (AT me), I think he’s just a human as I am. His son is mentally off; that is to say, disabled enough to require a constant helper. Guy named his business, his million dollar business I might add (I’ve seen the figures), after his only son, his only progeny. Maybe his only hope? I feel like the guy went through a lot of bitter times accepting his son, and now, gives him menial, pointless chores in the hotel, just so he feels his son isn’t useless. I’d say the same for the son, but I’m not sure he even realizes or cares. In whichever order.
I’ve always known I cannot write while sober. So no news is good news, right?
Nothing to see here.
Hello again (again, again), Anna;
I’m so sorry to hear you were sick, it is certainly nothing to apologize for, and is understandable. I personally take long with writing you because I see your email on my phone, read it, and then say to myself, “Oh I’ll get back to her today!” Days later, I kick myself for not doing so and finally do. Life has a way of getting in the way of its self, I believe.
Having a nice girl beside me is indeed lovely. Perhaps beside me holding my hand, behind me pushing me to my future, and in front of me allowing me to push her toward hers. When I said “instantly compatible” I suppose it came down to my first impression of her, which thankfully turned out to be true. On my first meeting with her, she was sweet, naive (compared to world-weary me), caring, kind, and generally found joy in the small things in life. As well, her natural… smell, I suppose, was wonderful, and I still joy in waking in our shared bed now (even if she’s left for work), and being able to smell her on the sheets, and throughout the house. Pheromones, perhaps? I swear, even when we are both sweating and tired at the end of a long, bad day; we are not in the least repulsed by any of it, perhaps even allured by it!
We both very much enjoy reading, even if that reading is about hilariously different subjects. She has always favored fantasy and psychology, and I have always favored science-fiction and science (biology/genetics). Beyond our reading we play computer games together (nothing like learning to work as a team than a demanding situation or, more commonly, video game), hiking, and generally discussing and debating life and religion and everything. At first she was very spiritual, but after a couple months with me, I feel like my atheism and need for logical explanations have rubbed off on her, if only slightly. I still feel like she is the emotion to my logic, and that we complement each other by being so different in that regard. Iryna was very much a match in my lack of belief and even emotion and caring, and, pardon me for generalizing, a prime example of the eastern-European attitude in that regard. In Reni I found a naive and sweet girl that wanted the best for everyone, even if she knew better. She’s the kindness to my blunt, perhaps abrasive, pragmatism.
The part of Belarus I traveled to, Gomel, was sadly not at all clean and nice. It was the generalization, I feel, that most westerners hold of “eastern-Europe.” Cold, depressing, and with a surplus of homeless animals and drunken homeless people, and the few criminals who held most of the money. This is not to say I did not joy in the city or trip, quite the counter, as it was almost, I hate to say, magical, and new and strange. It furthered my love and understanding of the culture, and perhaps even of Iryna herself, even now. We drank vodka, we ate halva and borshch (or borscht to the westerners), we had a month without sun, and several light snows. We staggered home from the apartments of old friends several times, and these fun, good times are what I remember most clearly. This boy who is so old to those around him, was seeing a truly old country for the first time, understanding the hell they came out of, and respecting it, even maybe being a part of it for a short time. I saw a country, if only from this one city, of survivors and losers, people who fought to live despite what those who controlled or invaded them wanted. I see that, even now, as part of the many things I loved about Iryna, despite all the bad times. Forgive me if I digress too much into my past with Ira, but this time of course would not be without her.
Myself, I love traveling, though Moscow and Gomel are the furthest I have been from home. The idea of being a “stranger in a strange land” has always intrigued me, and even now drives me to go back to school and be able to experience that again and again and again.