Last Friday night I was sitting at home. Alone and bored. Anymore I can't stand being alone. I get restless and anxious. So at around 8:30 or so I decided I was going to head out to a local watering hole, despite the fact that I had to work in the morning. I wanted to check out a place downtown that my buddy's band was supposedly playing at that night. So I showered, and got myself somewhat gussied up and hopped in my truck and hit the streets. The night's soundtrack was "Smiling Dogs", the 2010 debut album from Man's Gin. A band I have been enamored with over the last few weeks. Think Johnny Cash meets Eddie Vedder, meets a stripped down Nirvana with tinges of folk and blues, and you have somewhat of an idea. I got down to the venue around 9, and it became clear right away that it was not in fact the band I was searching for. This appeared to be some sort of funky, bass driven abomination. The singer was a bloated white guy in a 'do rag and he had neck tattoos. So I slammed my beer and got the hell out of there. I decided to hit up the local biker bar, despite my trepidation toward loud obnoxious leather chap wearing scalawags. This place usually had something going on and a nice throng of people if you like to observe humans in their own habitat like I do.
I parked my truck down the street about a block away and gingerly walked up to the establishment. The large backward hat wearing goon working the front gate demanded to see my identification, despite seeing me in there a countless number of times. I complied and was in the gate. I ordered 16 oz of my favorite swill, and decided to check out the band. It was a local act, and they were playing covers. Typical fare for a night out here in Cedar Rapids. There were a good number of people up by the stage, dancing and gyrating along to 80's butt rawk and a slew of current radio hits. The singer of the band was a female. She was attractive. Great voice, that more or less suited all of the other people's songs she was singing. I glanced around and took stock of the attendees. Typical crowd for this place. You had your biker bros, all decked out in their garb of leather and ridiculous head gear despite the 95 degree heat. I've never understood this culture, even working at a motorcycle parts distribution center for 5 years. Apparently you strap an obnoxiously loud roaring slab of metal and bolts between your legs and all of a sudden you're the baddest dude on the block. Yawn. Anyways, so you have the biker dudes, your Affliction shirt wearing, sloping forehead types, and last but not least, the stable of cougars. The older gals. Out on the prowl. Some more predatory than others. Best to steer clear of these ladies. They will burn you up and bleed you dry. I skulked around the outer perimeter of the dance floor and watched the followers of the band. Watched them watch. After being there for about 20 minutes I questioned why I even came here. Was my boredom so staggering and paramount that I was willing to subject myself to this absurdity? Apparently it was. So I watched the dudebrah's in Affliction shirts, and the biker clan in the leather chaps go about and conduct themselves in their own various ways. The Affliction dudes trying to scam on women. The biker dudes babbling needlessly loud about handlebars and tailpipes. The cougars laughing amongst themselves. A few of them eyeing their respective prey. At some point, a nerdish looking, stumpy, sawed off guy in thick rimmed glasses and a closely shaved head walked up beside me and stood there for a bit. I glanced over at him. He said "Hey man!" and he clicked my glass as a friendly gesture. I'm not sure if he thought he knew me, or maybe he was just being friendly. He seemed affable, and easy going, though he was wild eyed and had an air of cretinism about him. I smiled, and laughed a hearty laugh and clicked his glass with enthusiasm. I love meeting people like this guy. Infinitely weird and strange looking, but with something about him you can't quite put your finger on. A guy like him has probably seen a few things. Done a few things. Maybe last weekend he got vodka drunk and had sex with a cantaloupe. Maybe he has a collection of shrunken heads at home, in a box under his bed. Perhaps he has some sort of hidden prehensile tail. Some people can be goddamn fascinating. Anyway, this guy stood there for a few minutes before scurrying off and I never saw him again. I considered leaving at this point. I am getting tired, and as mentioned before, I have to work the next day. Then I saw her.
I ordered one more beer. It was about 10:45, and I wanted to get back to my bed and be up and ready to spray weeds in the morning. As I previously mentioned, I wasn't really having much fun aside from meeting that crazy looking melon sex enthusiast. I shambled back to the dance floor area, and was just sort of looking around, back at the bar, back toward the door. The crowd was getting thick as it got later. More people pouring in. More bikers. Goddamn man, where do all of these guys come from? Like cockroaches they come out of the wood work. My eyes scanned the bar again. Something caught my eye. There was a girl. At the bar. And she was looking right at me. I looked at her for what seemed like ten seconds. She was gorgeous. She was of average height. Somewhat of a slender build, but with all of the right curves in all of the right places, if you know what I mean. She had medium length hair. Dark, bouncy, and feathery. It fell about her shoulders in a storybook fashion. She appeared to be anywhere from about 23 to 26 years old. She looked like one of those girls that could be in a Pepsi commercial. Her eyes were a steely blue, and they were piercing. Like two shimmering sapphires, featured prominently and illuminating the entire room. Once they locked on to me, I couldn't look away. She was wearing a dress, light blue and white, and it featured her spectacular figure and numerous appealing characteristics in a way that makes a man want to get down on all fours and bay at a mid summer moon. Anyways, she locked onto me. And she winked. She winked one eye. At me? I sheepishly turned and looked behind me, assuming she was flirting with someone other than me. Perhaps someone she knew standing behind me. I did not see anyone behind me, or near me that appeared to acknowledge this curious wink of hers. I turned back around. Looked back at her. She was laughing.
Now to be fair to myself, I was looking damn good that night. Earlier in the evening I had gone to the gym. So the muscles and the machismo, testosterone and all that, was something I had working in my favor. I have also lost about 30 lbs in the last few months. So I am looking somewhat trim, lean, with biceps bulging. I had a nice couple days worth of reddish colored, thin stubble growing on my jaw. The hair that remains on my skull, however thin, was groomed accordingly. I wore a nice shirt, and some jeans I haven't been able to fit into for some time. I also have a tan for the first time in my life. Working outside all the time is definitely a great thing for a guy's skin and complexion. Typically I like to keep pretty humble. I don't think I am a spectacular looking dude by any means. But when I try, I can look like a respectable, handsome motherfucker. So this girl. She winked. Right at me. You might wonder what sort of action I took after this exchange went down. Like I mentioned earlier, my reaction to her wink was probably somewhat humorous to her, as she was laughing. I was filled with panic at this point. Do I approach her now? What if she was just being friendly? What if she saw me standing awkwardly and was just fucking with my head? Women love to head fuck me. What if she did have genuine interest and that was her way of trying to get my attention? So many scenarios cycled through my brain. I should probably do something right? Approach her? Wink back? Wave and smile? So you want to know what I did? I blinked at her a few times, mouth agape, and I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING. I finished my beer. I walked up to the bar tender and closed my tab and I left. Shuffled down the sidewalk, back into my truck, fired up the engine, and drove myself back home and to bed.
What would you have done in this situation? Should I have approached her? Made awkward conversation and offered to buy her a drink? What if she WASN'T winking at me? Boy that would have made me feel silly. What if she was in fact flirting with me, and I went to talk to her, and she was a total dummy? A lack of intelligence in a woman will always be my biggest turn off. I don't care if you look like Katy Perry. If you can't hold my attention in some sort of engaging conversation, I can't be bothered. I guess I will never know. Lately I feel like I can't get out of my own way as it is. Apparently a ridiculously gorgeous woman in a beautiful dress who (might) have been winking at me couldn't get me out of my own head. Maybe I will see this girl again down the road, when I feel more inclined to throw some caution to the wind. Perhaps I never see her again. Lately I've got the failing man's blues, and I need a good axe to grind. Got a stone in my head and a hole in my heart. This whole entry tonight sort of might make it seem like I am a hapless, dubious malcontent when it comes down to reading and or understanding women. That's because I am. Honestly folks, what was I supposed to do? Yeah, I could have taken a shot, gone up there and said SOMETHING to her. I can only assume she had a few cocktails in her, found me mildly attractive and gave a playful wink. Maybe I am reading too far into the whole thing. This just sort of seems like the thing you're supposed to pick up on, and I chose to ignore it. I have found myself completely exasperated with trying to pick up on clues like this, as earlier entries have indicated. As I grow older and continue down this road, dwelling in solidarity and bachelorhood, I sometimes wonder if there might not be any sort of match for me out there anymore. I know I am probably wrong. Probably. I think on this particular night, with this woman I didn't feel up for the challenge. Didn't feel like playing that game. I am so completely out of touch with the whole courtship ritual I don't even know what to do when something smacks me right in the face.
Yeah, I get it. A guy has to make the effort, put himself out there on that branch and not be afraid for it to crack. It can only break so many times right? Hell, I've taken enough falls to know that by now. Next time the babe with the shimmering sapphire eyes and the bouncing locks gives me that wink, I will be ready. Just gotta keep on grinding that axe for now. Keep on bayin' at that cold moon. One of these days, she's bound to howl back
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Monday, July 15, 2013
Love, Art, and the Gradual Mutation of a Man
Once in a while all of us go through a period of flux. An all encompassing darkness. It keeps a person grounded in reality. Sometimes you need to be put back in your place. Lately I feel like I want to pull my own goddamn intestines out through my mouth. The last few months for me, have been trying. The perils and stresses of home ownership and dealing with storm damage, confusing stomach ailments, the overwhelming workload I recently took on, and a myriad of other predicaments and situations have taken a toll on my mind. Sometimes you need to be completely burned down, dismantled and destroyed in order to rebuild your psyche and piece back together your fragile, broken mind. When faced with strife and turmoil, I have always used this method of rebuilding and every time, I glean something from it and I gradually mutate into something new, advancing the evolution of my character. Bile encrusted, booze addled, piss soaked nihilism can only get you by for so long. I am going to use this once abandoned blog to help me to get some things off my chest, and out of my skull.
Over the last few months I have been experiencing a myriad of strange and unusual stomach ailments. It begins as a slow, warm sensation of queasiness late at night. Typically I will wake in the morning to fits of gagging and violent dry heaving. No acid. No stomach bile. I never actually vomit. This occurs in the morning, and after most meals during the day. These symptoms and the late night uneasiness have caused me to eat much, much less than I am accustomed to. I have no appetite. My weight has dropped from about 290 lbs in mid March, to about 265 now here in July. I am fine with the weight loss. I needed to lose the weight. I have been working out regularly, but rarely partaking in any major cardiovascular exercise. The weight loss is slightly unusual to say the least. The late night symptoms are the worst. I do not sleep well. This has caused me to become slightly aloof, and at times even downright delirious. I do what I can to adjust. Some nights I just don't sleep at all and I go to work in the middle of the night, or early in the morning. I did see a doctor about a month ago. Blood work was conducted. They determined it to be "acid reflux" despite me persistently telling them I do not actually have any acid, bile, or any sort of heart burn related symptoms. I was prescribed medication. It so far has yielded zero results. The blood work came back, and apparently I am clear of whatever obscure maladies they had tested me for. I have tried a meat-less diet, thinking it could be something diet related. So far it has been two weeks since I last consumed any sort of meat. I don't seem to have the dry heaving as much, and the late night queasiness isn't as bad, but it still happens. It is something I have accepted for now. I have scheduled some time off from work in late July and I will be seeing a new physician. I am not nearly as concerned about these symptoms and ailments as some of my friends and family seem to be. I've always had a strong tolerance for pain. Whatever the problem, it's nothing I can't shoulder. The point I will be making here is, I feel that the stomach ailment and everything else that has come about, is due to a larger and more overarching problem.
Ever since I was a very young child, I have been fascinated with art. Pictures, drawings, paintings, scenes, sunrises, moonscapes, and everything in between. Animals. Humans. Obscure, ancient monsters from storybook lore. My grandmother was a very gifted painter, and sketch artist. From a very young age she taught me everything she knew about letting your imagination go, and making a connection from mind, to pencil or brush. I would draw pictures for hours upon hours as a child. I grew quite skilled at it. Won a few minor awards as a grade schooler in some duck stamp competition. I excelled at crafting animals, and putting them into various settings or scenes. My grandmother was so proud. As I grew older however, I grew away from it. One of the biggest regrets of my life. I know that if I stuck with it, I could have done something I would someday be very proud of. When I was a senior in high school I was voted "Most artistic" but it was a bogus, bullshit accolade without merit. I won the vote based on reputation alone, and there were in fact several students in my graduating class who were leagues ahead of my skill level, and any of them should have won the vote. I shrugged it off. It meant nothing to me. But as I grew into my later teen years and into my early twenties, art took on a new meaning. I found art in music, in writings, spoken word, comedy, many places. Art no longer had a finite boundary to me. As you mature, you find new musings, so to speak. I do wish I had continued to draw, sketch and doodle. I found myself writing poetry to myself. Things that were on my mind. Evocative, non linear meanderings, that if read by anyone other than myself, would be completely useless and without meaning. But they always made sense to me. Open interpretation is a beautiful thing. These late night, THC fueled musings would eventually find their way into the lyrical canon for a number of the bands I would go on to be featured in, into my mid twenties. I am still immensely proud of some of the lyrics I wrote for those bands. Stark, mysterious, and oftentimes, downright misanthropic stream of consciousness rants that flowed freely within the antagonistic approach of the music we had created. It always felt like a reptilian, reactionary response to all of the wrong, all of the fucked up things going on around us at that point in our lives. We lived it. Breathed it in.
If you are still reading this, I am in fact going somewhere. As stated above, I am in a state of flux. Over the last few months I have been starving for some sort of creative artistic outlet. I have always felt that art should be created for the artist. For the individual. If you are creating art for anyone other than you, in my opinion, you are doing it wrong. Art should be about individualistic expression. Not about pleasing the eye, mind, or ears of others. If someone else can glean whatever enjoyment or pleasant reaction from it, that is just an added bonus. I haven't been in a position or had an opportunity lately to express myself, or purge my inner demons and get whatever negative energy out of my head, soul, what have you. That is something that I am working on figuring out. I want to get involved with music again. I need it. It's not something I do for pleasure. I require the cathartic outlet, the stream of blood born vitriol that it provides.
Lastly, and most importantly, is love. I recently was asked by someone if I have ever been in "love" before. I was initially insulted by this inquiry. What kind of question is that? The answer to the question, was no. As it always has been. After a few days, and weeks, this question lingered in my mind, and instead of being insulted, I was filled with a deep, languishing sorrow. Why have I never been in love? Does everyone need love? What exactly, is love? I've been pondering this now for days. I have loved before. The feeling, notion or idea has never been reciprocated to me. Always unrequited. I have never truly understood why. It seems like whenever I meet someone who I truly enjoy being with, or genuinely enjoy sharing mutual company with, after a few weeks, or months, they grow weary of me. It seems like whenever they finally see what I am, or who I am, they drift away. Some more abruptly than others. It is maddening. I am a complex, and oftentimes confusing individual. I have typically been extremely picky with who I have chosen to date, or spend time with. I do know what it is to love. I have never been "in love" where it was reciprocated to me and made clear that the other party did in fact, "love" me. It has beleaguered me for some time now. Is being in love a look? A knowing glance? A mutual acknowledgement? Perhaps it is. Perhaps it is deeper and more profound than that. For now, I do not know.
In the end, I will be fine. It is a beautiful, expansive planet we inhabit and I intend on doing whatever I need to do to bring myself out of this period of stagnation and despair. I've been lifting weights. Writing. Singing songs. I am in talks with one of my favorite musician friends for an August collaboration/songwriting session. There is always a push-pull, ying yang type effect with things. Or so I have believed. A Phoenix from the ashes method, if you will. I will create art again. I will continue to be patient with this precarious idea of love. If someone wants to be with you, they will be with you. If they don't want to share your company and invest the time with you, there is nothing you can do to convince them otherwise. And you move along, and you do it with class and dignity. I have been lone wolfing it this far, and I will keep on howling. I will always have a heavy heart, and a mind like a volcano. I've always found reprieve with the deep bonding friendship with the folks who I am closest to in life, and they have never disappointed me. Even in writing this, for my eyes to see has helped to ease my troubles some. This isn't an entry for people to cast pity, or for some sympathetic reaction. I've never believed in that shit. Life will be fucking hard. Get hard or die. No pity. If other people may read this who have been experiencing recent inner struggles and turmoil, maybe it will give them some sort of bastardized insight. So for now I will refrain from pulling my entrails out through my esophagus.
Live hard, and love strong. Even if it goes unrequited. Surround yourself with like minded individuals, and eliminate the parasitic ones. In a society of conniving opportunistic vultures, be a fucking lion
Over the last few months I have been experiencing a myriad of strange and unusual stomach ailments. It begins as a slow, warm sensation of queasiness late at night. Typically I will wake in the morning to fits of gagging and violent dry heaving. No acid. No stomach bile. I never actually vomit. This occurs in the morning, and after most meals during the day. These symptoms and the late night uneasiness have caused me to eat much, much less than I am accustomed to. I have no appetite. My weight has dropped from about 290 lbs in mid March, to about 265 now here in July. I am fine with the weight loss. I needed to lose the weight. I have been working out regularly, but rarely partaking in any major cardiovascular exercise. The weight loss is slightly unusual to say the least. The late night symptoms are the worst. I do not sleep well. This has caused me to become slightly aloof, and at times even downright delirious. I do what I can to adjust. Some nights I just don't sleep at all and I go to work in the middle of the night, or early in the morning. I did see a doctor about a month ago. Blood work was conducted. They determined it to be "acid reflux" despite me persistently telling them I do not actually have any acid, bile, or any sort of heart burn related symptoms. I was prescribed medication. It so far has yielded zero results. The blood work came back, and apparently I am clear of whatever obscure maladies they had tested me for. I have tried a meat-less diet, thinking it could be something diet related. So far it has been two weeks since I last consumed any sort of meat. I don't seem to have the dry heaving as much, and the late night queasiness isn't as bad, but it still happens. It is something I have accepted for now. I have scheduled some time off from work in late July and I will be seeing a new physician. I am not nearly as concerned about these symptoms and ailments as some of my friends and family seem to be. I've always had a strong tolerance for pain. Whatever the problem, it's nothing I can't shoulder. The point I will be making here is, I feel that the stomach ailment and everything else that has come about, is due to a larger and more overarching problem.
Ever since I was a very young child, I have been fascinated with art. Pictures, drawings, paintings, scenes, sunrises, moonscapes, and everything in between. Animals. Humans. Obscure, ancient monsters from storybook lore. My grandmother was a very gifted painter, and sketch artist. From a very young age she taught me everything she knew about letting your imagination go, and making a connection from mind, to pencil or brush. I would draw pictures for hours upon hours as a child. I grew quite skilled at it. Won a few minor awards as a grade schooler in some duck stamp competition. I excelled at crafting animals, and putting them into various settings or scenes. My grandmother was so proud. As I grew older however, I grew away from it. One of the biggest regrets of my life. I know that if I stuck with it, I could have done something I would someday be very proud of. When I was a senior in high school I was voted "Most artistic" but it was a bogus, bullshit accolade without merit. I won the vote based on reputation alone, and there were in fact several students in my graduating class who were leagues ahead of my skill level, and any of them should have won the vote. I shrugged it off. It meant nothing to me. But as I grew into my later teen years and into my early twenties, art took on a new meaning. I found art in music, in writings, spoken word, comedy, many places. Art no longer had a finite boundary to me. As you mature, you find new musings, so to speak. I do wish I had continued to draw, sketch and doodle. I found myself writing poetry to myself. Things that were on my mind. Evocative, non linear meanderings, that if read by anyone other than myself, would be completely useless and without meaning. But they always made sense to me. Open interpretation is a beautiful thing. These late night, THC fueled musings would eventually find their way into the lyrical canon for a number of the bands I would go on to be featured in, into my mid twenties. I am still immensely proud of some of the lyrics I wrote for those bands. Stark, mysterious, and oftentimes, downright misanthropic stream of consciousness rants that flowed freely within the antagonistic approach of the music we had created. It always felt like a reptilian, reactionary response to all of the wrong, all of the fucked up things going on around us at that point in our lives. We lived it. Breathed it in.
If you are still reading this, I am in fact going somewhere. As stated above, I am in a state of flux. Over the last few months I have been starving for some sort of creative artistic outlet. I have always felt that art should be created for the artist. For the individual. If you are creating art for anyone other than you, in my opinion, you are doing it wrong. Art should be about individualistic expression. Not about pleasing the eye, mind, or ears of others. If someone else can glean whatever enjoyment or pleasant reaction from it, that is just an added bonus. I haven't been in a position or had an opportunity lately to express myself, or purge my inner demons and get whatever negative energy out of my head, soul, what have you. That is something that I am working on figuring out. I want to get involved with music again. I need it. It's not something I do for pleasure. I require the cathartic outlet, the stream of blood born vitriol that it provides.
Lastly, and most importantly, is love. I recently was asked by someone if I have ever been in "love" before. I was initially insulted by this inquiry. What kind of question is that? The answer to the question, was no. As it always has been. After a few days, and weeks, this question lingered in my mind, and instead of being insulted, I was filled with a deep, languishing sorrow. Why have I never been in love? Does everyone need love? What exactly, is love? I've been pondering this now for days. I have loved before. The feeling, notion or idea has never been reciprocated to me. Always unrequited. I have never truly understood why. It seems like whenever I meet someone who I truly enjoy being with, or genuinely enjoy sharing mutual company with, after a few weeks, or months, they grow weary of me. It seems like whenever they finally see what I am, or who I am, they drift away. Some more abruptly than others. It is maddening. I am a complex, and oftentimes confusing individual. I have typically been extremely picky with who I have chosen to date, or spend time with. I do know what it is to love. I have never been "in love" where it was reciprocated to me and made clear that the other party did in fact, "love" me. It has beleaguered me for some time now. Is being in love a look? A knowing glance? A mutual acknowledgement? Perhaps it is. Perhaps it is deeper and more profound than that. For now, I do not know.
In the end, I will be fine. It is a beautiful, expansive planet we inhabit and I intend on doing whatever I need to do to bring myself out of this period of stagnation and despair. I've been lifting weights. Writing. Singing songs. I am in talks with one of my favorite musician friends for an August collaboration/songwriting session. There is always a push-pull, ying yang type effect with things. Or so I have believed. A Phoenix from the ashes method, if you will. I will create art again. I will continue to be patient with this precarious idea of love. If someone wants to be with you, they will be with you. If they don't want to share your company and invest the time with you, there is nothing you can do to convince them otherwise. And you move along, and you do it with class and dignity. I have been lone wolfing it this far, and I will keep on howling. I will always have a heavy heart, and a mind like a volcano. I've always found reprieve with the deep bonding friendship with the folks who I am closest to in life, and they have never disappointed me. Even in writing this, for my eyes to see has helped to ease my troubles some. This isn't an entry for people to cast pity, or for some sympathetic reaction. I've never believed in that shit. Life will be fucking hard. Get hard or die. No pity. If other people may read this who have been experiencing recent inner struggles and turmoil, maybe it will give them some sort of bastardized insight. So for now I will refrain from pulling my entrails out through my esophagus.
Live hard, and love strong. Even if it goes unrequited. Surround yourself with like minded individuals, and eliminate the parasitic ones. In a society of conniving opportunistic vultures, be a fucking lion
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