(To be read aloud)
Don’t
Kiss me.
Because if you kiss me,
You will be.
I have met and lost the love of my life not once but
Twice.
And though my mind is blind
And can’t see past all the other mundane catastrophes that make up my life,
Both were the worst thing to ever happen to me.
See, I give everything when I love.
I, like the saints to their gods, lay down my very soul for ever and ever.
Amen.
What I want you to believe is the divine cliché.
What they all say:
It’s not you, it’s me,
And I don’t think I can do it a third time.
If you move from who you are to someone
Who will be, to me,
If you become thrice, and with your whim and will entice
The very fibre of my vice,
I don’t think I could bare it.
There was another, once.
Even now, my spirit entwined, she displays her grace simply by never letting me
Down.
But she could.
And were her beauty anything less than perfect she would not
So piously protect
My heart.
A labour of love, I know.
Were she to fade away tomorrow, though I have invested nothing but everything I would be
Lost.
Even though she never found me. Had me.
Because that’s how love can be sometimes.
So don’t
Kiss me.
Because you’re not one of them.
You have a world so completely beyond me and mine.
Don’t say you don’t.
You do.
Because I know you.
I’ve looked into your eyes on those dark days and random nights,
When, to my surprise, your perfect form had compromised.
Into tears.
Fears.
That some part of your inside world was not alright.
Some melody of your personal private symphony was dreadfully
Off key.
I knew you then.
I held you softly until the music of your mind gently regained its composure.
Until the beat grew steady and strong again, so that you could carry on.
And then you did.
And then you left.
I love unconditionally.
Each and every one without fail or relent, once my heart gives consent.
And I know that’s not the way it should be.
I should be free,
To set the conditions of my intuitions,
To let the natural and normal ebb and flow of life
Give and take away again.
But I’m not.
My lips sing old jazz standards,
And kisses build dreams.
So if your lips meet mine, though the time would be sublime,
Something that inspires the movement of a moment that mere minutes cannot explain.
I could never leave.
That I fear far more than tears.
Don’t
Kiss me.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
"Doin' Well Thanks, And You?"
“Hello. Welcome to Subway. How are you today?”
I have made (as I have perhaps mentioned before) the words “I hope you are well” a sacred prayer. Whenever I say it, orally or in print, I lower my voice and center my mind on the person I am directing the phrase to. I say it with the same earnestness that I would speak to God with, and I am on my metaphorical knees as I text it. My own ego and sense of self lay prostrate in the acknowledgement of another like me. Of another, beneath the separate experiences and the individual suffering and euphoric joys, that is experiencing life alongside me. In that, we are the same, and it is divine.
And so, it is a holy hope to desire that their unique personhood, that magical something that makes us us, is well. As I’ve written previously, it’s love.
The inverse of this sublime colloquialism is a greeting worthy of the same elevation. “How are you?”
Society (and English/Sociology majors can correct me if they know better) has degraded that question into a polite version of “hello.” As I am also reminded of in the summer job of summer jobs, capitalism certainly has degraded it into a marketing tool.
“Hello. Welcome to Subway. How are you today?”
Check how many times a day that you say it. Check how many times you’re asked, and you give the quick response – “Fine.” “Good, thanks.” “I’ll get a...” Check how little the question means to you. How much you doubt whether the person who asks it actually cares. Check how often you actually, truly want to know how another person is doing.
I’m guilty of bastardizing the question and response myself. In one of our civilization’s Great Miracles, we’ve succeeded in making the disregard of meaning a social reflex. And we convince ourselves (another one of our many divine talents) that it’s acceptable. The world is, after all, too big to be honest all the time. Too crowded. Too little time. Too dangerous. Too impractical.
And, besides, the guy in line behind me is already tapping his foot.
Now, I’m not suggesting that everyone join the happy-go-lucky camp that thinks we have a moral imperative to give a shit. We don’t have to. There’s no 4-hugs-a-day quota in grown-up land. But I know that every time I say the words “I hope you are well” and mean it, something strange happens: It matters. It matters in a way that a cross only matters when it’s a symbol Christianity. Of earnest sacrifice and honest connection.
Implicit inside the holiest of phrases – I hope you are well – is the question – How are you? Just as inherent in the sacrifice made by Jesus was the love of Christ, believe in Him or not. And so, every time a lover or a friend utters the words of an earnest desire, they cannot do so without the attempt at an honest connection. It is in the recognizing this that the joy of the spirits comes upon us, and that we empower ourselves to re-elevate the question to its rightful place beyond marketing, transcending the artificial ideologies of capitalism and democracy and culture. As only love can.
I’ll tell you a secret. There is a secret society of us that know this. Believe this. There is a secret and hidden group of people that recognize that the question “how are you?” is a symbol of a much more meaningful connection then a discussion on how good your breakfast was.
They’re hidden everywhere – in line behind you, around the counter while they make your coffee, walking down the street when you make brief eye contact, even sometimes (I begrudgingly admit) in that needlessly huge truck parked across two spots.
“Hello. Welcome to Subway. How are you today?”
Often the answer isn’t given in words. It’s in the smile or the eye contact that follows. Sometimes it is in the conversation; there are a few brave souls that are that blunt. And when two people in that society meet, everything else fades away. The perfect 6 step process of making a sandwich is unimportant. Making sure the iced latte is made perfectly to standard is little more than a facade. All of those are simply rules – transitory little fads and lusts made by transitory little whims - given meaning and power only by the individual. And when we two meet, eternal and divine, we recognize that it’s all just a game.
Then we really bond. What is it that’s really bothering you? What keeps you up at night, and why is it the same as what keeps me up at night? Who are we, that we are surrounded by so much absurdity? How is it that we are surrounded by others who are so blind to this evident, glowing Truth?
We don’t pretend to be more than we are, or less than we are. We are cogs in a machine that we did not build, but we are cogs that get to choose how and when they will turn. Switches that get to choose whether they are on or off.
Advances in science informs us that light is both a particle and a wave until observed. Advances tell us that our observation of a thing changes that thing. That Schrödinger’s cat lives or dies by our observation of it. Often this is looked upon as a personal limitation of our species – some even suggest that we should cease exploring the universe lest we set it a certain way, simply by looking at it. Or worse, we destroy it. Our observation of something causes it to be less than what it was.
We, in our secret society, know the truth. We know that these advances in science teach us what our hearts have echoed for an eternity. When a human being is observed, then they are. We do not limit the universe, nor destroy it, when we look at it. When we exercise our divine omni-benevolence by observing, we let it really and truly be.
Every day, from time to time, often squished between the guy who doesn’t look up from his paper and the girl who thinks I owe her something just for coming in, I get 2.5 minutes to connect with members from this secret society. 3.5 if they get a complicated sub. 4 if they also get it toasted. Subway thinks it’s a marketing tool to give the impression of good customer service. We’re told to say those exact words to everyone so as to increase customer comfort and loyalty, which will, in turn, increase sales.
We know better.
“Hello. Welcome to Subway. How are you today?”
I have made (as I have perhaps mentioned before) the words “I hope you are well” a sacred prayer. Whenever I say it, orally or in print, I lower my voice and center my mind on the person I am directing the phrase to. I say it with the same earnestness that I would speak to God with, and I am on my metaphorical knees as I text it. My own ego and sense of self lay prostrate in the acknowledgement of another like me. Of another, beneath the separate experiences and the individual suffering and euphoric joys, that is experiencing life alongside me. In that, we are the same, and it is divine.
And so, it is a holy hope to desire that their unique personhood, that magical something that makes us us, is well. As I’ve written previously, it’s love.
The inverse of this sublime colloquialism is a greeting worthy of the same elevation. “How are you?”
Society (and English/Sociology majors can correct me if they know better) has degraded that question into a polite version of “hello.” As I am also reminded of in the summer job of summer jobs, capitalism certainly has degraded it into a marketing tool.
“Hello. Welcome to Subway. How are you today?”
Check how many times a day that you say it. Check how many times you’re asked, and you give the quick response – “Fine.” “Good, thanks.” “I’ll get a...” Check how little the question means to you. How much you doubt whether the person who asks it actually cares. Check how often you actually, truly want to know how another person is doing.
I’m guilty of bastardizing the question and response myself. In one of our civilization’s Great Miracles, we’ve succeeded in making the disregard of meaning a social reflex. And we convince ourselves (another one of our many divine talents) that it’s acceptable. The world is, after all, too big to be honest all the time. Too crowded. Too little time. Too dangerous. Too impractical.
And, besides, the guy in line behind me is already tapping his foot.
Now, I’m not suggesting that everyone join the happy-go-lucky camp that thinks we have a moral imperative to give a shit. We don’t have to. There’s no 4-hugs-a-day quota in grown-up land. But I know that every time I say the words “I hope you are well” and mean it, something strange happens: It matters. It matters in a way that a cross only matters when it’s a symbol Christianity. Of earnest sacrifice and honest connection.
Implicit inside the holiest of phrases – I hope you are well – is the question – How are you? Just as inherent in the sacrifice made by Jesus was the love of Christ, believe in Him or not. And so, every time a lover or a friend utters the words of an earnest desire, they cannot do so without the attempt at an honest connection. It is in the recognizing this that the joy of the spirits comes upon us, and that we empower ourselves to re-elevate the question to its rightful place beyond marketing, transcending the artificial ideologies of capitalism and democracy and culture. As only love can.
I’ll tell you a secret. There is a secret society of us that know this. Believe this. There is a secret and hidden group of people that recognize that the question “how are you?” is a symbol of a much more meaningful connection then a discussion on how good your breakfast was.
They’re hidden everywhere – in line behind you, around the counter while they make your coffee, walking down the street when you make brief eye contact, even sometimes (I begrudgingly admit) in that needlessly huge truck parked across two spots.
“Hello. Welcome to Subway. How are you today?”
Often the answer isn’t given in words. It’s in the smile or the eye contact that follows. Sometimes it is in the conversation; there are a few brave souls that are that blunt. And when two people in that society meet, everything else fades away. The perfect 6 step process of making a sandwich is unimportant. Making sure the iced latte is made perfectly to standard is little more than a facade. All of those are simply rules – transitory little fads and lusts made by transitory little whims - given meaning and power only by the individual. And when we two meet, eternal and divine, we recognize that it’s all just a game.
Then we really bond. What is it that’s really bothering you? What keeps you up at night, and why is it the same as what keeps me up at night? Who are we, that we are surrounded by so much absurdity? How is it that we are surrounded by others who are so blind to this evident, glowing Truth?
We don’t pretend to be more than we are, or less than we are. We are cogs in a machine that we did not build, but we are cogs that get to choose how and when they will turn. Switches that get to choose whether they are on or off.
Advances in science informs us that light is both a particle and a wave until observed. Advances tell us that our observation of a thing changes that thing. That Schrödinger’s cat lives or dies by our observation of it. Often this is looked upon as a personal limitation of our species – some even suggest that we should cease exploring the universe lest we set it a certain way, simply by looking at it. Or worse, we destroy it. Our observation of something causes it to be less than what it was.
We, in our secret society, know the truth. We know that these advances in science teach us what our hearts have echoed for an eternity. When a human being is observed, then they are. We do not limit the universe, nor destroy it, when we look at it. When we exercise our divine omni-benevolence by observing, we let it really and truly be.
Every day, from time to time, often squished between the guy who doesn’t look up from his paper and the girl who thinks I owe her something just for coming in, I get 2.5 minutes to connect with members from this secret society. 3.5 if they get a complicated sub. 4 if they also get it toasted. Subway thinks it’s a marketing tool to give the impression of good customer service. We’re told to say those exact words to everyone so as to increase customer comfort and loyalty, which will, in turn, increase sales.
We know better.
“Hello. Welcome to Subway. How are you today?”
Saturday, June 12, 2010
True Love
Love has been a topic as of late. Not Truth = Love love, or the kind of love that poets talk about when they look at beautiful trees, or a cliff-side view. I mean the love that 16 year olds think of when you tell them the word. Love Actually kind of love.
I’ve seen it in my new co-workers, whose chief topics are other boys or girls. I see it on Facebook when the continually increasing number of moms talk about their increasing number of children. That takes a certain kind of lovin’. My once un-catchable, allergic-to-commitment friend has recently confessed to me her desire to find the perfect mate. My digital friend is crushed when she learns the hard truth that boys are just as flighty as girls. A pair of longtime lovers test their relationship by adding 2 careers and hundreds of kilometres of distance between them. Other friends talk of difficulties and squabbles in what is otherwise (they assure me) a great relationship. And others, silently, carry right along, as their relationships (some flawed, some beautiful, all dedicated) head into their 2nd, 3rd, and 4th years. Marriage photos flutter about everywhere this time of year.
My own heart leaps and falls these days – quite uncontrollably, as anyone who has emotionally lusted knows – over start-and-stop conversations, glances at people who don’t glance back, and over thoughts of old times (that are almost certainly better than the times were themselves). I suppose I truly opened my eyes to the pervasiveness of the topic when I remarked to my friend the other day that “it was about time that I found a gal.” Words that are just about sacrilege coming from my mouth, to be honest.
Of course, “finding a girl” is not exactly how it’s done, in my opinion. And there certainly are a number of opinions on the matter, I’ve found. My father, as we discussed business in Thailand joked that he wouldn’t have to worry about his son getting sidetracked with love, since I’ve nothing to offer anyone. He meant materially, of course. It’s true, aside from some emergency money, I’m pretty near broke. And he’s referencing a very classic view of partnershiping. Find the guy/gal with all the best attributes, and grab them.
Along this line of thought is the modern day view of partnership. It’s not so much about finding love, fostering it as a seed and helping it grow into something marvellous. Instead and pretending to be the same thing, it is about finding someone with all the attributes one is attracted to physically, materially and mentally, and then expecting a connection to be there. It’s a way of looking at a relationship, expecting them to look at you as a partner, but looking for them as if they were a commodity.
Often what’s laughable is how many people expect this method to work, and how hurt people are when it doesn’t. Connections don’t grow out of looking at people as “things that have stuff.” Connections grow out of looking at people as people, and helping be a part of their stuff.
There is a very easy analogy that helps express my point here. I bought a lottery ticket today. If I win the millions, I will be far more attractive to certain others than I would normally be. No doubt, all the beautiful gold diggers of Kelowna that prance around in next to nothing would no doubt suddenly find me a bit more handsome. Of course, we all roll our eyes at that, and find it detestable. And whether or not you are against the idea of buying sex, I think we can all agree that the connection I would have with any of these women would be slightly more dubious than the connection I currently have with my D&D buddies.
When we look for qualities rather than experience people, we tend towards the same fallacy as the bikini-clad gold diggers. Not saying it’s wrong, honest. Just saying don’t be surprised if that special “connection” isn’t there.
But when we seek to experience people as they are, we often get exposure to exactly all the qualities that we so adore.
The infamous quotation “if you can’t handle me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best” floats around as the icon of another perspective for partnership: the audition/try-outs method. Another one I don’t agree with. It’s a nice thought to get people through breakups, or to help sustain them when their friends give them a rough time, but it’s not a good way to “go looking” for that special someone. I should never have to prove to you that I’m good enough. I already know that I will spend all of our time together trying earnestly to be good enough – that’s who I am, and what I’m genuinely interested in. But if you have a requirement that I prove it, if you’re asking me to prove it, you can go fuck yourself. Kthxbye.
As I’ve already hinted at, my perspective on love, on meaningful connections (and excellent sex) is not compatible with “going to find a gal”. Since it hinges on the acknowledgement of a person for who they are, we can’t go looking for certain perfect connections. Part of them is luck – enjoying the people who you encounter in your life, and seeing if a spark develops. Connections that way are more like magic, and less like a clinical version of hide-and-seek.
So, in that vein, I have to disagree with my father – now is when he should most worry about my “finding a woman.” Not because I’ve got one in my sights, but because I’m ripe with a spark that could become fire. I’m not yet hot stuff, but I’m full of very ignitable qualities.
Partnership, then, is not the art of finding a great fire to warm yourself with, but the art of asking someone else: Need a match?
I’ve just finished 8 years of higher education – 4 in acadamia, and 4 outside it. And it has prepared me for life, but hasn’t yet provided it. I know what I have, don’t have, and what it will take to close the gap between the two. I have a laundry list of great and terrible experiences to draw on, and yet I still have way too much to learn. I know what risks are, and I know exactly what it means to give my heart. I know that if there is one area of my life that I can and do follow through on – one in the myriad of start-and-never-finish goals I seem to set for myself – it is love. I know it because I’ve been there.
I have nothing, but I know exactly what it means to work towards something. And I know the beauty in sharing that with someone. It’s only up from here.
A last analogy: In D&D, and in any of the plethora of video games that are out there, we confine ourselves to “levelling up”. That’s the whole goal of the game, really. Grind through all the crap to get yourself to a higher level. And once you’re there, you feel fantastic. But the real connection you feel with your character – the real connection you feel with all the successes that you’ve had, comes from the act of levelling up with that character. If someone just hands you something that they’ve built, some random level 20 (or for you WoWers, level 80), it’s not the same. It’s not good enough to get someone else’s character. You want to experience it along side your character. You want to grow with them.
Nothing ever quite compares to embarking on a quest with your very own level 1. For those who’ve had the unfortunate luck of gaming out with me, they know that – to me – nothing is more exciting than those first few levels. And now, in real life, I’ve never felt more like a guy who’s exactly that.
My father always tries to clinch his position on relationships with the age old reality, and cultural wisdom: “you can’t eat love.”
I say, true. But you’ve got to love what you eat.
- Z
I’ve seen it in my new co-workers, whose chief topics are other boys or girls. I see it on Facebook when the continually increasing number of moms talk about their increasing number of children. That takes a certain kind of lovin’. My once un-catchable, allergic-to-commitment friend has recently confessed to me her desire to find the perfect mate. My digital friend is crushed when she learns the hard truth that boys are just as flighty as girls. A pair of longtime lovers test their relationship by adding 2 careers and hundreds of kilometres of distance between them. Other friends talk of difficulties and squabbles in what is otherwise (they assure me) a great relationship. And others, silently, carry right along, as their relationships (some flawed, some beautiful, all dedicated) head into their 2nd, 3rd, and 4th years. Marriage photos flutter about everywhere this time of year.
My own heart leaps and falls these days – quite uncontrollably, as anyone who has emotionally lusted knows – over start-and-stop conversations, glances at people who don’t glance back, and over thoughts of old times (that are almost certainly better than the times were themselves). I suppose I truly opened my eyes to the pervasiveness of the topic when I remarked to my friend the other day that “it was about time that I found a gal.” Words that are just about sacrilege coming from my mouth, to be honest.
Of course, “finding a girl” is not exactly how it’s done, in my opinion. And there certainly are a number of opinions on the matter, I’ve found. My father, as we discussed business in Thailand joked that he wouldn’t have to worry about his son getting sidetracked with love, since I’ve nothing to offer anyone. He meant materially, of course. It’s true, aside from some emergency money, I’m pretty near broke. And he’s referencing a very classic view of partnershiping. Find the guy/gal with all the best attributes, and grab them.
Along this line of thought is the modern day view of partnership. It’s not so much about finding love, fostering it as a seed and helping it grow into something marvellous. Instead and pretending to be the same thing, it is about finding someone with all the attributes one is attracted to physically, materially and mentally, and then expecting a connection to be there. It’s a way of looking at a relationship, expecting them to look at you as a partner, but looking for them as if they were a commodity.
Often what’s laughable is how many people expect this method to work, and how hurt people are when it doesn’t. Connections don’t grow out of looking at people as “things that have stuff.” Connections grow out of looking at people as people, and helping be a part of their stuff.
There is a very easy analogy that helps express my point here. I bought a lottery ticket today. If I win the millions, I will be far more attractive to certain others than I would normally be. No doubt, all the beautiful gold diggers of Kelowna that prance around in next to nothing would no doubt suddenly find me a bit more handsome. Of course, we all roll our eyes at that, and find it detestable. And whether or not you are against the idea of buying sex, I think we can all agree that the connection I would have with any of these women would be slightly more dubious than the connection I currently have with my D&D buddies.
When we look for qualities rather than experience people, we tend towards the same fallacy as the bikini-clad gold diggers. Not saying it’s wrong, honest. Just saying don’t be surprised if that special “connection” isn’t there.
But when we seek to experience people as they are, we often get exposure to exactly all the qualities that we so adore.
The infamous quotation “if you can’t handle me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best” floats around as the icon of another perspective for partnership: the audition/try-outs method. Another one I don’t agree with. It’s a nice thought to get people through breakups, or to help sustain them when their friends give them a rough time, but it’s not a good way to “go looking” for that special someone. I should never have to prove to you that I’m good enough. I already know that I will spend all of our time together trying earnestly to be good enough – that’s who I am, and what I’m genuinely interested in. But if you have a requirement that I prove it, if you’re asking me to prove it, you can go fuck yourself. Kthxbye.
As I’ve already hinted at, my perspective on love, on meaningful connections (and excellent sex) is not compatible with “going to find a gal”. Since it hinges on the acknowledgement of a person for who they are, we can’t go looking for certain perfect connections. Part of them is luck – enjoying the people who you encounter in your life, and seeing if a spark develops. Connections that way are more like magic, and less like a clinical version of hide-and-seek.
So, in that vein, I have to disagree with my father – now is when he should most worry about my “finding a woman.” Not because I’ve got one in my sights, but because I’m ripe with a spark that could become fire. I’m not yet hot stuff, but I’m full of very ignitable qualities.
Partnership, then, is not the art of finding a great fire to warm yourself with, but the art of asking someone else: Need a match?
I’ve just finished 8 years of higher education – 4 in acadamia, and 4 outside it. And it has prepared me for life, but hasn’t yet provided it. I know what I have, don’t have, and what it will take to close the gap between the two. I have a laundry list of great and terrible experiences to draw on, and yet I still have way too much to learn. I know what risks are, and I know exactly what it means to give my heart. I know that if there is one area of my life that I can and do follow through on – one in the myriad of start-and-never-finish goals I seem to set for myself – it is love. I know it because I’ve been there.
I have nothing, but I know exactly what it means to work towards something. And I know the beauty in sharing that with someone. It’s only up from here.
A last analogy: In D&D, and in any of the plethora of video games that are out there, we confine ourselves to “levelling up”. That’s the whole goal of the game, really. Grind through all the crap to get yourself to a higher level. And once you’re there, you feel fantastic. But the real connection you feel with your character – the real connection you feel with all the successes that you’ve had, comes from the act of levelling up with that character. If someone just hands you something that they’ve built, some random level 20 (or for you WoWers, level 80), it’s not the same. It’s not good enough to get someone else’s character. You want to experience it along side your character. You want to grow with them.
Nothing ever quite compares to embarking on a quest with your very own level 1. For those who’ve had the unfortunate luck of gaming out with me, they know that – to me – nothing is more exciting than those first few levels. And now, in real life, I’ve never felt more like a guy who’s exactly that.
My father always tries to clinch his position on relationships with the age old reality, and cultural wisdom: “you can’t eat love.”
I say, true. But you’ve got to love what you eat.
- Z
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
On Perfection
You are perfect.
Read that line again. Read it as if I was typing it right now. Each letter appearing individually, and rapidly in succession. But not too rapidly. I’m not a fast typist. The first word ends, there is a space, and then there is a pause. The second word does not begin, and for a hesitation of a second, you are forced to inwardly reflect. There isn’t time for further introspection before the next letters start again. Just enough to make you uncompromisingly aware of yourself.
Three more letters type out, more poignantly this time, but also more hesitantly – like every one was searched for on the keyboard. Not because they were, of course, but because this word is actually the most important of the sentence and deserves appropriate reverence. Whatever follows is made holy by it. Whatever follows is judgement because of it. This is the deadly sin of the sentence.
Now you know what is to follow. The barriers are built up already. This post isn’t about you – it couldn’t be, this post is a post, a blog by your friend, or your friend of a friend. It’s a writer’s device. A plea for attention or a feeble attempt at unique writing. A trick used so that I – the writer – can draw you in. Nothing more.
But it is. It is about you. As the final seven letters are quickly typed out, you have perhaps already made yourself impervious to the words. It doesn’t matter, perhaps beyond the inspiration for a scoff, that the word outlined is a synonym for God. It doesn’t matter. This is merely an entertainment. A fantasy. One man’s fancy put to print. And, anyways, I don’t really know anything about the real you.
If you have to reject something about that first sentence – anything to make it more bearable, comprehendible, acceptable – reject what I reject. Don’t reject its intent, or its attempt at genuine connection. Do not guard yourself from the brilliant and beautiful possibility that you could be here, and that I could be earnestly and honestly desiring to put you here. But, if I am right in my prophesy, and you do reject something, make it real. Reject what I reject.
Do not reject the intimacy between the reader and the word “You”. In reading, you could be anyone. Who am I to know who shall read it and who shall not? And we are infinitely different – no one is the composed the same way. But we are also all the same. Unique and beautiful snowflakes are unique and beautiful, but they are also all simply water, frozen into ice. Your heart and mind may make up something that I have never, ever seen before, but they are still composed of a substance that makes up my form too. Even if you’ve never whispered private secrets to me at 3 in the morning. Even if we’ve never met.
Don’t reject the idea that you can be defined, even if your definition is infinite. Definition is appreciation, appreciation is divine. It is by appreciation that we judge, that we have fears, hopes, dreams. It is the appreciation of rational thought that grants us contentment, and it is the irrational appreciation of the world that brings us bliss. It is through definition that we recognize the undefinable. “You are” is why you can be. Why you are unique to me. It is the means through which you are infinite yet substantial. It is no threat to you – it is vindication of your divinity. Without it, you are simply unremarkable.
Reject what you really reject. Reject what I reject. You are not perfect.
It’s not what you were afraid of at first. You may not even be afraid of it at all. But I am, and it’s something that we can all nod our head to. Maybe you think your thighs are too big. Maybe it’s because you’ve got zits, or no car. Maybe you absolutely suck at love, or at your career. Maybe you’re not afraid of not being perfect but instead you’re afraid and that’s why you’re not perfect. Maybe it’s because your religion told you you weren’t. Maybe it’s because your mom told you you weren’t.
For me, it’s just about all of the above. Except my mom was fine and I think my thighs are too small. But I also have a crooked back, and I’ll never have the strength to lift a lover off the ground and pin her to a wall. Doesn’t sound like it has anything to do with perfection, does it? But it matters to me. The list can go on, and to be honest, if I’m not looking you in the eye when I say it, it doesn’t really sate me much in the telling. So I won’t go on. Because that’s not important.
But how you’re imperfect is important. It is to me. See, this whole piece was inspired by a rather garish sexual line in my head: “your imperfections get me off.” Though the sentiment was raw and lustfully inspired, their is truth when it is applied to a broader matter. The most attractive traits I’ve ever found, in friends and in lovers, has been exactly what they look in the mirror and fear. One of the sexiest qualities of a woman I was physically attracted to was her the crinkle in her tongue. And now, on the rare occasion that I think of her beauty, that is what I remember. Nothing else of her proportionate form matters much to me.
Partly that is because that was far more “her” than any other shape or mould that fit a norm. That, by definition, was what stuck out. I remember lisps and crushed apples in irrational rage and pregnancies. I remember moles and weird double joints and rather distasteful morality. And it would be a mistake to think that I hold all of this as aesthetically beautiful. Farts stink. No getting around that. And I’m not pretending that on some intellectual, bohemian level, they don’t.
But I remember farters as farters, and I remember that life is just life. And even the ugly things are laughable. The most ugly are the most laughable. We are the imperfect, divine makers of our own, imperfect dominion. Meeting that – eye to eye – with appreciation and glory, and then with merriment and celebration, is the way to happiness. To avoid those imperfections is to pretend that we are less than we are.
Your every single choice, your every single happenstance, and your every single imperfection has made you into who, what and where you are. This moment – this very moment – of you reading these letters that I’ve typed would not have been were it not for every facet of you leading up to it. It couldn’t have been, by definition. That’s reality, and it’s not perfect. Sometimes it’s not even good. But don’t reject it. It is definite. It is definable.
It is perfectly you.
- Z
Read that line again. Read it as if I was typing it right now. Each letter appearing individually, and rapidly in succession. But not too rapidly. I’m not a fast typist. The first word ends, there is a space, and then there is a pause. The second word does not begin, and for a hesitation of a second, you are forced to inwardly reflect. There isn’t time for further introspection before the next letters start again. Just enough to make you uncompromisingly aware of yourself.
Three more letters type out, more poignantly this time, but also more hesitantly – like every one was searched for on the keyboard. Not because they were, of course, but because this word is actually the most important of the sentence and deserves appropriate reverence. Whatever follows is made holy by it. Whatever follows is judgement because of it. This is the deadly sin of the sentence.
Now you know what is to follow. The barriers are built up already. This post isn’t about you – it couldn’t be, this post is a post, a blog by your friend, or your friend of a friend. It’s a writer’s device. A plea for attention or a feeble attempt at unique writing. A trick used so that I – the writer – can draw you in. Nothing more.
But it is. It is about you. As the final seven letters are quickly typed out, you have perhaps already made yourself impervious to the words. It doesn’t matter, perhaps beyond the inspiration for a scoff, that the word outlined is a synonym for God. It doesn’t matter. This is merely an entertainment. A fantasy. One man’s fancy put to print. And, anyways, I don’t really know anything about the real you.
If you have to reject something about that first sentence – anything to make it more bearable, comprehendible, acceptable – reject what I reject. Don’t reject its intent, or its attempt at genuine connection. Do not guard yourself from the brilliant and beautiful possibility that you could be here, and that I could be earnestly and honestly desiring to put you here. But, if I am right in my prophesy, and you do reject something, make it real. Reject what I reject.
Do not reject the intimacy between the reader and the word “You”. In reading, you could be anyone. Who am I to know who shall read it and who shall not? And we are infinitely different – no one is the composed the same way. But we are also all the same. Unique and beautiful snowflakes are unique and beautiful, but they are also all simply water, frozen into ice. Your heart and mind may make up something that I have never, ever seen before, but they are still composed of a substance that makes up my form too. Even if you’ve never whispered private secrets to me at 3 in the morning. Even if we’ve never met.
Don’t reject the idea that you can be defined, even if your definition is infinite. Definition is appreciation, appreciation is divine. It is by appreciation that we judge, that we have fears, hopes, dreams. It is the appreciation of rational thought that grants us contentment, and it is the irrational appreciation of the world that brings us bliss. It is through definition that we recognize the undefinable. “You are” is why you can be. Why you are unique to me. It is the means through which you are infinite yet substantial. It is no threat to you – it is vindication of your divinity. Without it, you are simply unremarkable.
Reject what you really reject. Reject what I reject. You are not perfect.
It’s not what you were afraid of at first. You may not even be afraid of it at all. But I am, and it’s something that we can all nod our head to. Maybe you think your thighs are too big. Maybe it’s because you’ve got zits, or no car. Maybe you absolutely suck at love, or at your career. Maybe you’re not afraid of not being perfect but instead you’re afraid and that’s why you’re not perfect. Maybe it’s because your religion told you you weren’t. Maybe it’s because your mom told you you weren’t.
For me, it’s just about all of the above. Except my mom was fine and I think my thighs are too small. But I also have a crooked back, and I’ll never have the strength to lift a lover off the ground and pin her to a wall. Doesn’t sound like it has anything to do with perfection, does it? But it matters to me. The list can go on, and to be honest, if I’m not looking you in the eye when I say it, it doesn’t really sate me much in the telling. So I won’t go on. Because that’s not important.
But how you’re imperfect is important. It is to me. See, this whole piece was inspired by a rather garish sexual line in my head: “your imperfections get me off.” Though the sentiment was raw and lustfully inspired, their is truth when it is applied to a broader matter. The most attractive traits I’ve ever found, in friends and in lovers, has been exactly what they look in the mirror and fear. One of the sexiest qualities of a woman I was physically attracted to was her the crinkle in her tongue. And now, on the rare occasion that I think of her beauty, that is what I remember. Nothing else of her proportionate form matters much to me.
Partly that is because that was far more “her” than any other shape or mould that fit a norm. That, by definition, was what stuck out. I remember lisps and crushed apples in irrational rage and pregnancies. I remember moles and weird double joints and rather distasteful morality. And it would be a mistake to think that I hold all of this as aesthetically beautiful. Farts stink. No getting around that. And I’m not pretending that on some intellectual, bohemian level, they don’t.
But I remember farters as farters, and I remember that life is just life. And even the ugly things are laughable. The most ugly are the most laughable. We are the imperfect, divine makers of our own, imperfect dominion. Meeting that – eye to eye – with appreciation and glory, and then with merriment and celebration, is the way to happiness. To avoid those imperfections is to pretend that we are less than we are.
Your every single choice, your every single happenstance, and your every single imperfection has made you into who, what and where you are. This moment – this very moment – of you reading these letters that I’ve typed would not have been were it not for every facet of you leading up to it. It couldn’t have been, by definition. That’s reality, and it’s not perfect. Sometimes it’s not even good. But don’t reject it. It is definite. It is definable.
It is perfectly you.
- Z
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