The valley of hate

May 14, 2012 //
6

One of my all time favorite records, and lyrical masterpieces of our time, was retrieved from the garbage can of a dead man.

I suppose there was a shred of mystery surrounding Elliott Smiths death, but for me, there was never any doubt. There was this link between us, Eliot and me, a link that made me certain of what happened. We were kindred spirits and I felt his pain. There was never any doubt that he took his own life.

As for the album itself, most beautifully titled From a Basement On The Hill, it taught me a lot of things. It’s clear from his words and actions that Elliott absolutely hated the album, and I firmly believe it was that hate, pared with his drug addiction and depression that made him drive that letter opener into his heart.

That happens sometimes when you’re creating stuff. You get stuck in that place of loathing, the place where you’ve lost the glorious view of what you set out to create and haven’t made it back up to a place where you can see the beauty of what you’ve accomplished. Your mind gets lost in its own depths, far from all perspective, and further from being finished than when you started.

I call it the valley of hate, and it makes me thing of Elliott Smith every time I get stuck there. It’s been happening lately, with the book I’m finishing. I hate it, I cant stand it, and I’m not saying the letter opener is calling my name, but the delete button certainly is.

But then, you think of all the great works of art that were literally pried out of the hands of their creators. The ghost of dissatisfaction is one that’s always hunted artist.

You don’t even have to go into the threads history to see this function of humanity. All those times we had to talk our multi talented friends down from the ledge, all of those times I talked my grammy into just putting the pot-roast on table instead of in the trash can.

When we spend too much time on stuff, we lose touch with what other people see. We obsess about flaws that only exist in our head. This is a known fact, not a new realization!

So then, the only remaining question becomes painfully obvious.

How long do we make the same mistakes? How many times do we let out creative spirit run us down into the valley of hate? Never mind the feelings, they do not reflect on our works. They are irrelevant.

The only sensible thing is just to power through the low part, finish and then evaluate the product.

Elliott Smith taught me a lot of things. That is what an artist is supposed to do. For me that’s the true measuring stick of art and artistic expression.

It makes little difference to me that most of the things he taught were on how to not do things.

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Change is your friend

April 30, 2012 //
12

It seems like a silly statement, but very little progress can ever be made without change. It is the key ingredient in every type of development, how we go about achieving the desirable or overcoming the undesirable. It is the most natural component of our existence and without it, no nature would exists. No development, no evolution, nothing. Nada. Rien. And off course my native tongue, Ekkert.

It’s taken me a while to write this post, a little on a bus through Ohio, little on the airport in Boston and a little here, now, at the kitchen counter in the house I grew up in. Outside the giant living room window in my parents house, the city of Reykjavík is preparing to show us it’s summer colors.

I am home for the first time in a while. I am single for the first time in a while.

Which brings me back to the usefulness of change. Having just come out of what is undoubtedly one of the best, if not the best, relationships I ever had, I have some debate topics on the subject of change.

My last relationship gets such a high rating because from the very beginning, it was meant to change. It was meant to end, meant to be inhaled and consumed before getting stale and old, meant to be a educational experience. And then we change. Maybe we date again, and we will most certainly stay friends, but we will never get to a place that’s faded. Never in the rut of habits and never one where there is nothing more to be learned.

Now, every single person is entitled to an opinion, but for those that value change, it’s a bit odd not to include love in the mix. It’s strange how people will say: “Everything should change. Don’t get stuck in your job, your sense of style or hairdo, your place of living; get stuck and stop growing. Except for your relationships. Those you should maintain at all costs.”

Through what channels of what logic does that make sense? Surely your relationships are one of your biggest zones of comfort! Why would you draw the line there? Why keep the biggest possible source of quicksand in your life while getting rid of all the others?

Let me take a wild stab in the dark at this, seeing as how it’s an honest question and one I really would like an answer to; is it an ego thing?

That does sound more logical than some possibilities. Your country doesn’t get offended when you wanna’ try to live somewhere else, your favorite band doesn’t get jealous when you don’t want to listen anymore. Things don’t hold grudges over being retired or replaced. People might.

If this is the case and it is an ego thing, fear of having yours bruised or bruising others, we mustn’t succumb to it. There is simply too much to be discovered and learned via paths of change. Sure the learning curve comes with a steep part, a path that can be hard to follow, but if you never go through that, you never learn anything.

If you choose to believe in love, that’s totally fine. But if you’re using it as a sloppy excuse to not grow to your full potential, think twice about your ideology.

If you strive to cultivate your mind, but still find yourself saying things like ‘Love is Sacred,’ consider the possibility that it’s really just your fear talking. Sacred is just another word for never changing.

Here is Reykjavík, we’re tumbling head first into the romance of summer, everything is starting to bloom and the ghosts of snowmen are leaving the city. So many things serve to remind us that fleeting moments are the best, change is the greatest fuel for the soul and that changing forms of beauty keep our minds alive.

No season should last forever, no pair of shoes, or way of life.

So when we get all excited about the prospects of future romance, with others or with yourself, try to stay clear of forever and ever. Try to find something that compliments the now, rather than characterizing eternity.

Just consider; in love, as in life, change is our friend.

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Birthday sex

April 10, 2012 //
18

I recently had one. A birthday that is; there was way more than one episode of sex.

Let us consider that the first intro to this post.

The second one is less braggy and more philosophical: it’s the issue of selfishness, an issue that gets dragged into my cobweb of ideas all the bloody time. Not by me, but by others. There are some truly strange ideas out there on the subject, and some algebraic methods that could prove both Gandhi and the Dalai Lama to be very poor humanitarians because they never actually worked in soup kitchens.

I’m not comparing myself to those two, or any other for that matter, my point is simply that society needs to recognize and trust that people have different ways of giving back. Different ways of maximizing their effort to make the world a better place. Different maths.

My maths tend to be based slightly more on the ‘teach a man to fish’ principle. It works better long term, obviously, but there will always be those that look at the fish in your hand and call you selfish for not sharing.

Love, for me, follows this especially well. You can give a person your love-fish every day for years and in the end it results in nothing but a quick starvation when you stop. Teach a person to love themself and they will be fine without you. As they should be.

But the fish are leading me down the wrong stream with this. I had something much more sexual and less biblical in mind for this post.

Sex, that’s it. Birthday sex.

What a loathsome thing. How sad that sex shops on- and offline advertise little French maid outfits, not for latex and role-play fanatics, but to the uninspired girlfriends of birthday boys. Do something special for your man! Get vanilla-scented candles for your lady! Buy cherry-flavored lube and do it exactly like she likes it!

Everything about the fluffy handcuffs and 5 minute blowjobs screams out that you just aren’t really all that into it. It’s the mental equivalent of a gift; something that costs you something. A transfer of values from one person to another, in accordance with obligation to make the other person happy on their birthday. Do stuff you otherwise can’t be bothered to do. Provide an extra slice of happy for the special occasion.

It is clear that the math is all wrong here. Not only does it tell a story of a couple that is badly incompatible, it tells a story of two people rarely getting what they want. And when they do, it’s in a somewhat coerced way.

Now, I have been called selfish for a variety of things, sometimes simply for the fact that I know what I want and then get it for myself, rather than settling for what’s being offered to me. The alternative is apparently to give up most of the things you want on a daily basis and then sacrifice your knee- and jaw-comfort for 5 extra birthday minutes a year, and in turn get an equal exchange of b-day value plus the warm and cozy notion that someone loves you enough to sacrifice their happiness for your benefit.

Screw that. I can swallow a whole lot of things, but not this concept.

My birthday sex was awesome. All my sex is typically awesome because I’m selfish enough the pick bed-buddies that want exactly what I want in bed. I’m selfish enough to not make sacrifices. I’m also smart enough to not have to.

It should take no one more than a cup of coffee to get to the bottom of the math here. You’re treating your significant, even insignificant, others much better if you pick people that like what you like. In life, in bed and everything. There should be no extra love-points awarded for sacrificing your time, body and mentality for something you don’t really wanna’ do.

As nice as the equation is, if you have to consciously do something nice for your partner instead of your desires naturally colliding, your math is unfavorable. Maybe, just maybe, you might wanna consider the possibility that you’re not all that compatible.

If you find yourself waiting for a special occasion to ask for something you really want, take notice. Why should you have to ask for, give, or accept sexual charity? Why shouldn’t it be amazing ALL THE TIME?

Aim a little higher!

If the sexual infrastructure of your relationship is sound, there should never be any need for alms and handouts, sacrifices or birthday sex. Things should just be equally awesome for both people, all the time.

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Jóna and the mathematics of Love

March 23, 2012 //
23

Realizations are a funny thing. A part of your brain can have one, but if the rest doesn’t like it, you’re are perfectly capable of hiding it from your conscious mind. Sometimes this goes on forever.

You can subconsciously realize that you’re gay or love tap-dancing (not mutually exclusive) or that you hate your chosen course of education, all years before your conscious mind comes to terms with it.

They are like that, realizations; they fester unattended in your mind and will never take your skillful ignoring as a sign to leave, and, somewhat amusingly, you’ll most likely know once you man up and do the acknowledging, you’ll feel a hundred times better. This has nothing to to with the nature of what you’re hiding from yourself and everything to do with the nature of the hiding. It’s not good for us.

Realizing you no longer love your spouse is one of those. The longer you ignore it the harder it’ll be to deal with.

Coming to terms with the fact that you no longer believe in love at all is a bit more tricky. For one I’m not really sure it’s a bad thing. For two, I haven’t got a clue how this realization should be dealt with.

That, of course, has no bearing whatsoever. The truth is, through a thoroughly strange turn of events, I have managed to disprove the notion of love. Not for everybody, just for myself, but still. For myself, there will be no more speculation. There is no such thing as romantic love. Not for my own private self, anyway.

Many boys have pushed me, a European centimeter at a time, toward this conclusion, but it’s the one I’m currently dating that has pushed me over the edge.

He did so by being utterly perfect.

If I had sat down a year ago and made a list of all the things I wanted in a boy, he would be that list. He has all the things I can neatly quantify, regulate, and comprehend in terms of me liking him: he is fun, sexually and mentally stimulating and, most importantly of all for a person like me, none-intrusive.

And yet, all of my mathematically valid feelings for him just don’t add up to that mythical number of love. They are no bigger that the sum of their parts and regardless of all their potential, I just don’t feel the need to root down or have a normal relationship.

A tiny little part of me, no more that a couple cells, was still open to the notion that, maybe, somewhere over the rainbow, there was a man that could change my cool and calculative ways. He would perform just the right combination of opening doors for me, getting silly while quoting the Flying Circus, and fucking me to smithereens; then — voila! — love.

A feeling that’s greater than the sum of its ingredients. Something that makes you think, Well, this is nice. Forever.

Now, I know there is no such thing. I have conclusive proof. And the best thing is that I now realize that there is absolutely no reason for why I should ever have thought there would be. I love my cool and calculative ways and I never believe anything is bigger than the sum of its parts anyway. It’s just not my thing.

If you get a bigger sum than your collective numbers offer, you simply added it wrong.

I’ve been coming up short on love for years now, thinking my calculations had to be off because my love just never equaled the love of others.

Now, in the light of this Ah-Ha! realization, it turns out I was right all along; a relationship offers a value of affection that directly correlates to its qualities, no more and no less, and when, by the nature of things, some of these qualities start to dwindle, that removes your investment in the union. When all interest is gone, so is the relationship. No supernatural adhesive.

This means my value for (what is sadly best described as) love is no longer inconclusive. It’s simply a value that doesn’t exist. There is no magic to it, no mythical elements, simply a calculative readout from the things you like and dislike about a person. No higher authority of emotions. No romantic love.

It is the single most liberating realization of my life. It comes with the freedom to live life exactly how I want and not feel bad about not feeling how I thought I should be feeling all along.

For me, the realizations that bring you a little closer to knowing who you are and what you want in life are really the best moments. They give you a better lens to your happiness, and I’ll always prefer happiness over love.

In fact, happiness is a value I value above everything else because there is nothing inflated or mythical about it.

But this is all just me, others should do their own calculations in life. Different maths for different paths.

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Packed!!

February 29, 2012 //
4

I look at the mess I’ve made in just a couple of minutes. A simple thing like taking a shower at this point pretty much means uprooting my life. That is, if my life is tied up in my belongings.

When folded up nicely, the current mess of my entire belongings fits into one backpack and one messenger bag that I’m pretty sure is meant to carry diapers. Amazon did warn me about this, but I liked the pattern so I bought it anyway. As an alternative to an apartment, it works quite well for housing my stuff.

Then there is the other bag, the one that’s been with me forever. It opens from all four sides and can envelop the contents of my life in seconds.

It is also magical.

Its magic lies in the sound of the buckle that goes around it. It is a sound that echoes through my past. My favorite parts anyway. Every time I click it shut my mind jumps to a previous time when I closed it.

The last click pitched the memory of the time where I had to pack one-handed because my other hand was wrapped up in bandages. After I was attacked by a lion. Really. It was a rather small and partly trained lion — the partly part highlighted by it attacking me — but there are only so many excuses one can make for a lion being a lion. It was a bloody lion. And it attacked me. One click of my magic bag and it all comes back; the physical pain and the emotional joy of having the story, and the inner debate over where or not to tell my grandma, whose only advice for my trip to Africa had been “watch out for the lions.”

Statistically there are a lot of clicks from Africa, being on the road for a long period of time creates a whole lot of packing. Every day for months I stuffed my stuff in that bag and headed for a new destination. Every night I set up camp and unfolded my belongings. Every time the packing was done, it meant having checked thoroughly for scorpions and other deadly hitchhikers, packing up the tent, and emotionally moved on from the previous adventure. The click meant the current one was over and registered as a memory within the bag itself.

Then there were the other times, the less rapid and more significant moments of packing. I unpacked that bag when I moved to the Caribbean, I packed everything back up when I couldn’t take the nudist stripper colony anymore (who ever could have predicted that a nudist stripper colony was not a great idea?) and unpacked everything in a house just down the road. I loved that house. It belonged to my boyfriend at the time, and overlooked some of the most beautiful hills in the world. Everything on it swayed towards the passing sun, facing our way at sunset. I stayed there until things got bumpy and my bag once again saw some action.

Then there was the time I moved into the tiny little studio my soon to be husband lived in when we first met. We were so in love there was no need for unpacking for several weeks after. We just sort of stayed in bed and had a 4-month-long conversation that ended with him proposing with a box of fast food onion rings. Then there was the apartment we got as newlyweds and then we weren’t wed any more, and I, for the first and last time, packed that bag for someone other than myself. It all happened in the click of a bag.

Click: moved to India.

Click: packed all my stuff and headed for the States.

Today, I’m back on the road, and that yet again brings on a whole lot of packing and unpacking. Every time that buckle makes a click sound I know more adventures are coming my way. Every time my life is neatly packed in those bags I know it is all about to change.

By now, I am very much aware of the fact that packing is a privilege. It is not a thing to be hated. Ever. Packing means you get to go somewhere. It means opportunities and hope, as well as an almost mandatory episode of personal growth.

Even moving between apartments is a big thing in life. Whether you want to or nor, it will bring about new neighbors, new routs and a new episode of your life. You know how your memories will be colored by the places you’ve lived. It’s a new you, every time.

So I just thought I’d write this small manifesto for future reference, should I have to kick some ass. I would also like to note that from here on out, if I hear people complain about having to pack, there will be ass-kicking. Guaranteed.

Savor it. Breath in the spirit of the metaphor; you are going somewhere.

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Living in America. And all those other songs.

February 23, 2012 //
10

This is an utterly unoriginal debate. For inspiration; go elsewhere. Or don’t, it’ll only take a minute to read this and hopefully I’ll make half an original argument. If for nothing else, it will serve as a soul-hanky and clean my mind out a bit.

Now, I’m fully aware of just how much this poor drum has been beaten, but my, oh, my are the States an odd place to be.

For those already sickly tired of that beat, I assure you I’m not gonna’ judge or even mock in a satirical fashion. Not here, and maybe not ever, it’s not really my thing. My thing is more to comment on the phycological affects of their buffoonery.

As of 2010, Iceland and about 15 other countries made an agreement with the States called ESTA (Electronic System for Travel Authorization) that is supposed to be an easier substitute for a proper travel visa. It kind of is, but not really: there is still a whole lot of paperwork, a fee, and a mandate for a plane-ticket out of the states form the airport you came in through. And even with all that stuff in order, I still got pulled into that little room and questioned about my intentions, my past, religion, and favored ice-cream flavor. I suspected as much would happen; maybe it’s the hair color or the tattoos, but I usually get pulled into those little airport rooms.

As a non-judgment side-note, I’d just like to point out that all first world countries deal with illegal immigration. All of them. Not just the States. Seeking out greener pastures is one of the most fundamental elements in human nature.

Since I’ve been here, I’ve gotten accustomed to carrying my passport because my debit card does not meet the qualifications of proper ID, even if it has a magnetic line and should be next to impossible to forge. And besides, I’m turning 27. If I want to buy booze, I am legally allowed to do so, in every country in the world gentlemanly enough to sell such things to women. I also can’t get a phone card for my phone on account of not being a citizen, and most websites won’t accept my perfectly normal visa card because it’s not registered to a local address.

And then, one day, while trying to order Brazilian wax online and being denied my right to not be hairy, the thought creeps in. Wouldn’t it be nice to live here?

Seeing as how just a few week ago I came here out of sheer morbid curiosity, intending to shun all things typically American, I have to close my laptop and think for a second. What the hell is happening? Moving to the States would not really be a step up for me comfort-wise, and I’d sure as hell get tired of being treated like a dirty foreigner. I like my own home just fine and besides, I have all of Europe at my disposal. Most countries would be glad to welcome one of the 380,000 Icelanders on the planet into their home. Most have been. Even when they think I’m smuggling stuff.

And then the most obvious of clichés dawns on me: I only want it because I so obviously can’t have it. And who’s making a point of exploiting this rooted part of human nature? The States!

They’re playing hard to get. And worse yet, they’re playing hard to get about something that I don’t want, and they have no intention of giving.

And from there the ball unravels. Why the hell is it called the American Dream? The dream of a better life is surely not a new concept, let alone an American one. No other country makes such a public fuss about their immigration issues, and from here I’ll draw the obvious conclusion that most of the illegal immigrants that come here do so because they’ve been sold on the very dreams peddled by the US of A. The dream that’s self-titled by America.

Statistics of how many people try to get in are tirelessly flaunted by this country, while no other nation bothers to do so. There’s an air of bragging that surrounds articles about all the people drowning and freezing to death on rafts, because they do so while trying to get into America.

That last sentence can not go without a hint of judgement, but I’m done with that now. Promise.

The point I’m trying to make is not that there’s a feel of elitism to this country, the point is that it works. I belong to a club that’s in many ways much more cool and interesting; it comes with a great variety of cultures and languages and a history that’s more than two hundred years old. The only difference is that Europe doesn’t advertise in the same way. It doesn’t make such a public display of the people that aren’t allowed to in.

It seems like a funny notion, trying this hard to sell something people can’t actually buy. But given the apparent appeal of this strategy, I now find myself compelled to close off the soft and naive part of my brain, the part that’s susceptible to such marketing. It is way too easy to fall prey to the colorful hypocrisies of the American Dreams.

Now, some might say I totally bailed on my promise not to judge good old America, but I beg to differ. It’s really not the country or its politics I’m judging as much as my own unsuspecting nature. It might be their crazy Kool-Aid but it’s sure as hell my choice whether or not to drink it..

..metaphorically. Sans metaphor I have a pocketful of cherry flavored Kool-Aid. I just like the way it turns my tongue pink!

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Jóna-the-Thing

February 10, 2012 //
4

Why must we all have a thing?

Now now, I’m not here to complain. I have my learning pants on.

But given my current company, odds are I do hear this argument more than most people. Not only must you have a thing, you must live your thing, breath your thing, and be able to pitch your thing in a tweet.

Well I am a complex individual, damn it!

Being condensed down to a thing, as fun as that can be in some situations, feels a bit limiting in life. A thing has such a strong implied meaning. Like a pair of scissors. You only ever have the choice of getting funky and using them as contemporary art, or you know, just cutting things.

Why can’t I be more of a concept? Something like a book. Something you can use to make the table unwobbly but can also pick up and dive into?

Better yet, why can’t I be a recipe? A recipe for a human being. Something you throw out there and see what kind of return you get from your dinner guests.

Most people may lick their plates, while others may tolerate it or be indifferent to it. Still other people may be allergic to some of the ingredients you use for your recipe. Like peanuts. For example, I’m a glitter-loving, mini-skirt-wearing lolita of a feminist, and some other types of feminists have a big problem with that. The old kind, the kind that still fails to understand feminism completely.

If you suffer from peanut allergies but don’t hold those values, I’m sorry for the comparison. Didn’t mean to call you a dried-out cunt that holds women down. If you, however, belong to that slim cut of the venn-diagram that’s inflicted with both peanut and miniskirt allergies: screw you, too.

Sorry for the detour. Peanut allergies really get me going.

I’m just so used to letting other people read what they want into me as a person. Occasionally they judge me and I judge their conclusions, but most times I’m not even bothered to know.

And therein lies the answer, I guess. As sad as it seems to have all my flavor boiled down to a single tint of dry seasoning, I do totally understand the concept of control.

Control appears to be exactly the point. You want to have control over other people’s uses of you, your images, and your things. And the more your image is condensed into scissor-like things with a clear-cut purpose and aim, the easier it is to use.

However this applies only to ones public profile. The real me will still be subject to inner debate, recipe changes and all the questions anyone will ever have. It’s just that now, my net-persona will be more of a thing.

So I better get to work on condensing my philosophies. As a temporary experiment I’ll have no pitches, rules, or inner regulations that won’t fit in a tweet.

And I actually am kind of excited to see what comes of it. Who is this Jóna-the-Thing person? What area of my vast mental space will be the thumbnail of my cyber life? How will my essays on existentialism and convictions fair as one-liners?

Yet again it’s time to sit down, achieve philosophical photosynthesis and grow as a person. And a thing.

Wish me fun!

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Road Trip

February 8, 2012 //
2

Ring-a-ding-ding.

If you read on, that’s the modern day equivalent of opening the front door.

When you do, your porch is occupied by Tinker Bell and Peter Pan asking that forever-young question: do you wanna come out to play?

As of the 15th of February, me and Colin are heading out to explore America. After all, I showed him mine. Time for him to show me his.

I hope to see some of the things promised in the movies; cats and mice with no concept of property damage, and skunks that levitate with love, not to mention the glamorous dance choreographies with all the elephants and the genies and the singing teapots. It’s gonna’ be epic.

Another thing that is gonna’ make it epic is the fact that we’re gonna’ couch surf. Bus hop and couch surf. And see it all.

If I have to snort my own fairy-dust to make it — which for an elf is kind of creepy — so be it. For two whole months, it is on like Donkey Kong. Non-stop like Carrot Top. Really.

And so back to the previous question: do you wanna’ play?

For those who do, let us know. If there are things you think mythical creatures like ourselves would appreciate, let us know.

If you think your town could use more blue haired girls and devastatingly handsome guys, let us know. If you think the same holds true for your bedroom, let us know in advance so we can stalk you and make an educated decision.

All good will and hospitality will be met with a child-like enthusiasm and bottomless pits of potential. We’re in the process of making a plan as is so do drop me a line if you’re at all interested.

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The life-story of a petrified data-miner

February 3, 2012 //
6

So guess what! I’m headed for a two-month road trip around the USofA.

Being the little robot that I am, I think it might be neat to report on the things I learn about people. From a purely mathematical standpoint. I believe myself to be the perfect candidate for this project, seeing as how I’m a marvelous mathematician, but starting my human training pretty much from scratch.

I’ve got the academic methods of data-mining down, but the whole concept of people still baffles me.

Admittedly, I am not a great big fan of people. They were never really my thing. The only times I ever roughed it out, stayed on couches and had people around 24/7 before were, well, the times my diet consisted mainly of malt whiskey and cocaine.

Those things help with being social.

This time around however, my social persona will have no training wheels. Plus, I can’t deal with being hung over in a moving vehicle. Actually, being hung over at all, along with doing the things that make me hung over,  aren’t really my things anymore.

They were my things for a while before I started to speak the language of my headaches. Now that I do, the angry blood-thumping of ‘Why? Why? Why? Why?’ against my skull is too much to bear.

As a girl of 26, I’m just gonna’ suck it up and be social.

When the personification of my social energy is a tiny little person, and the ‘On’ switch is the size of this Empire State Building I’m told I must see, I’ll suck it up.

When I start to crave privacy and alone-time like a zombie craves human flesh, I’ll suck it up.

When my soul-bear tries to crawl back into its cave for hibernation, I’ll drag it out by its furry feet — over the borders of my inner world, all the way to the surface of my outer one — where I’ll cuddle it like a teddy. I shall also use this time to get even awesomer at metaphors.

For me, this is a tall order. Not the metaphors but the interactions, the metaphors I can handle. And with some help, I think I can cope with the rest.

To hold up the roof of my personality, I shall rely on my most trusted companion in life: science. Science always comes through for me. In social scenarios, it’s science that keeps me from collapsing in on myself like the introverted star that I am.

It is my lifeboat in the sea of the unknown.

So there you are. It seems I have successfully taken my argument full circle. When I claim to explore human nature so that other people can benefit from my findings, I’m flat-out lying.

It is a welcome side effect, but truthfully, striving to understand is the only thing that allows me to be.

Rationalizing and compartmentalizing people and their reactions keeps my soul from overflowing with outside stimuli. Social math keeps me grounded, keeps me from going crazy in the face of the alien elements of human nature.

I wonder how the algebraic value of my natural desire for solitude will fair against my newfound curiosity about people.

But there is more.

In the next episode of understanding people, I will be testing a theory. I shall, while wearing a kimono tied over my overalls, go to the bathroom. Once there, I shall lay down little strips of toilet paper on the rim of the bowl, undress, take a dump, change tampons, and inspect my bikini region thoroughly while plotting the next wax appointment.

Then I will do a line of powdered sugar while pretending to do a line of coke, clean my nose, and put on cherry-flavored lip balm and a new layer of makeup before checking every last pocket of my bag to find a bandage and apply it to my foot after removing my high heels.

Then I will re-enter my shoe and look at my stopwatch. If all of these things take more than 10 minutes, my soul shall be at rest with the knowledge of what women do in the bathroom for so long. If not, I am no closer to understanding my own gender.

So, for more Twilight-zony tales of what happens when I stop trying to keep people out of my head and instead dive into theirs, stay tuned.

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Submerged in meaning

January 29, 2012 //
3

Holy mother of epiphanies. I just had one.

Everybody is different. This is not the epiphany. This non-epiphany goes to say that people are all different from each other, everyone is different from the next person.

My current epiphany goes more to say that everybody’s different, specifically, from me. Instead of one unique rowboat for each and every creature lucky enough to be human, this is more like a rowboat for me and a giant cruise-ship for everybody else.

I have similar realizations all the time, they are the silver lining of my clouds, but only when I realize that I’ve been acting on those false assumptions; I call them epiphanies.

As a recap, I love curd. Therefor it is my natural inclination to believe everybody else does also. Finding out that they don’t would be a realization.

However, when you actively try to feed everybody curd, bring it to dinner parties and speak of it lovingly, it qualifies as an epiphany to realize nobody likes it. It also offers additional explanations as to why nobody likes you. Or invites you to dinner.

I’m dyslexic. Rather much so as a matter of fact, although I believe that to be a blessing in disguise. It takes me ages to read because I have to read through every letter of a word. I like to say that I follow each word to the letter, as to say that what I read; I actually read.  

To make matters even worst, I have a rather worthless degree in comparative literature. It has done little more for me than to enable my addiction for analyzing and contextualizing words and text. It’s a wonderful addiction to have.

What a silly assumption of me to think everybody operated like this. Most people neither have my disabilities nor abilities. Most people don’t read for the same purpose I do because they actually can read. They don’t have to invest their time in it like I do.

They just lay dormant on cruise-ship desks and read novel after novel, devouring literature they might not even like, just because they can. They can read a book in a day and if they don’t much care for it, there will be another book over another cocktail the next day.

At least that’s what it looks like from my rowboat.

Now, without accusations (and with exceptions), people skim. At least this is what I have — in my biased way — chosen to believe. I believe this to be doubly true for the Internet. At least on a cruise-ship you have to get up if you want to do something else than tan and read. The Internet offers everything conceivable at the click of a mouse.       

I’m not going to pretend to really get the concept of skimming, but I imagine it to be a bit like quick-pace archeology. Trying to hastily rebuild knowledge from the clues you manage to stumble across. 

Then again, I imagine some people had this epiphany ages ago and developed a writing style that offers these point of knowledge in a suitably clear and obvious way.

And so it seems I’ve yet again been playing a different game than everybody else. I can’t write like that. I don’t want to.

I selfishly want people to scuba-dive in my texts rather than fly-fish.

I know this is not a demand I get to make. At best, I can serve it up as a kind request for attention, a whisper of polite instructions. I can try my best to be engaging, and maybe that is just a challenge for me to undertake.

What I will not do is change. As well as I see people pull off a variety of internet-suitable writing styles, they are not for me. My passion is locked onto other things. It’s locked into the game of analyzing and contextualizing. My passion is locked onto my passion.

If for nothing else, I will continue to write according to my own conviction to do just that: to prove to myself that I’m doing this for me. For my own creative survival. 

So please, if you want to come aboard my rowboat and swim in my oceans; bring your scuba goggles.

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