I began writing this yesterday and started by saying 'when I last posted a few weeks ago' and realised that the Mt. Olympus factor has significantly skewed my perception of time and it's been a good nine months mortal-time since I last signed on and posted anything of substance. "Substance." I wish Alaska time had moved like Mt. O time.
My son is growing in leaps and bounds. Tempus fugit, he reminds me. (I would try to say it in ancient Greek but I don't have the special characters on the laptop, and even if I did, I never did become literate in it. Latin I demanded to learn after my, ahem, 'rehabilitation.') Time truly is flying where he is concerned. It seems like only yesterday I first held him. That's a laugh, me holding a baby. Now, he tends to sit on my shoulders, strangling me with his hands clasped around my neck, holding onto me for dear life in innocent childish delight. Astrid and I are so very proud of him, our personal crowning achievement. Imagine an asshole like me being so fucking lucky. I know -- it's hard.
We've been talking about a family vacation to some place in the Caribbean shortly -- and of course by shortly, I mean within the next six months. I just need someplace that's warm. Ah, gimme that glorious sun. NYC's getting cold. My sort-of-squire's place in CT is getting beautiful with the changing leaves, but gods, it getting cold too. Sure it's not Alaska-cold which was as godsdamn cold as a witch's tit, but if I can avoid the cold altogether, why the hell not? No fucking reason for me to suffer it anymore.
Sculpting has taken a backseat for the moment. It was never meant to be a creative outlet. It was just a time-consuming thing. I'm not really all that creative despite what some people are now saying about the crap I have released from my studio. I am not an artist. I am a savage: I hunt, I stay warm, and I use the visual to express myself. It's all as basic as that. So on days when I've only dusted a handful of daimons and I'm still itching for something brutal and nasty, I can go after some medium with all the ferocity I still have pent up. It does translate. But between joining the ole DH crew every so often for something meaty and spending time with the family, my few needs have been amply met. I haven't had any sort of desire to create. I don't think I ever did. It was all just firewood before, and if it wasn't for the variety of media I use now, it would still be.
By the by, anywhere with a nice daimon infestation? I feel like I could take on a hundred of those tone-deaf fuckers single-handedly right now.
Ah, and something else of note: I had my first real haircut, as in, by someone else and not with a knife, just the other day. Yeah, a knife isn't precise, but it tends to get the job done and it's worked for me for a couple thousand years. Astrid finally decided I could dispense with the "primitive" method. I wonder how much of that was my mother-in-law's suggestion...
Told you I was a savage.
Z
Friday, October 9, 2009
Monday, December 22, 2008
Time Away
Minus the fact that the world is comprised of stupid bastards, fucking idiots, and ignorant fools, everything has just been rainbows and daffodils.
I haven't posted because I've been up to my elbows in clay. I don't like the stuff. Give me my wood. Give me marble. Let me make something out of a hard rigid medium, let me pull out a shape from it, don't force me to bend the medium to my will. Sure, it's useful when you have an idea or a commission and cannot find that block of stone or piece of wood which would you give that vision to you, but other than that, I wish to renounce the world of clay. And it's filthy. And it never seems to get out from under my nails.
Aside from this need to create or otherwise occupy my hands, I've had a need to get into a really good fight. I go daimon hunting frequently. I've been seeking out more and more. No matter how many I come across, they never seem to outnumber me. And none of them have any skill in terms of fighting. It's like they turn to dust when they see me. Gasp, an ex-DH! Let's all dust ourselves because we know it's inevitable! Where the hell did the fight go? I want skin meeting skin, breaking bones, blood, adrenaline; I want that great release that comes from giving yourself to the fight. And I want to stand up, beaten and bloody myself, and be able to laugh and go back for more. I have that strength, and by gods, I want to use it.
Astrid thinks I'm some quiet, peace-loving guy beneath the rough exterior and hard attitude. I love her, and maybe she thinks I'm gentle because I am with her, but that's not who I am. It's never been. The only times I ever refused to fight was when I was too weak, not because I was too gentle.
For my sanity, pray a good fight comes along. I've got the itch and I need it scratched.
I haven't posted because I've been up to my elbows in clay. I don't like the stuff. Give me my wood. Give me marble. Let me make something out of a hard rigid medium, let me pull out a shape from it, don't force me to bend the medium to my will. Sure, it's useful when you have an idea or a commission and cannot find that block of stone or piece of wood which would you give that vision to you, but other than that, I wish to renounce the world of clay. And it's filthy. And it never seems to get out from under my nails.
Aside from this need to create or otherwise occupy my hands, I've had a need to get into a really good fight. I go daimon hunting frequently. I've been seeking out more and more. No matter how many I come across, they never seem to outnumber me. And none of them have any skill in terms of fighting. It's like they turn to dust when they see me. Gasp, an ex-DH! Let's all dust ourselves because we know it's inevitable! Where the hell did the fight go? I want skin meeting skin, breaking bones, blood, adrenaline; I want that great release that comes from giving yourself to the fight. And I want to stand up, beaten and bloody myself, and be able to laugh and go back for more. I have that strength, and by gods, I want to use it.
Astrid thinks I'm some quiet, peace-loving guy beneath the rough exterior and hard attitude. I love her, and maybe she thinks I'm gentle because I am with her, but that's not who I am. It's never been. The only times I ever refused to fight was when I was too weak, not because I was too gentle.
For my sanity, pray a good fight comes along. I've got the itch and I need it scratched.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Brief Update
~What have I been doing?
As everyone knows, I sculpt and during the winter I made several pieces for charity auctions in the City. It would appear as if they were appreciated, so appreciated in fact that I was asked to design and produce a custom piece for the lobby of one of the hotels in the area. I won't tell you which one and keep you guessing. I put a nice price on it. The money will be going to St. Jude's Children's Hospital.
~And my son?
My little one has been up to his usual antics. How I love my little one. Our little one. He fills my days with life and laughter. I am so infinitely grateful for him.
So that is a brief update.
As everyone knows, I sculpt and during the winter I made several pieces for charity auctions in the City. It would appear as if they were appreciated, so appreciated in fact that I was asked to design and produce a custom piece for the lobby of one of the hotels in the area. I won't tell you which one and keep you guessing. I put a nice price on it. The money will be going to St. Jude's Children's Hospital.
~And my son?
My little one has been up to his usual antics. How I love my little one. Our little one. He fills my days with life and laughter. I am so infinitely grateful for him.
So that is a brief update.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Time to Think
Of late, things have been busy. Of course, on the Mount time gets distorted and it does not match up with everyone else's perception, but there's still been enough time to miss the few extra minutes here or there. And when I have had those moments, the computer is the last thing I seek.
The child has been occupying much of my time. Astrid is there occasionally, but she still goes out and judges if people are worthy to exist or not, and there have been more calls for that these past few months than I can recall at any point in the beginning.
I have started him on a writing regiment, the way I was taught. Yes, he speaks well, and in varied languages, but his writing remains like chicken scratch and even then, he much prefers to drop his writing implements and ask me why he needs to write when he could just tell me. The first time he did it, I did not have an answer I was willing to give him. I told him instead that sometimes there would be people he needed to tell something to that would have to be told at a later date when he was not around. Fortunately, he is not yet so adult that he said he would call the person on the cellular phone and leave a message, or pop down from Mt. O to make a house-call, so he accepted it and continued his exercises.
I just do not want him to be like me. Already he has proven that he is so much more than I ever was. He is the best thing in my life, my single accomplishment, and having him is the only thing I am proud of having done. I was never great a man with triumphs to my name, or feasts held in my honour. Indeed, I would argue that I was never a man at all. I served, and often more as a place to lay a crop or whip than something to be functional.
I was kept in a state of miserable ignorance, knowing that somewhere out in the world, there was more, so much more, but it was not for me. Those goddamn bastards didn't want us to be educated intelligent people, to contribute to... to anything. Not on insight to the human condition, not to the betterment of the society, not even to the golden fucking glory of Rome. I may as well have been an unshaped piece of wood for all they wanted of me. And they made fucking sure that we didn't know anything.
Perhaps they wanted to make damned sure that we didn't start thinking, perhaps form our own ideas, be able to carry out our thoughts. We had our own functional knowledge, yes, and it varied from household to household, slave to slave. There were slaves to work in the kitchen and they were phenomenally intelligent about their domains. They knew how to tell one herb from another, how old things were, where to get the best bread in the vicinty and it amazed me. Or the slaves who cleaned the villa, they knew every item in the household, its history, its value, where it was kept, how it was placed, how it needed to be cleaned. And the artisans, and the doctors, all slaves, and yet, what they knew!
And when I would have a cause to be outside of the walls of the villa, the slaves of some households looked like nobility themselves. They were kept fine and elegant. They dressed well, spoke well, their manners were exquisite and they held themselves with such confidence that even freemen and nobility could not help but be pleasant and polite. And the Dacians, with their fair hair and blue eyes, their perfect skin, made me hate myself even more. They were foreign, captives of battle and of defeated provinces, and they were beautiful. And unfailingly, these slaves looked down their long elegant noses at me, too.
Once, one of them spoke to me, while I was still young, and though scarred, not yet mangled. His introduction was nothing short of a command to get out of his way. I scrambled to remove myself from his path, both terrified and in awe. He was not particularly handsome, but his short white tunic had recently come from the fulleries (you could always tell when they were newly bleached) and he wore sandals. His hair was cut and clean, and there was no dirt under his fingernails. After seeing that, I don't think I ever had the desire to be free, since there were some slaves who were so well kept and respected and far better off than the freemen. I just wanted to be away, anywhere, so long as I no longer was forced to endure the abuse by people I wanted to love and who should have, if not loved me, at least have been decent to me.
I always thought it was my innate stupidity that made me as I was. At twenty-six, what do you really know when no one's ever given you a shred of their time save to determine that you're wearing the wrong expression or perhaps, for an eighth of a second, made unwarranted eyecontact?
My sole knowledge was that of an animal. I knew that if I was noticed, I was in trouble, and if I bared my teeth, I'd be in much deeper trouble. I knew when to cower, and I knew when I was hungry. I knew how to be afraid every second of my life, and the only thought I had, when I was too cold or not so worn out to sleep, was how to repay them all.
I thought of horrible ways how to kill them, how to prolong the agony, how to keep them alive so that they could beg me to let them die. Them, begging me for mercy. Anger was the only thing I had. That and despair. But I was too much of a coward at the time to do anything. I often thought about killing myself, but I always feared if I lived, they would torture me worse than ever.
And looking at my boy, I wonder how I could have ever fathered this beautiful wonderful child who stuns me with his intelligence and his insight. Would I have been like him had someone cared about me? Certainly, I would have been less ignorant if I had been taught, and more open to the world had anyone but taught me of trust, yet, even with the best treatment and the most support possible, I cannot imagine being anything as great as my child.
We all want something better for our children, pray that they turn out better than we did, succeed more, achieve more, be happy, healthy and proud of themselves. And I pray I've been a good father, have done the right things, loved him enough. In the end it is all just a craps-shoot, but I hope I've given him the ability to rise far above those that still hold a lingering disgust for me.
All this because I was illiterate.... imagine if I actually had something to say.
The child has been occupying much of my time. Astrid is there occasionally, but she still goes out and judges if people are worthy to exist or not, and there have been more calls for that these past few months than I can recall at any point in the beginning.
I have started him on a writing regiment, the way I was taught. Yes, he speaks well, and in varied languages, but his writing remains like chicken scratch and even then, he much prefers to drop his writing implements and ask me why he needs to write when he could just tell me. The first time he did it, I did not have an answer I was willing to give him. I told him instead that sometimes there would be people he needed to tell something to that would have to be told at a later date when he was not around. Fortunately, he is not yet so adult that he said he would call the person on the cellular phone and leave a message, or pop down from Mt. O to make a house-call, so he accepted it and continued his exercises.
I just do not want him to be like me. Already he has proven that he is so much more than I ever was. He is the best thing in my life, my single accomplishment, and having him is the only thing I am proud of having done. I was never great a man with triumphs to my name, or feasts held in my honour. Indeed, I would argue that I was never a man at all. I served, and often more as a place to lay a crop or whip than something to be functional.
I was kept in a state of miserable ignorance, knowing that somewhere out in the world, there was more, so much more, but it was not for me. Those goddamn bastards didn't want us to be educated intelligent people, to contribute to... to anything. Not on insight to the human condition, not to the betterment of the society, not even to the golden fucking glory of Rome. I may as well have been an unshaped piece of wood for all they wanted of me. And they made fucking sure that we didn't know anything.
Perhaps they wanted to make damned sure that we didn't start thinking, perhaps form our own ideas, be able to carry out our thoughts. We had our own functional knowledge, yes, and it varied from household to household, slave to slave. There were slaves to work in the kitchen and they were phenomenally intelligent about their domains. They knew how to tell one herb from another, how old things were, where to get the best bread in the vicinty and it amazed me. Or the slaves who cleaned the villa, they knew every item in the household, its history, its value, where it was kept, how it was placed, how it needed to be cleaned. And the artisans, and the doctors, all slaves, and yet, what they knew!
And when I would have a cause to be outside of the walls of the villa, the slaves of some households looked like nobility themselves. They were kept fine and elegant. They dressed well, spoke well, their manners were exquisite and they held themselves with such confidence that even freemen and nobility could not help but be pleasant and polite. And the Dacians, with their fair hair and blue eyes, their perfect skin, made me hate myself even more. They were foreign, captives of battle and of defeated provinces, and they were beautiful. And unfailingly, these slaves looked down their long elegant noses at me, too.
Once, one of them spoke to me, while I was still young, and though scarred, not yet mangled. His introduction was nothing short of a command to get out of his way. I scrambled to remove myself from his path, both terrified and in awe. He was not particularly handsome, but his short white tunic had recently come from the fulleries (you could always tell when they were newly bleached) and he wore sandals. His hair was cut and clean, and there was no dirt under his fingernails. After seeing that, I don't think I ever had the desire to be free, since there were some slaves who were so well kept and respected and far better off than the freemen. I just wanted to be away, anywhere, so long as I no longer was forced to endure the abuse by people I wanted to love and who should have, if not loved me, at least have been decent to me.
I always thought it was my innate stupidity that made me as I was. At twenty-six, what do you really know when no one's ever given you a shred of their time save to determine that you're wearing the wrong expression or perhaps, for an eighth of a second, made unwarranted eyecontact?
My sole knowledge was that of an animal. I knew that if I was noticed, I was in trouble, and if I bared my teeth, I'd be in much deeper trouble. I knew when to cower, and I knew when I was hungry. I knew how to be afraid every second of my life, and the only thought I had, when I was too cold or not so worn out to sleep, was how to repay them all.
I thought of horrible ways how to kill them, how to prolong the agony, how to keep them alive so that they could beg me to let them die. Them, begging me for mercy. Anger was the only thing I had. That and despair. But I was too much of a coward at the time to do anything. I often thought about killing myself, but I always feared if I lived, they would torture me worse than ever.
And looking at my boy, I wonder how I could have ever fathered this beautiful wonderful child who stuns me with his intelligence and his insight. Would I have been like him had someone cared about me? Certainly, I would have been less ignorant if I had been taught, and more open to the world had anyone but taught me of trust, yet, even with the best treatment and the most support possible, I cannot imagine being anything as great as my child.
We all want something better for our children, pray that they turn out better than we did, succeed more, achieve more, be happy, healthy and proud of themselves. And I pray I've been a good father, have done the right things, loved him enough. In the end it is all just a craps-shoot, but I hope I've given him the ability to rise far above those that still hold a lingering disgust for me.
All this because I was illiterate.... imagine if I actually had something to say.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
The Country
Last post, I remarked about how much I liked NYC. Seems no one else shares that sentiment. Let me remind all of you little mortals, 900 years of nothing-but-country cures you pretty quickly, particularly when you're still under the impression that light is a fatal entity.
But prior to the 900 years in god-forsaken Alaska, I did live in the country. I don't have to tell you about Taberleigh. It's history. Find it in a textbook, not here. I lived on the outskirts. I usually lived on the outskirts of every town -- just far enough that they didn't come bothering me, just close enough that I could go get the supplies I couldn't provide for myself.
Everyone thinks that the DH business is a glam-fest with immortality thrown in as a bonus. They teach you to fight, wear leather, look like a nasty son-of-a-bitch and then give you wealth to do whatever the hell you want, just kill the daimons in exchange. Sounds like a bargain, right?
What Ash didn't tell me was that after he taught me to fight and manage with all those other inconveniences like fangs and sunlight deprivation, I was going to be tossed back out into the great wide world to fend for myself. And I had to learn or I was Shade-fucked. No squires for me. Even with my single-minded devotion to those who had done their part to make me whole (and I *was* devoted -- Ash had been the single-most important, respected, loved person in my life at that time) I still wasn't good enough to be given aid. And no amount of daimon-killing, offered-assistance or show of dedicated admiration was enough to prove that I was worthy of a goddamn assistant. Olympians are ever the elitists.
So, I grew my own vegetables and raised my own chickens and geese and managed my own small farm for years, centuries. It was thoroughly 'country.' A donkey for the cart, self-made furniture, a shed that I was constantly repairing -- they were the happiest years of my DH life. I did hard work -- we all did. But my limbs were straight and my back was strong, and I had both eyes to see with and both hands to use.
In the summers, when the nights were warm enough and the daimon-counts were low, I would swim in the pond, feeling the silt between my toes when I stood, feeling clean and happy, for I was happy in those days. And the first place I lived, in Gaul, had this great pond where everything around it was quiet, and no one lived within an hour's cart-ride of my shack. From there, you could see the whole sky reflected on the surface of the water, as if both sky and ground were composed of nothing but celestial bodies. I was just learning how to read and write and I remember wishing so earnestly that I could put it into words to share with someone else.
But that was a long time ago, when I still felt like an injured pup licking my wounds and before one of my greatest betrayers was still like a brother to me. Now that great little pond is probably dried up and turned into a shopping plaza.
But prior to the 900 years in god-forsaken Alaska, I did live in the country. I don't have to tell you about Taberleigh. It's history. Find it in a textbook, not here. I lived on the outskirts. I usually lived on the outskirts of every town -- just far enough that they didn't come bothering me, just close enough that I could go get the supplies I couldn't provide for myself.
Everyone thinks that the DH business is a glam-fest with immortality thrown in as a bonus. They teach you to fight, wear leather, look like a nasty son-of-a-bitch and then give you wealth to do whatever the hell you want, just kill the daimons in exchange. Sounds like a bargain, right?
What Ash didn't tell me was that after he taught me to fight and manage with all those other inconveniences like fangs and sunlight deprivation, I was going to be tossed back out into the great wide world to fend for myself. And I had to learn or I was Shade-fucked. No squires for me. Even with my single-minded devotion to those who had done their part to make me whole (and I *was* devoted -- Ash had been the single-most important, respected, loved person in my life at that time) I still wasn't good enough to be given aid. And no amount of daimon-killing, offered-assistance or show of dedicated admiration was enough to prove that I was worthy of a goddamn assistant. Olympians are ever the elitists.
So, I grew my own vegetables and raised my own chickens and geese and managed my own small farm for years, centuries. It was thoroughly 'country.' A donkey for the cart, self-made furniture, a shed that I was constantly repairing -- they were the happiest years of my DH life. I did hard work -- we all did. But my limbs were straight and my back was strong, and I had both eyes to see with and both hands to use.
In the summers, when the nights were warm enough and the daimon-counts were low, I would swim in the pond, feeling the silt between my toes when I stood, feeling clean and happy, for I was happy in those days. And the first place I lived, in Gaul, had this great pond where everything around it was quiet, and no one lived within an hour's cart-ride of my shack. From there, you could see the whole sky reflected on the surface of the water, as if both sky and ground were composed of nothing but celestial bodies. I was just learning how to read and write and I remember wishing so earnestly that I could put it into words to share with someone else.
But that was a long time ago, when I still felt like an injured pup licking my wounds and before one of my greatest betrayers was still like a brother to me. Now that great little pond is probably dried up and turned into a shopping plaza.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
That Time of Year
Yeah, I live on Mt. Olympus most of the time, but when I'm not, I'm usually to be found in NYC. I know I've mentioned it before. New Orleans is crawling with individuals I have no desire to play nice with. Besides, there are enough DHers and formers there to form their own militia. Not a place for me. Astrid likes it. I did like it, roaming around as a semi-free-man when I got my brief reprieve from exile. But NYC is my place now. I have my studio there, I've made connections. It's my city. And while I am not the first DHer (or former) to roam its streets, I do believe I am the first to actually make mention of it.
I spend enormous amounts of time outside. I like walking. I like being able to look in any direction at any time of day and be able to go, just go, and see others and see things I've never seen before, take a new street, go to a new museum, walk through a weekend craft fair stationed in a park. I still have my cell phone in case Astrid needs me, and often I take my son with me. But I have finally discovered freedom.
(Apparently, I only wait weeks to post because that's how often I'm philosophical. Figure that.)
I'm not so sure freedom is something I've been given. It feels too often like I've just been handed off from this person to that one over and over and over again, and finally ended up being transferred to Astrid with whom I am expecting to stay for the duration of my unnatural life. I love her with all my heart, but there is a reason marriage is often depicted as a ball-and-shackle.
No, freedom was never something someone handed to me (with their blessing or not). It's something I've had to make for myself, every step of the way. And I affirm it each day I go off and do something new, something I *want* to do, with every decision I make. Before, I used to think it was about taking responsibility for my own actions, but then I started taking responsibility for everyone else's and I learned that it wasn't about that. It was about being *able.* You know the phrase that Ash stole (Just because you can, etc)? Sometimes you have to, just to know you *can.* I've lived such a powerless life for so long, I'm not about to sit passively and watch everyone else have say over me. Not anymore.
So freedom, in NYC. It's a beautiful thing. The leaves are turning again. With all the time I have on my hands now, sometimes I sit in the park and just watch. And though it is very likely my imagination, sometimes I think I can actually see the leaves turning their fall colours. I keep my notebook and my watercolour pencils on hand just for such occasions. And it's not just here in NYC.
I stopped by my sort-of-squire's place earlier today. His area is pretty rural compared to the city and he directed me to a few places that were worthy of a couple of sketches. He also invited us over to a party at his place tonight, but I don't think I could stomach the other people he's inviting. It's bad enough I have to deal with Astrid's family. I really don't want to deal with his.
Not sure what the deal is with tonight. I'm going as an artist (easy, no need for anything -- just wear what I have that's already paint-stained and clay-caked) and the babe decided he wanted to be a ... get this.... a sculpture (which is why I'm going as an artist). I'm not sure where he got the idea, but probably from my studio and seeing the things I did. Astrid said she was going as Galatea to fit in with the theme of 'sculpture.' I guess that makes me Pygmalion.
~Z
I spend enormous amounts of time outside. I like walking. I like being able to look in any direction at any time of day and be able to go, just go, and see others and see things I've never seen before, take a new street, go to a new museum, walk through a weekend craft fair stationed in a park. I still have my cell phone in case Astrid needs me, and often I take my son with me. But I have finally discovered freedom.
(Apparently, I only wait weeks to post because that's how often I'm philosophical. Figure that.)
I'm not so sure freedom is something I've been given. It feels too often like I've just been handed off from this person to that one over and over and over again, and finally ended up being transferred to Astrid with whom I am expecting to stay for the duration of my unnatural life. I love her with all my heart, but there is a reason marriage is often depicted as a ball-and-shackle.
No, freedom was never something someone handed to me (with their blessing or not). It's something I've had to make for myself, every step of the way. And I affirm it each day I go off and do something new, something I *want* to do, with every decision I make. Before, I used to think it was about taking responsibility for my own actions, but then I started taking responsibility for everyone else's and I learned that it wasn't about that. It was about being *able.* You know the phrase that Ash stole (Just because you can, etc)? Sometimes you have to, just to know you *can.* I've lived such a powerless life for so long, I'm not about to sit passively and watch everyone else have say over me. Not anymore.
So freedom, in NYC. It's a beautiful thing. The leaves are turning again. With all the time I have on my hands now, sometimes I sit in the park and just watch. And though it is very likely my imagination, sometimes I think I can actually see the leaves turning their fall colours. I keep my notebook and my watercolour pencils on hand just for such occasions. And it's not just here in NYC.
I stopped by my sort-of-squire's place earlier today. His area is pretty rural compared to the city and he directed me to a few places that were worthy of a couple of sketches. He also invited us over to a party at his place tonight, but I don't think I could stomach the other people he's inviting. It's bad enough I have to deal with Astrid's family. I really don't want to deal with his.
Not sure what the deal is with tonight. I'm going as an artist (easy, no need for anything -- just wear what I have that's already paint-stained and clay-caked) and the babe decided he wanted to be a ... get this.... a sculpture (which is why I'm going as an artist). I'm not sure where he got the idea, but probably from my studio and seeing the things I did. Astrid said she was going as Galatea to fit in with the theme of 'sculpture.' I guess that makes me Pygmalion.
~Z
Monday, October 1, 2007
Being Complete
Many of you are going to say 'Z, this gentle introspection has got to stop -- it's not like you." Well to those of you out there, fuck off. My journal, my thoughts, my goddamn business what I put on here.
So, during my shower today, a nice shower, where the nozzle is above my head and I don't have to bend over -- oh the comforts most of you screw-ups take for granted -- and I am able to relax for a brief moment, let down my guard and just let thoughts come and go while I groom myself and otherwise take care of myself, I came to a brief unoriginal revelation.
I am a Complete Being.
I am Complete. This doesn't mean that I am an island and desire to be left on my own, though often it seems that way. I can take care of myself. I do not need anyone. But this was more than that.
So many people say to someone that they love, "you complete me." I love Astrid, with all my heart. And I love my son, with all my heart. But they do not Complete me. I am who I am. From the moment I came into this miserable world to the moment I leave, if ever, this is all I am. And it doesn't matter who I am, or what I am.
I wasn't even sure why or how I thought this, so I went to the studio to see if I could represent it. And I took clay and made a flat triangle, wondering if it could represent anyone out there in the world, flat and only three sided. And then I made it a square -- still flat, but with a tiny more complexity, and then, deciding that even the flattest personality was a little more three dimensional, I made a pyramid with four faces and the bottom side -- far more representative of a human.
If you progress it, as I did, you'll get a square and then many other shapes with many other faces. True Completeness is a sphere. Ever see twelve-sided dice? It is nearly spherical. And it has more complexity and aspects to it than the earlier forms. It is no wonder that the celestial bodies are spherical.
I see myself as a sphere. I am not polished and not pretty, and as far from the perfection of the shape as possible, but there are so many sides to me that they blend in with the others and become an unending spectrum. And there are the inside parts that are there though hidden and do not get expressed. But they are there, nonetheless.
Everything in me, about me, everything I feel, everything I know, all that I do, and all else that makes up this personage we call 'Zarek' makes me Complete. There isn't anything missing. There isn't anything out there in the world that can make me anymore Me. It's all here.
And it is a very peaceful thought.
So, during my shower today, a nice shower, where the nozzle is above my head and I don't have to bend over -- oh the comforts most of you screw-ups take for granted -- and I am able to relax for a brief moment, let down my guard and just let thoughts come and go while I groom myself and otherwise take care of myself, I came to a brief unoriginal revelation.
I am a Complete Being.
I am Complete. This doesn't mean that I am an island and desire to be left on my own, though often it seems that way. I can take care of myself. I do not need anyone. But this was more than that.
So many people say to someone that they love, "you complete me." I love Astrid, with all my heart. And I love my son, with all my heart. But they do not Complete me. I am who I am. From the moment I came into this miserable world to the moment I leave, if ever, this is all I am. And it doesn't matter who I am, or what I am.
I wasn't even sure why or how I thought this, so I went to the studio to see if I could represent it. And I took clay and made a flat triangle, wondering if it could represent anyone out there in the world, flat and only three sided. And then I made it a square -- still flat, but with a tiny more complexity, and then, deciding that even the flattest personality was a little more three dimensional, I made a pyramid with four faces and the bottom side -- far more representative of a human.
If you progress it, as I did, you'll get a square and then many other shapes with many other faces. True Completeness is a sphere. Ever see twelve-sided dice? It is nearly spherical. And it has more complexity and aspects to it than the earlier forms. It is no wonder that the celestial bodies are spherical.
I see myself as a sphere. I am not polished and not pretty, and as far from the perfection of the shape as possible, but there are so many sides to me that they blend in with the others and become an unending spectrum. And there are the inside parts that are there though hidden and do not get expressed. But they are there, nonetheless.
Everything in me, about me, everything I feel, everything I know, all that I do, and all else that makes up this personage we call 'Zarek' makes me Complete. There isn't anything missing. There isn't anything out there in the world that can make me anymore Me. It's all here.
And it is a very peaceful thought.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)