Free Association
My second eldest brother, the one the ex-boyfriend always reminded me of, once said: You talk in riddles.
A Wee Comrade: [at the tender age of 8] Everything is connected.
On
Off
On
(yet tentative)
Off
[blows out pilot light, gently shuts door behind her]
The Applier once commented on the single break-up attempt between Ack, the ex-husband/best friend, and his short-term if-you-close-your-eyesTeletubbie-sounding girlfriend of some months.
Ack: How many times does it normally take?
The Applier: My last one required three. Expect further contact.
He was right. I suppose it does take a while, considering the equation (2 people + time) x investment to the power of this day and age. And after the first break-up attempt, one occasionally runs into an old friend, say, who happens to know both parties and says something like:
Old Friend: So, you're all ready to move on then?
The Comrade: [with as much pride as the ship's commander, ten minutes into the Titanic sinking] Yep.
Old Friend: Ready to have sex with other people?
The Comrade: EW!
Old Friend: Okay, okay. But, are you ready for him to have sex with other people?
The Comrade: What?! No!
Old Friend: Everyone looks for comfort.
The Comrade: God.
Old Friend: Would you like to borrow my phone?
So, we made another stab at it. By stab I mean we didn't talk about the things that were really the problem. Glowing by fetching tea lights, we illuminated only the bits that had held our tenuous union together. The rest we just avoided. Put up the green screen. We'll finish it in post. Until I, at least, couldn't avoid any longer.
I tend only to see epics on the big screen. The last one was remember, remember the fifth of November... the gunpowder, treason and plot... my most cherished graphic novel, updated and brought gloriously to the silver screen. Regardless of endless script changes or fetal celluloid curled on cutting room floors, there are desperate times that I seek extra significance. Meaning. 9 times out of 10, this being no exception, I go to see movies alone. I went to see The Break-Up. Watching the movie was, well, just like being a non-invasive third party viewer into my own relationship. It was gut-wretchingly accurate replete with no Hollywood ending. I have no idea what I was thinking, as it didn't give me the answer I was looking for.
Bugg? Tom? You were right. I was trying to aid and abet it
By sadly trying to mash it into something it was never meant to be.
My wonderful friend Ryan brought this to my attention:
I make associations
Not riddles, as my brother accused.
I like to think of them more as connections.
New Friend Lisa: [on the topic of an affliction her ex-boyfriend once suffered] He had a floating testicle.
The Comrade: That doesn't sound so bad. It sounds sort of freeing.
It's anything but freeing, as I learned. A floating testicle is connected to the body by a tube and blood vessels but, because it's not in a fixed spot, as normal testicles are, the connectors can severely twist into a torsion state. If immediate medical attention is not sought, family jewels will be robbed.
The Comrade: So, is it kind of like a bunched up telephone cord where you have to let the receiver drop every now and then just to get the twists out?
New Friend Lisa: Exactly.
I imagined an ornately drawn Monty Python hand of God reaching from the sky to pluck this young man by the chode. With legs splayed, he spins slowly, then like a dervish, until his scrotum is straightened and stretched like salt water taffy. Relief eventually reaches his (also) twisted face.
I make associations because it makes me see myself more clearly; it shows how everything and everyone is interconnected; it's the universal translator; and it gives life meaning. I haven't felt myself lately. I've been feeling angry, hurt, useless. More than anything else, I've felt disappointment of late. My friend Andrew, a co-worker at my place of employ, at the Cheer's equivalent bar, had something to say about it.
The Comrade: They're breaking my heart.
Andrew: The sooner you realise that people are shit, the better off you'll be. I used to be like you; I believed in them too, but all they do is disappoint.
The Comrade: So, what do you do?
Andrew: I expect nothing of them. Actually, that's not true. I expect them to be absolute dickheads and when they're not, if they're nice, then I'm pleasantly surprised.
The Comrade: Sigh.
At least once a week, someone would say to me, I've never told anyone this before, but... I would hear incredible tales. And I would feel lucky. They would choose me because I told them intimate stories about my own life and I listened with generosity. I have an empath's soul because I remember where I've come from. I can trace my snail's slime back to its source. Each time there's an interaction, wisdom is simultaneously drawn upon and gained. No one's told me something they hadn't told anyone before for a very long time. Why? Because I've hated more than I've loved lately. And what I've learned this year is not to trust. So, why would anyone tell the enemy anything truly dear to them?
My new friend Lisa, the girl who once saved her ex-boyfriend's sack, not that anyone noticed, is a singer/songwriter who is also a private music teacher to lucky children between the ages of 5 and 17. I say lucky because they get to choose their course of musical study. Standard, outmoded curriculum hasn't chosen it for them. They learn how to sing and play an instrument at the same time, something I wish I could do. I'm still working on rubbing the belly and tapping the head to 2/4 time. As they progress, they learn to create their own compositions. Lisa encourages them to craft music around pieces they create in creative writing classes. Things that matter. A couple of weeks ago, I got to hear some original pieces at their end of year recital. Fervent codas reiterated why that guy didn't look her way, or who to cast blame for Mom's cancer. At the most awkward time of their lives, these kids performed with deft ease in intimacy and confidence. That's the greatest tool Lisa teaches. I secretly promised to seek her out as a future guide to my unborn child. How different a child could turn out if only she was given the freedom to realise her faculties. I didn't have private tutoring. I did, most gratefully, perform music throughout my youth, though. I was lucky enough, fuck that, I was one of the last students who took advantage of her educational right to study music. A right that has been ripped away from the poor kids today. The one thing that gave me a modicum of self-confidence. It's probably the one explanation of why I feel more comfortable walking across the stage of a packed theatre than singularly meandering down a fluorescent lit, antiseptic corridor to anywhere.
It wasn't until I started writing that I paid attention to lyrics. Words didn't penetrate until at least the 5th rotation. Anyway, music was the salve I sought, not cheap words. Music was the thing that jettisoned or plummeted me. Lyrics were heard more like another layer of sound rather than anything with meaning
and I ran, I ran so far away...
I couldn't get away
... maybe.
This is my new favourite song by my new favourite band.
I am a waterfall waiting inside a well.
I am that wrecking ball before the building fell.
I have not been using my powers for good.
Someone just whispered that tomorrow is another day.
A Wee Comrade: [at the tender age of 8] Everything is connected.
On
Off
On
(yet tentative)
Off
[blows out pilot light, gently shuts door behind her]
The Applier once commented on the single break-up attempt between Ack, the ex-husband/best friend, and his short-term if-you-close-your-eyesTeletubbie-sounding girlfriend of some months.
Ack: How many times does it normally take?
The Applier: My last one required three. Expect further contact.
He was right. I suppose it does take a while, considering the equation (2 people + time) x investment to the power of this day and age. And after the first break-up attempt, one occasionally runs into an old friend, say, who happens to know both parties and says something like:
Old Friend: So, you're all ready to move on then?
The Comrade: [with as much pride as the ship's commander, ten minutes into the Titanic sinking] Yep.
Old Friend: Ready to have sex with other people?
The Comrade: EW!
Old Friend: Okay, okay. But, are you ready for him to have sex with other people?
The Comrade: What?! No!
Old Friend: Everyone looks for comfort.
The Comrade: God.
Old Friend: Would you like to borrow my phone?
So, we made another stab at it. By stab I mean we didn't talk about the things that were really the problem. Glowing by fetching tea lights, we illuminated only the bits that had held our tenuous union together. The rest we just avoided. Put up the green screen. We'll finish it in post. Until I, at least, couldn't avoid any longer.
I tend only to see epics on the big screen. The last one was remember, remember the fifth of November... the gunpowder, treason and plot... my most cherished graphic novel, updated and brought gloriously to the silver screen. Regardless of endless script changes or fetal celluloid curled on cutting room floors, there are desperate times that I seek extra significance. Meaning. 9 times out of 10, this being no exception, I go to see movies alone. I went to see The Break-Up. Watching the movie was, well, just like being a non-invasive third party viewer into my own relationship. It was gut-wretchingly accurate replete with no Hollywood ending. I have no idea what I was thinking, as it didn't give me the answer I was looking for.
Bugg? Tom? You were right. I was trying to aid and abet it
By sadly trying to mash it into something it was never meant to be.
My wonderful friend Ryan brought this to my attention:
I make associations
Not riddles, as my brother accused.
I like to think of them more as connections.
New Friend Lisa: [on the topic of an affliction her ex-boyfriend once suffered] He had a floating testicle.
The Comrade: That doesn't sound so bad. It sounds sort of freeing.
It's anything but freeing, as I learned. A floating testicle is connected to the body by a tube and blood vessels but, because it's not in a fixed spot, as normal testicles are, the connectors can severely twist into a torsion state. If immediate medical attention is not sought, family jewels will be robbed.
The Comrade: So, is it kind of like a bunched up telephone cord where you have to let the receiver drop every now and then just to get the twists out?
New Friend Lisa: Exactly.
I imagined an ornately drawn Monty Python hand of God reaching from the sky to pluck this young man by the chode. With legs splayed, he spins slowly, then like a dervish, until his scrotum is straightened and stretched like salt water taffy. Relief eventually reaches his (also) twisted face.
I make associations because it makes me see myself more clearly; it shows how everything and everyone is interconnected; it's the universal translator; and it gives life meaning. I haven't felt myself lately. I've been feeling angry, hurt, useless. More than anything else, I've felt disappointment of late. My friend Andrew, a co-worker at my place of employ, at the Cheer's equivalent bar, had something to say about it.
The Comrade: They're breaking my heart.
Andrew: The sooner you realise that people are shit, the better off you'll be. I used to be like you; I believed in them too, but all they do is disappoint.
The Comrade: So, what do you do?
Andrew: I expect nothing of them. Actually, that's not true. I expect them to be absolute dickheads and when they're not, if they're nice, then I'm pleasantly surprised.
The Comrade: Sigh.
At least once a week, someone would say to me, I've never told anyone this before, but... I would hear incredible tales. And I would feel lucky. They would choose me because I told them intimate stories about my own life and I listened with generosity. I have an empath's soul because I remember where I've come from. I can trace my snail's slime back to its source. Each time there's an interaction, wisdom is simultaneously drawn upon and gained. No one's told me something they hadn't told anyone before for a very long time. Why? Because I've hated more than I've loved lately. And what I've learned this year is not to trust. So, why would anyone tell the enemy anything truly dear to them?
My new friend Lisa, the girl who once saved her ex-boyfriend's sack, not that anyone noticed, is a singer/songwriter who is also a private music teacher to lucky children between the ages of 5 and 17. I say lucky because they get to choose their course of musical study. Standard, outmoded curriculum hasn't chosen it for them. They learn how to sing and play an instrument at the same time, something I wish I could do. I'm still working on rubbing the belly and tapping the head to 2/4 time. As they progress, they learn to create their own compositions. Lisa encourages them to craft music around pieces they create in creative writing classes. Things that matter. A couple of weeks ago, I got to hear some original pieces at their end of year recital. Fervent codas reiterated why that guy didn't look her way, or who to cast blame for Mom's cancer. At the most awkward time of their lives, these kids performed with deft ease in intimacy and confidence. That's the greatest tool Lisa teaches. I secretly promised to seek her out as a future guide to my unborn child. How different a child could turn out if only she was given the freedom to realise her faculties. I didn't have private tutoring. I did, most gratefully, perform music throughout my youth, though. I was lucky enough, fuck that, I was one of the last students who took advantage of her educational right to study music. A right that has been ripped away from the poor kids today. The one thing that gave me a modicum of self-confidence. It's probably the one explanation of why I feel more comfortable walking across the stage of a packed theatre than singularly meandering down a fluorescent lit, antiseptic corridor to anywhere.
It wasn't until I started writing that I paid attention to lyrics. Words didn't penetrate until at least the 5th rotation. Anyway, music was the salve I sought, not cheap words. Music was the thing that jettisoned or plummeted me. Lyrics were heard more like another layer of sound rather than anything with meaning
and I ran, I ran so far away...
I couldn't get away
... maybe.
This is my new favourite song by my new favourite band.
I am a waterfall waiting inside a well.
I am that wrecking ball before the building fell.
I have not been using my powers for good.
Someone just whispered that tomorrow is another day.
posted by Comrade Chicken at
1:13 p.m.
1 Comments:
believe in other people,
because believing in people is believing in yourself.
you would never stop believing anyway. you are a believer, and it is why you are my friend.
sorry, though... it's supposed to hurt.
that's what your heart is for.
you can use the hurt for good when you come out the other side. there is always another side.
all we have is hope and each other. giving up on one is giving up on the other.
i hope for you that today presents you a thread, a pretty one, or a cool one, or an interesting one, a thread that you can use to pull yourself into tomorrow.
By
FC, at 10:13 a.m.
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