The Myth of Me

"A myth is a way of making sense in a senseless world. Myths are narrative patterns that give significance to our existence. Whether the meaning of existence is only what we put into life by our own individual fortitude, as Sartre would hold, or whether there is a meaning we need to discover, as Kierkegaard would state, the result is the same: myths are our way of finding this meaning and significance."
~ Rollo May, 1991, The Cry for Myth, p. 15

when i was little i believed that i was the center of my parent's world, that what they did was done with me in mind. i believed that i was the most important thing to them, that my concerns were as valid as theirs, that my opinion held the same weight. this was a myth, for my parents, like most people, were complex individuals with complex lives and a variety of concerns; i was merely one of them and not always the most important one, not even most of the time.

when i was a teenager i believed that i could change the world. i believe that i could do good things and that this would inspire other people to do good things. i believed that people were not selfish, but merely ignorant. i believed that if they knew what was happening, they would act to change it, and i could lead them in this grand revolution. this was a myth. it was i who was ignorant, it was i who did not understand. it turns out people really are selfish; it turns out i am too.

when i was in college i believed that what was good would stay good, and what was bad would stay bad i believed that i knew the difference. i believed in absolutes. this was a myth. it turns out that good and bad often come as a package deal, just like love and pain. it turns out that some things, many things, are ambiguous. how much easier a black and white world is!

i have this fantasy of being remembered, that my children's children will speak of me, and tell their children about what i have done. but this is a myth. i do not remember my great-grandfather's name, nor do i know what he did or what he was like and i certainly know nothing of his hopes and dreams and if any of these were achieved. chances are it will be the same for me.

so what is the truth? it is this: "I expect to pass through this world but once. Any good thing, therefore, that I can do or any kindness I can show to any fellow human being let me do it now. Let me not defer nor neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again."
- Stephen Grellet, 1773-1855 (French-born Quaker Minister)

Confessions

so i just got done walking with my daughter to the gas station so we could buy junk food. we walked down the road, holding hands, and talking about whatever came our way, which included bugs, string cheese, wind, and carmel pop corn. oh, and spinny dresses. it was fun. she's cute. and smart. that brings me to confession #1: i like my kid better than yours. don't take it personally, i imagine you like your kids better than mine (though for some of you i can't imagine how), but you probably would never admit it. yeah, i think my kid is the best. she deserves someone who thinks she's the best.

tomorrow i will go to work way too early, well before my shift actually starts so i can be a diligent and good employee. and once again someone will say "what are you doing here?" AS IF I DON'T F'ING DO THIS ON A REGULAR BASIS! and someone will say "i don't know why you do this." well, i'm beginning to wonder myself. the second confession is this: if it still continues to not matter that i work hard at my job then i will stop working hard. that will probably matter a lot more.

do you think i'm friendly? most people do. but the thing is, you are probably not my friend. not that i don't want to be friends with, quite the opposite, actually. i'm just introverted to a fault. i lost my last friend some time ago. i don't really know how it happened; but one day my friend was gone. that was the third confession.

i think my life has grown stale. my job, my school (or lack thereof), the pathetic lack of anything interesting that i do--i am so bored. confession #4 is that life is boring, and i don't know what to do about it.

the fifth confession is the last confession, because i am bored of writing this and i think that it was probably a stupid thing to write anyway. it is simply this: i am searching endlessly for the cathartic experience. i was hoping this was it. it wasn't.

Just Writing

so here i am, trying to figure out where i am and how i got here. as a general rule writing helps me figure that sort of thing out, but it doesn't seem to be helping now. in fact, depending on how you look at it, it has taken me at least an hour to make it this far on this post, and at most multiple months. i think i shall just write, and see where i end up.

i find in myself an often inconsolable grief. too dramatic for you perhaps? well, not for me. for me it is painfully accurate. but here's the really interesting thing i am discovering as i process this: i don't so much have grief over an event or situation (though there is that) as i do over the fact that nobody seems to care, as well as the fact that i care less and less.

i hope this gets better some day. and then that's the key right there, isn't it? hope. i still have a little; precious little.

Phoenix Photos

Hurts So Good

The other day I went with my dad out to a piece of property that he owns, 4 acres of trees and brambles. We walked around it, hacking our way through the brush, him telling me stories about when he did this there or that here. He imparted some wisdom to me, and we had a good time. I was sore afterwords, as he probably was, and a little bit bloody from blackberry attacks, but it was good. This is a rare thing in our relationship. Tomorrow I am going to go out there again and hack away for a little bit, and I know, strange as it is, that in the land I will feel closer to my dad. I know that on Sunday I am going to be so sore that I probably won't want to move, but I will appreaciate every ache.

My dad and I have a tenuous relationship. We don't always get along, but when we do I genuinely have a good time with him and I genuinely feel a kinship, in the truest sense of the word. But the thing is, we have to work so hard to get to that spot. While I wish it weren't that way, I am beginning to accept it for what it is. Growth comes through suffering, this is one of the most valuable lessons I have ever learned; it never comes easy. So too I think is the truth that the really good stuff always hurts at first, or maybe just at some point. Nothing worth having comes easy, cliche but true.

I suppose I didn't really have much to say, I just felt like letting some if this out.

Still Around

It's been just over 5 months since I've been here; I was afraidI forgot the password. It's easy to let things like this slide when there are so many other things happening. I plan on writing, and then something happens and I think that waiting one more day won't matter, and one more day turns into a week which turns into a month which turns into a, well, at least I'm sure that I didn't leave a gaping hole in anyone's life other than mine.

Things are changing.....

Some things have gotten bad, so bad, so very bad. Some things are getting better, but it's happening so slowly. And some things just aren't moving at all.

It's time to reconcile some things, it's time to end others. I'm so unsure, but I am becoming more sure with every word I write (well, type).

Things are going to change, I can't stop it......

I hope this works.

Wicked Little Things

Yesterday I took my daughter to the little playground and the Clackamas Town Center mall. This has become somewhat of a tradition for us, as I don’t work Monday’s but Jenny almost always does. It is Daddy-Daughter Day, and so we look for fun things to do together. Often that means French fries and the aforementioned play structures.

Now, for someone looking to study the behaviors of parents and/or their children, the play structure at the mall (hence forth referred to has “the toys”) make an excellent learning environment. There are so many fascinating behaviors to be observed, speeches to be heard, and so on, but it is two things in particular that spur me to blogging this day, and they are two opposite extremes.

The first is the very small children. Specifically, the very small children that are allowed to wander about virtually (and sometimes literally) unattended by parents, who for some reason think these big toys provide some sort of magical protections against injuries and evils. A few weeks ago when we were there and I was waiting for my daughter to slide down the slide there was a little girl who was a bit overzealous in her climbing and took a bit of a tumble. Other than the slight violation of social moirés that took place when I caught her, I don’t mind helping out like that; I mean, were all parents with toddlers, right? One big, happy family? What I do mind is when I have to actively intervene to protect a child that somebody else should have been watching in the first place. I am not a busybody parent, I don’t make it my business to police the toys and in fact I try my best to stay out of whatever it is someone else’s kid is doing, so you know if I am intervening than things have come to a head. So, having said that, please parents, do not let your 6 month old sit at the bottom of the slide and get run into by child after child coming down it. Please don’t make me move my daughter, who is going about it the right way, so she won’t injure your kid, who is not. THAT REALLY IRRITATES ME.

On the other end of the really little kids are the really big ones. The worst violation of this I ever saw was a child and his friend who were somewhere between the ages of 10 and 12. Generally though this applies to the kids are about 4 or 5, still young enough to play on the toys, and darn well old enough to know how to play nicely. Listen, every kid is naughty sometimes. My daughter sometimes has to work very hard to repress her urge to hit, and sometimes she needs my help to do so. So I will not judge you if I see you stopping your sweet little boy from pushing and then pinching my kid; I will be grateful! I will be somewhat more judgmental as I watch your kid beat the snot out of other little kids and shout about how the slide is his personal property all while you remains blissfully absorbed in your book or on your cell phone. My daughter, who is not yet two, made her way up the stairs to the slide a happy little girl, and by the time I made it around the other side to cheer her on she was in tears as some older boy was pushing her out of the way. She actually isn’t that big of a crier, this kid was making some sort of point, I think. We got through that, and to her credit she responded by reminding another group of kids not to push when the really little kid, who I mentioned earlier, decided to try his luck with the slide. That was much better than my reaction. Right after she was pushed several times I told her that next time she could punch him in the face. I should work on that, probably.

Moral of the story: parent your child, don’t make me do it, because I am not nearly as good with your kid as I am with mine.