Or Not.

Suddenly everything has changed. Still trying to figure out how it fits into my "narrative," as Nabil would call it. I'm afraid of telling stories without knowing their context. More later.

M.

When I die the obituary will read, "done in by being too damn perfect." Not boasting. That's what she said. I was too kind, too understanding, too sympathetic. Zero to being someone's primary emotional pillar in under 4 months. And if we were together, and it went awry, then to where could she turn? I can't argue with such reasoning. I'm responsible, after all. That's what I do, that's how I am.

I thought getting drunk might ease my mood--it didn't. Instead all I can think of is how much, without admitting it to myself, I had looked forward to being alone no longer. Now, I suppose, I must suffer a little more. But really, did I have a choice of what to say, morally? I make so many decisions based on the assumption that I am invincible and can recover from anything--this is, perhaps, not right.

Self-annihilation has become a moral imperative. What I hope for is to hope no more. What I long for is to long no more. It's all kind of hard to sort out right now.

Run Run Run Run Run

Since it appears I have reached a total emotional impasse, I will now proceed to write only in song lyrics:

This is a crisis I knew had to come, destroying the balance I've kept. (Joy Division)

Why is everything so locked up? (The Notwist)

Five minutes with you, I wouldn't know what to do. (The Honeydrips)

But then a strange fear gripped me and I just couldn't ask. (The Smiths)

And finally,

There is something wrong with me. (Wilco)

This Isn't All I See

Some time before 9 o'clock Thursday morning, the Second Thing called. She said she had been stuck in bed for two weeks after a foot surgery and was sorry she didn't call, and did I want to get brunch or something on Sunday? Half-awake and bemused, I ignored the facts that 1. having a broken foot didn't preclude returning someone's calls and 2. two weeks only account for half the time since we last spoke, and said sure. That was the last I heard from her. Lord. And I thought the people I knew in school were flaky. I was pretty upset the last time this happened, but this time I think I'll just return to my limited business and wait for the next unsolicited phone call to nowhere.

About the bad news from home I mentioned: my third uncle on my father's side, who used to be a Lutheran minister, had liver cancer a couple years ago, which went into remission. Recently it resurfaced in his lymph nodes. Metastasis. A doctor friend of my mother's predicts 3-6 months. I probably won't be able to travel home in that time, if it comes down to that, and I can't even remember what we did or what we talked about the last time I saw him, which was probably over a year ago. Should I have thought then about death? Should I have been thinking about death for the past year, day, hour, minute, every minute? He is the only relative on my father's side of the family that I was ever really close to. Perhaps I didn't wholly relate to him, being decidedly nonreligious, but he is one of the most empathetic people I have known.

This familial history of liver cancer is not looking good. Malady of stoics, or so my mother tells me. And stoicism seems to be in part of the heritage. Contemplating getting a tattoo of the initials and dates deceased of my father, his younger brother, and anyone else on the back of my right hand so I would have to look at it every time I took a drink. I am only half joking.

In lesser news, I played another gig this weekend. A band called Scary River drafted me through Miguel to play bass at their show at the Copycat Annex ("JHU biophysicist infiltrates Wham City" should've been the headline) last Saturday. I had two days to learn the songs, which wasn't too hard, as I wrote out a cheat sheet of the chord progressions. It was an alright show, loud and sweaty and rather spastic, appropriately for the venue. They seem to think I'm their permanent bassist now, and I don't know how I feel about that. I thought they only needed a last-minute save, but it turned out they never had a bassist and were hoping to recruit one full-time. Every time this past weekend someone said "it sounds so much better with the bass" I cringed.

Several reasons against: because I have other things in life besides music (it's true, sometimes) and can't keep up with people who don't. Because compared to my electronic stuff, where I can tweak every last sound and transition, writing basslines for other people's songs is not expressive at all. Because sharing creative effort with others is intimidating, for now. And finally: because getting sweaty and disgusting from hauling gear and playing in stage lights sucks. Because playing loudly to balance with the drums and having all the tones melt into undifferentiated sheet-metal rattle sucks. Sure, running around onstage, screaming lyrics mic-less, and "rocking out," whatever that is, are fun, but I feel like I got enough of that during the brief Trafalgar days and it no longer compensates for the effort required. Age 22 and already too old for rock and roll, this is what I have become.

I'm headed full-speed for some awkward situations and difficult conversations. What else is new. It seems that has been the theme of this past summer: wandering into groups of people I don't relate to and getting stuck in weird ways. Can't just hang anymore, though. Need to untangle these things, or something like that. Need to make up my mind about what I want, from the world, from people, from myself, because during the past few months not knowing this has repeatedly proven to be a problem in so many important ways.

The quiet season must come to an end.

Tryin' to Catch Me Ridin' Fixie

The problem with owning a nice bike, much like a nice anything, is people are more likely to tell me how cool my bike is than how cool I am. I like to remain more clever than the instruments I use. People should not be defined by what they acquire or what they own, but entirely by what they create and what they do. Besides, we cry objectification when we become more valued for our, shall I say, natural assets than for our characters--how is the situation any different with purchased assets? Except in the latter case, we spend money to invite more of it.

I did flip my rear wheel to the fixed cog after all to control the wheel better, in light of my rainy wipeout. So far it's not very different from riding freewheel. Keeping up with the pedals isn't hard. Don't believe the hype that says riding fixed gear is somehow a lifestyle change.

Recently I have started to realize the relationships between me and some people I've known for a long time have really changed. I wonder how long it will be before they say to me, You were cool when I met you. To which I would probably reply, I feel the exact same way about you. Funny it would come to this, but I chose my part and I suppose I must play it for what it's worth.

Bad news from home. Still contemplating it, don't feel like writing about it until I'm done.

More after the revelation. I'll probably remain cryptic until then.

But Don't Hate Her When She Gets Up To Leave

Sarah T. leaves for Cincinnati on Saturday. Tonight I met her at Rocket to Venus a few blocks from my house for one last hurrah. Funny thing to do--I barely even knew her back in February. Things change fast, when they want to, and I've always had a knack for last minute twists. Or so it seems.

Said a few important things which I had been wanting to express for a very long time. But not everything, and the most important thing of all went unsaid--of course, of course. I wasn't even sure it was worth saying. If only we had more time. I feel like we could've understood each other better--through formalist poetry and common older-sibling self-criticism, if nothing else--but at this point, I suppose I should be grateful for the conversations that we did have. I didn't even know her, this time last year. I blame collegiate social divides. I blame, I blame, I blame everything but myself. Who am I kidding. I only ever blame myself.

Just so happened the past few months have been one of the most disearnest phases of my increasingly disearnest life. Not dishonest, disearnest. Not that you who read about it here would know the difference. I could sit here and think about all the things I might've missed by not speaking or believing my mind, but it's much easier to crank In the Aeroplane Over the Sea and drift.

Maybe I'll wake up in the morning with a different point of view. We talked about how she had a certain knack for knowing which people were going to teach her something useful in life; maybe I met her so that I could learn from the experience. At least it would've been good for something.

To you who are reading this: why are you still here? I know half of you are probably here because you want to make sure I haven't gone crazy. The other half of you--well, I can't fathom what's so interesting about a 22-year-old recluse and his semi-extant social interactions. Maybe you should check back when I have something going.