within the never-was

apprehensive solace

“apprehensive solace”, a derivative of “Turbulent Saffron”. © 2005, 2013 Jered Dawnne

there is an in-between
a somnambulant impatience
devoid of punctuation
awaiting a certain madness
but never quite arrived

i dwell within this space
intimately aware that i
am intimately unaware
awaiting that certain madness
that is the memory
of the never-was
and all i ever wish to know
is the sum of we ourselves

i remember your face
though my eyes were never
touched by your light
i breathe your scent
though my senses have
never conversed with yours
but i recall your voice
a voice that haunts me still
in the spaces between
the waiting and the madness
and the all that never was

there is an in-between
a somnambulant impatience
devoid of actuation
enwrapped in certain madness
but decidedly arrived

2014.01.28 © 2014 Jered Dawnne

the fundamental wrongness of honesty

i made a mistake yesterday, well, every time i post: i’m honest about what i’m going through and how i feel.

i know i made a mistake because i got the usual “i’m worried about you” email from my old high-school friend, and later on, the “i’m worried about you” text from another friend. i responded to one of them because text was more convenient.

you see, a person is not allowed to be honest in what they post. if you’re feeling all blue sky and rainbows and you post that, you get the “what the hell drugs are you taking?” questions from your friends. and if you’re feeling a bit down and resigned to your fate and you post that, you get the “cheer up, buttercup” kind of thing…at best.

no, what you post must somehow feel “real”, but it must also be spiritually uplifting to your audience. if you’re feeling good, you have to talk about how you’ve “found your center”, or are “walking right with god”, or some such. or if you’re not running at 100%, you’ve got to let people know that you’re “at peace with god’s plan for you”, or that you’re “excited for things to come”, or whatever they can use as catalyst for digging out of their own funk.

never mind that it’s all crap, that’s just what you’ve got to do. don’t create any waves. don’t rock any boats. don’t cause people to rethink the perilously finite stability in which they currently happen to exist.

the funny thing is, i would be so much better right now if i didn’t have to spend so much time making other people feel better about how fucked up my life is right now. but, people aren’t going to help me if i don’t help them first. i’m probably one of the few people they know who can be totally miserable but talk about it calmly, objectively, informatively, and non-suicidally. but nobody wants to do that; they just want to be made happy by whatever it is they read.

funny how that works, because i’d better damn well be there for them when they hit the bottom and unload on me, or then i’m REALLY wrong.

My monodirectional life is killing me

Yesterday was a sleeping day: not at all a normal thing for me. I developed a fever for some reason after working the previous day at an indoor tourney in Brookings, which incidentally led to me purging myself of all the pain meds I’ve been on for the retreated root canal and the hand injury. It was a “detox” day, if you will. And, since the highly incurious eldest boy was ignoring me all day, I was left to myself, so fuggit, I got a lot of sleep. He never once asked what was wrong, why I didn’t head back up to the tournament, anything. The kids are so much like their mother, it’s insane.

Anyway, when I wasn’t sleeping, I was lazing about and thinking. Part of that was listening to a body no longer excommunicated from its own brain by virtue of pain meds, and part of it was the standard, predictable introspection that always hits me when I have time to myself. Usually, these thoughts fly in circular patterns that wind up going nowhere and doing very little for me, but yesterday was different, I guess. I at least managed to pinpoint the seat of my displeasure with my life.

And it is, succinctly, that being a “giver” without attachment to anyone to give to, is absolutely the worst place I could possibly be in right now. I’m not special, in any appreciable way, to anyone. Those that humor me (and I daresay themselves) by telling me that I’m special to them are all hundreds of miles away, and we actually communicate less than I do with some local people who wouldn’t even think to call me “special” by any remote stretch. I’m perfectly fine with being on my own; I’m comfortable being a loner, for the most part, and taking care of myself. That’s not what I’m talking about. There’s a certain solace in knowing that at least one other person out there holds you in a regard that is unique among all the other regards in which they hold the people in their lives, and that is what I lack. I have been lacking that for quite some time–probably more than a decade, if people were actually honest with themselves, and with me.

The baseline juxtaposition to this is, of course, that I’m in no hurry to be anyone’s man. That is a process that takes copious amounts of time, and time is a thing which I largely do not have. That I have more of it over these winter months is nice and all that, but it’s by no means representative of my normal reality, and of course, even this winter has been stilted and random at best, in terms of availability. So, I’ve tried to make myself available, fully aware of what the months ahead will do to me, but it hasn’t led anywhere, because the ones I’m available to are just as busy as I am (if not more so, actually), and well, it’s not like anyone (including myself) is taking it seriously, anyway.

So, I’m stuck. I need to give, I want to give; these are parts of my fundamental makeup. But I have no one to give to, and it’ll be a long time before I do. Somehow, I’ve got to figure this out, and of course, I’d prefer to figure it out without the need to (once again) fundamentally change who I am.

And even an entire day spent thinking supposedly-unenslavedly about these things has led me nowhere. That, more than the situation itself, rubs me more raw than I can describe.

everything that happens now is happening now

So, yesterday I wrote a thing that I would like to see scroll off the home page sooner rather than later, and thus: my catalyst to write more. I had this intention over the winter holiday (not to write something I’d want to see quickly scroll off, but to write more), but the extra sleep was far too attractive to pass up. So here I am with yet another evening to myself (well, with the cats, anyway), so I’m going watch American Horror Story reruns and…write, if for no other reason than to assist the previous post on its journey to “Older Posts”. Tada!

Nah, fuggit. Spaceballs.

So anyway, I wrote what I wrote because I needed to vent. I knew when I wrote it that what was going on wasn’t really about me per se, and that I should’ve gotten over it before I was even upset about it. But you know what? You reach a point sometimes when the frequency of it not being about you is exactly the problem. The other side of that coin is the simple fact that for someone who doesn’t frequently sound like a whiney little bitch, sometimes the process of sounding like a whiney little bitch is fairly cathartic. So, while I may or may not have deleted certain social media links to what I wrote because I sounded like a whiney little bitch, I’m not going to delete what I wrote on the basis of having sounded like a whiney little bitch.

Gawds, I’d forgotten how incredibly sexy Joan Rivers is in this movie.

So, for the ±3.62579 of you out there who got all worried about me and shit, look, I’m fine. Something, something straw, camel’s back, and a little bit of drama dairy to boot. I was also tired and sore from overdoing it on Sunday after four weeks off from soccer. Things happen for a reason, I suppose, and there’s nothing to worry about. I’m not departing for that long swim in Thunder Bay any time soon. I’m just gonna sit here, play fetch with the formerly-boy cat and reminisce on the days when Daphne Zuniga was so terribly, madly in lust love with me.

and the wanting of it bleeds

you want a thing, but it’s not yours to want.

i’m such a baby. i’m forty-seven fucking years old, and i actually cried tonight. i hope my son didn’t hear me. you want a thing, and everyone around you keeps telling you that you should keep trying, keep wanting that thing, and so you keep putting yourself out there, making yourself vulnerable, even though you know it’ll invariably turn into one form of shit or another. and then it does, and somehow you’re surprised.

i’m a fucking idiot.

i had a wonderful day; i truly did. in part because i had something to hope for, even if it was a small thing. but not only was that small thing removed from my reach at the last minute tonight, but it was removed because i’m not good enough, not close enough, not meaningful enough to have it extended. i’m useless; tits on a boar, as my grandfather used to say. apparently, even the consolation of loneliness and despair is preferable to me, and it is not to be given to me to be even so much as a decent, caring friend.

you want a thing, but not only is it not yours to want, but you know damn well the wanting of it is an act of self-destruction, more so even than the foregoing of hope.

bah. i’ll leave it there. the circumstance speaks well enough for itself.

if you ever wanted to know how to send a giving person into a downward spiral, just deny him the opportunity to give. and then do it again, and again and again until the very concept of hope tastes like ash in his mouth and poison in his mind.

you want a thing, and the wanting of it bleeds.

Sub-luminal subliminations

the vague distance between action and intent, insightfully esteemed to be something it never is and never can be: is thus the errancy of the schism between recognition and understanding. that misperception is the basis of our being, so we roil and revel and roll in it like dogs in manure, and in so loving it,
we call it “brilliance”, blissfully unaware that the light it shines is only seen within the narrowest of spectrums, the narrowest of ideals, and the narrowest of dreams.

if communications between us is the only key, then the door opens solely upon our own misguided assumptions and the myths we carry within us. so, if there is something more to all this, perhaps we should approach it with an understanding that the simple act of reflection warms nothing, and we should strive to regain that recalescence we once had of our own.

The more things change….

There are certain challenges to almost everything that I do, else I probably wouldn’t be inclined to do them, or to have done them. Sometimes, that seems ironic, given the otherwise simplistic natures of some of those endeavors, but most the time it’s simply the nature of things, (or the nature of me, anyway), that they are more difficult than initial appearances suggest. Maybe it’s the simple fact that I tend to first overthink the things which complicate them, but I have managed to undertake very few endeavors in this lifetime that haven’t been challenging in at least some way. It has taken me some forty-odd years to finally become accustomed to this, if I am indeed accustomed to it. The very fact of my writing anything about it all, infers to me that I may not be as comfortable with this aspect of my life as I desire to be.

The trick is, of course, that these are the times in which I tend to find my Muse.

My current situation in and of itself is fairly innocuous on the surface, but at one thin layer below, it represents a multitude of challenges which encourage, empower, embolden, and strengthen me, while simultaneously destabilizing several aspects of my personal reality. I find it both exhilarating and maddening. Which of course means I wouldn’t trade it for the world, discomfort and all, largely because it is one of the most comfortable things I’ve ever done. Irony intended.

No, I’m not going to describe this situation to you in any detail yet; you should know me better than that by now. Suffice it to say that I’m the happiest I’ve been in a very long time, and it felt compelled to share that with this small handful of you who are at least kind enough to maintain a semblance of concern for me. Somehow today, after a particularly abrupt migraine that I managed to resolve without medical treatment, the desire to create again is the strongest it has been in quite some time.

I don’t know what that means yet, but it feels damn good

there comes a time

the irony is never lost on me, you know.

none of them.

the one where i run a blog called unenslaved, which is supposed to be about free-thinking, but all i manage to post are examples of my inordinate talent for thinking inside several boxes at once. or the one where i left a marriage for want of not being alone, only to find myself with nought but the sound of my dryer to lull me to sleep. or the one where i realize i try too hard to make things right, only to lose something significant in my life for the lack of trying hard enough to keep it. or the lack of being willing to.

no, the irony is by no means lost on me at all.

i like to think that the fun thing about being human is our innate ability to look backwards in time and constantly reassess our successes and failures, but that’s a privileged position based entirely on how objectively we record those moments, and how often we revisit them (thus re-remembering them).

i like to pretend it doesn’t matter, because that’s safer.

there are a myriad worlds, and myriads upon myriads of things within those worlds, that come and go every day, if only we choose to see them. the problem is, the seeing of such things requires trust, and trust requires objectivity, and objectivity requires the willing participation in at least a minimal form of interpersonal dependency, so that we are afforded the space to have the trust. life is circular this way, and therefore, so are our hopes.

i have a friend who tells me i am far too adept at not-saying what is on my mind. i would speak more plainly than this, but my talent is of a particular bent, and that is both the joy, and the irony, of it.