ey there Internauts!
How ya doin?
Quick update on where I'm at and what's coming up:
1. After Ten weeks worth of new song posts on YouTube for New Song a Week Acoustic Challenge Party Yeah!!! I've decided to move on from that project so I can focus on other cool stuff. No worries, I'll still be writing and posting videos for your enjoyment and/or scrutiny, but I've just got so many other cool things going on I want to devote my time and energy to for now. Such as...
2. Brand new (not so) super secret music video projects coming along nicely. I'm exploring some very new for me media and styles and trying to stretch my creative self far as I can.
3. Seeking out and applying to jobs. Not quite as flamboyantly exciting but still pretty great in that I'm finally in a healthy enough place where I can fill out apps and send emails and resumes without feeling like the world is crumbling around me. Not exactly an easy or empowering search by any means, but despite seeing so many ways the job market could really improve I think I'll be able to find something that fits for now. After all, for now is all we get.
4. Continuing to charge/stumble my way through fiction writing.
5. My next live show!!!! 8pm 21+(sorry) at the Rusty Nail in Ardmore, PA on 08/06/2015 featuring Sophie Koorhan, Kristen Ford, and Genesis Blu!!!! I would really love to see you there. Let's pack this place in the name of great live music, eh?
Anyways, check with you good folks soon :D
Stay woke,
Odist
Monday, July 27, 2015
Saturday, June 20, 2015
Boston Hahbah
Dear Internauts,
When I was a child of around 10 or 11 years, I was tasked with holding an offering bucket as churchgoers disembarked from a small cruise ship. The ship had taken a loop or two around Boston Harbor, while I imagine the adults talked about boring stuff and us kids drank too much soda. Being the kind of church kid I was, I volunteered to stand on the dock, beside the ramp, and receive donations for the church. Excited as ever to be useful, nigh important, I stood up straight and smiled and caught change as the congregation regained their land-legs. At some point, the mass of those walking down the ramp increased to the point that I decided it best to give them a bit more room to move. A polite little rascal with such undeveloped proprioception. Of course, I backed up right into empty air. The bucket shot up. The money scattered. My confused little 10 year old self hit the frigid autumn bay. And in the finest turn of the century luck, my zipped up windbreaker jacket blew up like a balloon. There I was, just a little boy bubble bobbing in the Boston bay between the big boat and the dock. I'd failed in my position as bucket holder, donation acceptor, and dry human being. However, I'd succeeded extravagantly at giving the people on the dock plenty of room, and this certainly would not be the last time I'd be surprised to find myself in a position of both aquatic and arctic peril.
Anyway, we accept the love we think we're worth.
I read that somewhere, and it's only proven more true since.
Growing up with the dual teachings, 'I am inherently broken, incomplete, imperfect, sinful, etc...' and 'God loves me' had the (hopefully) unintended effect of keeping me in a steady state of feeling unworthy of love. Combine this with an exponentially steroidal boost of society's already false-meritocracy-con to commoditize my worth based on my usefulness to my peers, my teachers, my role-models...and you get a kid who feels always just shy of good enough.
Q: If we can't love ourselves, can we truly accept the love of others?
A: In the wise words of Jedi Master Yoda, "You must unlearn what you have learned."
Perhaps this is a warning.
Perhaps you can relate.
Try to live up to impossible standards long enough, and it can become more than a little autodidactical. Basically, I'd spent so much time trying to be what people expected me to be, I began to infer expectations, presume standards, and even preemptively punish myself for failing. The limits I placed upon myself were encouraged by those who loved me, because they only saw a portion of them and it was what I wanted. I assumed what they wanted from me, and got wicked good at essentially making every relationship about being who I believed they wanted me to be.
The beauty is that it's always my fault. If I succeed in being who I ought to be, then the chance of failure as well as the stakes increase each passing moment. And if I fail—as I always will—I can distance myself from the other person before they ever get to see what a loser I am. As you may well imagine, this way of playing the game of life is a fast-track to being alone as $#!%.
Q: If we can't be honest with ourselves, can we be honest with others?
A: I'm gonna say no, but then I don't really trust myself.
The bitterness, regret, heartache, debilitating anxiety, and depressive frustration that such a solipsistic outlook will inevitably lead to only serve to feed the beast of imperfection, incompleteness, unworthiness, and self-hate thereof. While I'm caught up in all this, guess what happens to my relationship with someone outside my own head. (Hint: It's similar to what happened to those church folks' nickles and dimes.)
Loving oneself is a process, especially as we keep changing. So far, growing up seems to be comprised of both getting to know myself and getting over myself more than much else. To all the friends I've won and lost throughout the years, I'm sorry I treated you like a prize I had to earn instead of like an actual, yknow...person. You deserved better and so did I.
So here's to the future, but mostly the present, because really—the past is no longer worth our full attention.
Yours as always,
Odist
p.s. - I've got a Free, All Ages Show coming up on Saturday, June 27th at 6pm at Steel City Cafe in Phoenixville, PA. I would LOVE to see you there. Bring everybody!
p.p.s. - If you haven't already, feel free to mosey over to YOUTUBE and check out my new series, NEW SONG A WEEK ACOUSTIC CHALLENGE PARTY YEAH!!! where I've been writing and sharing a brand new acoustic song every Monday.
p.p.p.s. - Met up with some high school friends last Sunday and went to my first LGBT Pride Festival in Philly. It was wicked hot out, but we were by the river and under a tent, so I just kinda chilled and people-watched all afternoon. I miss the city so much, and everyone there was wicked nice. All this to say please support LGBT Pride in your community, and let's stand in solidarity with all those who are faced with oppression in daily life.
When I was a child of around 10 or 11 years, I was tasked with holding an offering bucket as churchgoers disembarked from a small cruise ship. The ship had taken a loop or two around Boston Harbor, while I imagine the adults talked about boring stuff and us kids drank too much soda. Being the kind of church kid I was, I volunteered to stand on the dock, beside the ramp, and receive donations for the church. Excited as ever to be useful, nigh important, I stood up straight and smiled and caught change as the congregation regained their land-legs. At some point, the mass of those walking down the ramp increased to the point that I decided it best to give them a bit more room to move. A polite little rascal with such undeveloped proprioception. Of course, I backed up right into empty air. The bucket shot up. The money scattered. My confused little 10 year old self hit the frigid autumn bay. And in the finest turn of the century luck, my zipped up windbreaker jacket blew up like a balloon. There I was, just a little boy bubble bobbing in the Boston bay between the big boat and the dock. I'd failed in my position as bucket holder, donation acceptor, and dry human being. However, I'd succeeded extravagantly at giving the people on the dock plenty of room, and this certainly would not be the last time I'd be surprised to find myself in a position of both aquatic and arctic peril.
Anyway, we accept the love we think we're worth.
I read that somewhere, and it's only proven more true since.
Growing up with the dual teachings, 'I am inherently broken, incomplete, imperfect, sinful, etc...' and 'God loves me' had the (hopefully) unintended effect of keeping me in a steady state of feeling unworthy of love. Combine this with an exponentially steroidal boost of society's already false-meritocracy-con to commoditize my worth based on my usefulness to my peers, my teachers, my role-models...and you get a kid who feels always just shy of good enough.
Q: If we can't love ourselves, can we truly accept the love of others?
A: In the wise words of Jedi Master Yoda, "You must unlearn what you have learned."
Perhaps this is a warning.
Perhaps you can relate.
Try to live up to impossible standards long enough, and it can become more than a little autodidactical. Basically, I'd spent so much time trying to be what people expected me to be, I began to infer expectations, presume standards, and even preemptively punish myself for failing. The limits I placed upon myself were encouraged by those who loved me, because they only saw a portion of them and it was what I wanted. I assumed what they wanted from me, and got wicked good at essentially making every relationship about being who I believed they wanted me to be.
The beauty is that it's always my fault. If I succeed in being who I ought to be, then the chance of failure as well as the stakes increase each passing moment. And if I fail—as I always will—I can distance myself from the other person before they ever get to see what a loser I am. As you may well imagine, this way of playing the game of life is a fast-track to being alone as $#!%.
Q: If we can't be honest with ourselves, can we be honest with others?
A: I'm gonna say no, but then I don't really trust myself.
The bitterness, regret, heartache, debilitating anxiety, and depressive frustration that such a solipsistic outlook will inevitably lead to only serve to feed the beast of imperfection, incompleteness, unworthiness, and self-hate thereof. While I'm caught up in all this, guess what happens to my relationship with someone outside my own head. (Hint: It's similar to what happened to those church folks' nickles and dimes.)
Loving oneself is a process, especially as we keep changing. So far, growing up seems to be comprised of both getting to know myself and getting over myself more than much else. To all the friends I've won and lost throughout the years, I'm sorry I treated you like a prize I had to earn instead of like an actual, yknow...person. You deserved better and so did I.
So here's to the future, but mostly the present, because really—the past is no longer worth our full attention.
Yours as always,
Odist
p.s. - I've got a Free, All Ages Show coming up on Saturday, June 27th at 6pm at Steel City Cafe in Phoenixville, PA. I would LOVE to see you there. Bring everybody!
p.p.s. - If you haven't already, feel free to mosey over to YOUTUBE and check out my new series, NEW SONG A WEEK ACOUSTIC CHALLENGE PARTY YEAH!!! where I've been writing and sharing a brand new acoustic song every Monday.
p.p.p.s. - Met up with some high school friends last Sunday and went to my first LGBT Pride Festival in Philly. It was wicked hot out, but we were by the river and under a tent, so I just kinda chilled and people-watched all afternoon. I miss the city so much, and everyone there was wicked nice. All this to say please support LGBT Pride in your community, and let's stand in solidarity with all those who are faced with oppression in daily life.
Saturday, May 23, 2015
Philly Show!
Hey Internauts!
Not too sure how many/if any of you are within decent distance to Philadelphia, PA, USA. If you do happen to be, are 21 or older (sorry youths), and love live music, you should come see me play at THE LEGENDARY DOBBS on Thursday, June 4th. 8$ at the door which opens at 730ish. I’ll be playing around 8ish, opening for Galvanize, Little War Twins, Something like a Monument, and the Late Greats. It would be so lovely if you could come out to enjoy the tunes and support me in the first full set I’ve played since fall times.
tl;dr
Who: Odist Abettor, Little War Twins, & more
What: 21+ Concert Show of Great Music yay!!!! Featuring four bands and one me!
Where: Legendary Dobbs - 304 South St, Philadelphia, PA 19147 USA
When: Thursday, June 4th. 7:30 doors. Show 8ish-12:30ish. Stop by or duck out whenever, but since I’m opening you maybe might wanna possibly at least see the start ;)
Why: Supporting local, indie, and up-and-coming artists is not only fun. It’s also politically subversive. Plus live music is cool.
How much: $6 advance tix @ http://legendarydobbs.com/
$8 at the door.
I am wicked excited for this show. The relatively late notice is only b/c I just found out about it today. Hope you can make it.
All my good vibes,
Odist
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
Boxes in the Attic
Dear Internauts,
How does it feel?
It feels slippery, coated with a layer of familiarity that frustrates any attempts at grasping, holding onto, or analyzing what’s underneath. It tastes salty and like the sick that climbs up the back of my throat when I haven’t eaten for a while. Apple slices you can get pre-packaged at some gas stations always have this acidity that dries up my tongue and makes me worry about if its poisonous. The way it smells flits around moment by moment between artificial sweetener, cow patties on the rain, antiseptic clinic hallways, or kicking up bits of road tar and oil spills into the sterile chill of deep winter. Heavy as fuck and rough too, though more scratchy than anything, and I’m carrying that carpet or over-stuffed box of Christmas wreaths up the pull-down ladder stairs to a crawl space. A thin layer of insulation spreads between the 2x4 support beams, one misstep and that’s eight to ten feet to the hard floor. I’m especially careful when I think I’m over the stairs, not so much because of the farther fall at the bottom but because of how it would feel to land on the stairs themselves. The way the wood fits into my kneecap as I kneel brings to mind how the edge of a step might feel to the back of my head. Staying focused on pushing the boxes into some organized pattern keeps my mind off how parts of me would fit on those stairs if I fell through. Attic dust is distinct, with unique flavors for every space but an earthy after-taste common anywhere.
Straddling the ladder, I reach down to help pull up the next box or bin or suitcase. Doesn’t much matter the season, that attic—that miniature universe, that vacuum bag—is always sweltering. My skin melts into thick pockets around my wrists, elbows, armpits, knees, waist, any joints really. The grime of the job with the sweat on my hands swirls into a mud-swamp, forcing me to overtax my fingers on grasping the next delivery. There is no comfortable position, with my lower back taking the worst. I’m told since I’m young I’ll bounce back. I’m flexible, or at least more so than whoever feels like telling me. The voices can fade together in general, like a mosaic where every tiny square is a needle under my fingernails.
Even when there is a lull in the pushing and the lifting, my job isn’t finished. I kneel and spin and plan my steps. Sliding and stacking the baggage does get easier over time, but I never feel any better at it. At a certain point the whole task smudges up together, my every swampy joint aching and my eyes blinking in excess from their constant need to flood out invaders. Soon enough a new train will pull up to the bottom of the ladder, where the delivery system reinvents itself poorly at least three times before settling on a three-fourths approach. They lift the box up one fourth of the way, and I hang by ankles, twisting every ligament. I speculate that often there is a worry I will be able to hold the box and it will come crashing down upon its giver. To compound the box’s weight is its giver’s reluctance to fully let go, a silent plea ascending and bouncing around the rafters that I pull it from their grasp. This of course would mean I gain not only responsibility to store away the box and its contents but also the synthetic burden of having taken it from them by force. Even due to my precarious position as compared to their free use of the hallway space to leap out of the way, I have still never allowed a box to topple back down and crush anyone. However, if I should drop a box, the fault may lie in the immediate use of the aforementioned leaping space by the giver the moment their box has changed hands. In summation, the box is mine now, I pulled it from them, and they moved far enough away to regard it as something distant, alien even.
Betrayal comes to my mind, as it might come to yours. Or perhaps you wonder at my foolishness to continue finding myself up in that attic, arranging boxes. After all, if everybody has a box to bear, shouldn’t the burden of the box be on the bearer? I don’t think any one of us could say we’ve never labored under the weight of a box too heavy for to what distance we mean go. Contrariwise, our culture of box-bearing encourages a commercial trade of burdens so regular, we schedule our every hour by it. I would never try and convince you I’m the only one to take on others’ burdens.
What I mean to explain, however, is that this betrayal is common in my life. Specifically, I continue to find myself hanging by my ankles, receiving weighty admissions from those who smell most like a freshly laundered blanket on your own favorite chair at home. The greatest disguise to disarm and distract is no disguise at all. In this spirit—the spirit of honesty—home comes to me and pushes up some honesty. In the box there is always a tender nerve, a speck of vulnerability enough to convince me to reach out again and again. And they push a little, and I pull that box up and find somewhere to squeeze it into my dusty, crowded crawlspace.
“I used to hate you,” sits in the corner where the wood is cracked enough to cast new light on a box and its contents. Years of unknown bitterness and unexpressed vitriol, at least to my face, are now laid plain before me. Sometimes, after they’ve let their fingers loose of the box, they will start to turn away but then face me once more. A bit of the light from the attic wall causes them to squint up at me and offer me forgiveness for whatever I did leading to their anger and loathing. Despite the glare, I can never seem to find a clear piece of anything in the box describing what I’d actually done to hurt them and then be undeserving of their gift of forgiveness. A few smaller but much heavier boxes are stacked behind those in the far right corner, containing “And I still do.”
Some boxes are made of a similar material and delivered with that same genuine smile and concerned tone, handed up slow to make sure I can get a real strong grasp of it. These come in different shapes and sizes, but always appear much heavier at first than they end up being, causing me at times to overcompensate and fly backwards. My elbows or even my funny bone will suffer in its attempt to save me from falling through the floor. Take, for example, this big blue boxes with stars drawn all over it. Carried to me in slow, careful steps, the sight of it made me tense up, ready for anything. “I used to have all these feelings for you...” read those boxes’ labels. I take my grip and get ready to pull up the massive weight of whatever kind of feelings those were. The bearer lets go, and I fly backward, narrowly avoiding insulation death. Flying out of my hands, the deceptive container bursts open mid-air, raining down a confetti shower of “...but now I don’t even think about you,” and “...but now I’ve moved on and am so over you” and, my personal favorite, “...but I’ve matured beyond that and don’t need you anymore.” Cleaning up this confusing mess can be quite a task, especially when I find amongst the tinker-tape explosion, a few, small balloons in the shape of the common and inferred, “...so you should be proud of me.”
(An important exception to the norm should be noted, in that while organizing all these other boxes of phrases and emotions and decisions and values, I have at times heard a knock behind me. Turning to the ladder, I see someone has pushed a box all the way up into the crawlspace without me having to lift it. At first, I suppose this seems sensible and fair. Tough love boxes, I used to call them. Problem is, when I open them up, a creature of some kind will often jump out and bite me or scratch at me, leaving deep marks before it scampers away to hide in the way back by the childhood traumas. Besides that these boxes are empty and without any real clue as to from whence they came. I call down the ladder, asking for whoever left the box, but there is never a response. I’m left to nurse my wounds and stack all the boxes alone, as per usual.)
Sometimes the box is very much meant for me, and other times there’s little thought to anything more than the bearer getting as far away from their box as possible. I just happen to be the one available to take it off their hands. Please know I don’t think my job an entirely negative experience. I’ve gotten good at finding a place for every shape and size of box and continue to improve at knowing what will fit best where. I even can enjoy the small segment of time hanging over that ladder, a box in both our hands. There’s an innate trust there that can just as easily be a growth experience as it can be mutually assured destruction.
The best is when I can simply do my part as another worker on the assembly line, a cog in the clockwork, a part of this complete breakfast. The problem, as you may have already surmised, is when something gums up the gears. A box is that pound too heavy, that inch too big, that slight shift off-balance. I know at any moment, what I hold in my arms or the heights I stack could come crashing down and me with them. There’s no way for me to handle this job without knowing that, and in fact, I can only now begin to understand what all these boxes are for and what I’m doing in this sweaty, dusty, cramped bit of storage space. Only after I crashed through that insulation, landed hard on those stairs, and bounce down to the damp, old basement, did I finally start to gain some perspective on the issue.
You see I’ve recently been unable to pack away one particular box. There are several places I know it could fit, but my hands are clamped tight around it. Heaviest box I’ve ever held, but far smaller than most. I often stare at where I know it will go, should go, but I can’t yet make myself crawl the few feet to that spot. There’s no lid or latch for this box, just a penny-sized hole in the top. Inside, it reads, “I don’t love you anymore.”
Often enough, my whole world is an attic full of boxes, and/but/so there have been plenty of times when I too have stood in line to lift my boxes up to some other creaky soul. But if you recall, there is a place in the wall of my attic where the wood is cracked and a beam of light slips its way into my world. It can be good to offer some perspective on this or that as I crawl around, but what if I tilt my head sideways and peek out? What lies outside this world of boxes and attics and ladders and hallways and stairs and even bigger boxes? What might I see if I looked out through that little break?
And what might look back at me?
How does it feel?
It feels slippery, coated with a layer of familiarity that frustrates any attempts at grasping, holding onto, or analyzing what’s underneath. It tastes salty and like the sick that climbs up the back of my throat when I haven’t eaten for a while. Apple slices you can get pre-packaged at some gas stations always have this acidity that dries up my tongue and makes me worry about if its poisonous. The way it smells flits around moment by moment between artificial sweetener, cow patties on the rain, antiseptic clinic hallways, or kicking up bits of road tar and oil spills into the sterile chill of deep winter. Heavy as fuck and rough too, though more scratchy than anything, and I’m carrying that carpet or over-stuffed box of Christmas wreaths up the pull-down ladder stairs to a crawl space. A thin layer of insulation spreads between the 2x4 support beams, one misstep and that’s eight to ten feet to the hard floor. I’m especially careful when I think I’m over the stairs, not so much because of the farther fall at the bottom but because of how it would feel to land on the stairs themselves. The way the wood fits into my kneecap as I kneel brings to mind how the edge of a step might feel to the back of my head. Staying focused on pushing the boxes into some organized pattern keeps my mind off how parts of me would fit on those stairs if I fell through. Attic dust is distinct, with unique flavors for every space but an earthy after-taste common anywhere.
Straddling the ladder, I reach down to help pull up the next box or bin or suitcase. Doesn’t much matter the season, that attic—that miniature universe, that vacuum bag—is always sweltering. My skin melts into thick pockets around my wrists, elbows, armpits, knees, waist, any joints really. The grime of the job with the sweat on my hands swirls into a mud-swamp, forcing me to overtax my fingers on grasping the next delivery. There is no comfortable position, with my lower back taking the worst. I’m told since I’m young I’ll bounce back. I’m flexible, or at least more so than whoever feels like telling me. The voices can fade together in general, like a mosaic where every tiny square is a needle under my fingernails.
Even when there is a lull in the pushing and the lifting, my job isn’t finished. I kneel and spin and plan my steps. Sliding and stacking the baggage does get easier over time, but I never feel any better at it. At a certain point the whole task smudges up together, my every swampy joint aching and my eyes blinking in excess from their constant need to flood out invaders. Soon enough a new train will pull up to the bottom of the ladder, where the delivery system reinvents itself poorly at least three times before settling on a three-fourths approach. They lift the box up one fourth of the way, and I hang by ankles, twisting every ligament. I speculate that often there is a worry I will be able to hold the box and it will come crashing down upon its giver. To compound the box’s weight is its giver’s reluctance to fully let go, a silent plea ascending and bouncing around the rafters that I pull it from their grasp. This of course would mean I gain not only responsibility to store away the box and its contents but also the synthetic burden of having taken it from them by force. Even due to my precarious position as compared to their free use of the hallway space to leap out of the way, I have still never allowed a box to topple back down and crush anyone. However, if I should drop a box, the fault may lie in the immediate use of the aforementioned leaping space by the giver the moment their box has changed hands. In summation, the box is mine now, I pulled it from them, and they moved far enough away to regard it as something distant, alien even.
Betrayal comes to my mind, as it might come to yours. Or perhaps you wonder at my foolishness to continue finding myself up in that attic, arranging boxes. After all, if everybody has a box to bear, shouldn’t the burden of the box be on the bearer? I don’t think any one of us could say we’ve never labored under the weight of a box too heavy for to what distance we mean go. Contrariwise, our culture of box-bearing encourages a commercial trade of burdens so regular, we schedule our every hour by it. I would never try and convince you I’m the only one to take on others’ burdens.
What I mean to explain, however, is that this betrayal is common in my life. Specifically, I continue to find myself hanging by my ankles, receiving weighty admissions from those who smell most like a freshly laundered blanket on your own favorite chair at home. The greatest disguise to disarm and distract is no disguise at all. In this spirit—the spirit of honesty—home comes to me and pushes up some honesty. In the box there is always a tender nerve, a speck of vulnerability enough to convince me to reach out again and again. And they push a little, and I pull that box up and find somewhere to squeeze it into my dusty, crowded crawlspace.
“I used to hate you,” sits in the corner where the wood is cracked enough to cast new light on a box and its contents. Years of unknown bitterness and unexpressed vitriol, at least to my face, are now laid plain before me. Sometimes, after they’ve let their fingers loose of the box, they will start to turn away but then face me once more. A bit of the light from the attic wall causes them to squint up at me and offer me forgiveness for whatever I did leading to their anger and loathing. Despite the glare, I can never seem to find a clear piece of anything in the box describing what I’d actually done to hurt them and then be undeserving of their gift of forgiveness. A few smaller but much heavier boxes are stacked behind those in the far right corner, containing “And I still do.”
Some boxes are made of a similar material and delivered with that same genuine smile and concerned tone, handed up slow to make sure I can get a real strong grasp of it. These come in different shapes and sizes, but always appear much heavier at first than they end up being, causing me at times to overcompensate and fly backwards. My elbows or even my funny bone will suffer in its attempt to save me from falling through the floor. Take, for example, this big blue boxes with stars drawn all over it. Carried to me in slow, careful steps, the sight of it made me tense up, ready for anything. “I used to have all these feelings for you...” read those boxes’ labels. I take my grip and get ready to pull up the massive weight of whatever kind of feelings those were. The bearer lets go, and I fly backward, narrowly avoiding insulation death. Flying out of my hands, the deceptive container bursts open mid-air, raining down a confetti shower of “...but now I don’t even think about you,” and “...but now I’ve moved on and am so over you” and, my personal favorite, “...but I’ve matured beyond that and don’t need you anymore.” Cleaning up this confusing mess can be quite a task, especially when I find amongst the tinker-tape explosion, a few, small balloons in the shape of the common and inferred, “...so you should be proud of me.”
(An important exception to the norm should be noted, in that while organizing all these other boxes of phrases and emotions and decisions and values, I have at times heard a knock behind me. Turning to the ladder, I see someone has pushed a box all the way up into the crawlspace without me having to lift it. At first, I suppose this seems sensible and fair. Tough love boxes, I used to call them. Problem is, when I open them up, a creature of some kind will often jump out and bite me or scratch at me, leaving deep marks before it scampers away to hide in the way back by the childhood traumas. Besides that these boxes are empty and without any real clue as to from whence they came. I call down the ladder, asking for whoever left the box, but there is never a response. I’m left to nurse my wounds and stack all the boxes alone, as per usual.)
Sometimes the box is very much meant for me, and other times there’s little thought to anything more than the bearer getting as far away from their box as possible. I just happen to be the one available to take it off their hands. Please know I don’t think my job an entirely negative experience. I’ve gotten good at finding a place for every shape and size of box and continue to improve at knowing what will fit best where. I even can enjoy the small segment of time hanging over that ladder, a box in both our hands. There’s an innate trust there that can just as easily be a growth experience as it can be mutually assured destruction.
The best is when I can simply do my part as another worker on the assembly line, a cog in the clockwork, a part of this complete breakfast. The problem, as you may have already surmised, is when something gums up the gears. A box is that pound too heavy, that inch too big, that slight shift off-balance. I know at any moment, what I hold in my arms or the heights I stack could come crashing down and me with them. There’s no way for me to handle this job without knowing that, and in fact, I can only now begin to understand what all these boxes are for and what I’m doing in this sweaty, dusty, cramped bit of storage space. Only after I crashed through that insulation, landed hard on those stairs, and bounce down to the damp, old basement, did I finally start to gain some perspective on the issue.
You see I’ve recently been unable to pack away one particular box. There are several places I know it could fit, but my hands are clamped tight around it. Heaviest box I’ve ever held, but far smaller than most. I often stare at where I know it will go, should go, but I can’t yet make myself crawl the few feet to that spot. There’s no lid or latch for this box, just a penny-sized hole in the top. Inside, it reads, “I don’t love you anymore.”
Often enough, my whole world is an attic full of boxes, and/but/so there have been plenty of times when I too have stood in line to lift my boxes up to some other creaky soul. But if you recall, there is a place in the wall of my attic where the wood is cracked and a beam of light slips its way into my world. It can be good to offer some perspective on this or that as I crawl around, but what if I tilt my head sideways and peek out? What lies outside this world of boxes and attics and ladders and hallways and stairs and even bigger boxes? What might I see if I looked out through that little break?
And what might look back at me?
Sunday, April 26, 2015
Growing Up an American Christian
Dearest Internauts,
I get it, ok? I'm not some raving, anti-theist who blames religion for every bad thing ever. My parents are extremely devoted to their church and raised me to be a christian. So I understand what having that be such a huge part of one's life can mean.
However, I've also come to a place where I can no longer ignore the manipulative, hypocritical, and severely abusive tactics indoctrinated in me to seem normal throughout my entire up bringing and adolescence. Even now I'm having to build up a whole new sense of identity because my whole life for over two decades was about doing whatever I could to live up to the church's impossible and contradictory standards. Anything good in my life was always labeled as because of God but anything bad or confusing was on me.
Now, while I understand institutional religious practice is crucial to many people's lives, there are some inherent ideological flaws which by their very nature force abuse on any followers (and I'll relate my experience very specifically with Protestant Christianity in the US, though many points can be generalized).
Some will say it's just the abusive relationships I've experienced and I shouldn't disrespect other Christians outside that. I'm not aiming to do anything more than delve into some of the problematic aspects of the faith itself, which should be welcome for one thing and is important to me because of how tight a hold on social and political power it holds in this country.
- sin as a concept being used by leaders to police those with whom they have personal grievances
- the idolization of the bible
- the white-washing of Jesus and other important figures
- the petty game of decontextualizing various scripture passages to prove a moral and often condemning point
- the same decontextualizing used by those out to argue against others' decontextualizing
- the deeply entrenched sexist ramifications of God as male pronouns
- the consistent portrayal of woman as pure temptress and man as mindless beast in lessons of sexuality
- dangerous and foolhardy hushing up of any faults, confusion, uncertainty, or differences
- original sin and intrinsic human depravity as concepts defining people as helplessly evil, twisted, broken, and at fault for all evil
- using the above to pitch and sell religion, first proclaiming how evil we are then telling us only Jesus can help us, and in doing so trapping and monopolizing morality
- close-mindedness to the progress of scientific and sociological shifts even when it's toward more ethical and caring practices
- the labeling of women, lgbtqiaa+, minority ethnic groups, children, those with mental and physical disabilities, and anyone else who to a congregation seems less than or different, labeled as the product or harbinger of sin
- sex as inherently evil or simply a nonexistent topic
- unquestioning support of Israel
- unquestioning support of military and other nationalistic propaganda
- shaming of pacifist, socialist, or even anyone the tad bit to the left
- traditional family values as an excuse to oppress anyone outside that box
- a deep-seeded reverence for wealthy, straight, white, cis-males
-early childhood indoctrination of strict gender roles and the unhealthy presumption and enforcement that all outside them is sinful
- the constant and ready use of a lingering damnation
- the refusal to admit and hold up to a violent past and present
- refusal to admit any fault or contradiction in scripture, preaching, and teaching esp. when covered by a blanket "mystery"
- refusal to confront harmful even abusive teachings toward children, teens, and adults
- a long tradition of placing the blame for any bad thing on the shoulders of one person's or a small group's sin
- constantly returning to the manipulative teaching of just needing more faith or to pray or listen harder instead of actively confronting the issues and unknowns in this sort of religious tradition
- the false modesty combined with a cult of personality surrounding rich celebrity evangelists, bands, and political figures
- a personal relationship with a God who makes it so difficult to have anything but a one-sided conversation
- struggles such as that being portrayed as faults in the one struggling or -- perhaps worse -- as an unavoidable aspect of a mysterious deity
- war and natural disasters being god's way of dealing judgement
- love, grace, mercy, redemption, and faith all stressed to a much lesser extent than sin and the wages therein
- use of scripture and religious doctrine to persecute animals and nature
- use of scripture and religious doctrine to persecute those of other churches, denominations, religions, or lifestyles
- a consistent and political disregard for systemic sources of poverty
- a wariness toward academia, expanding one's knowledge base, and learning in general outside of religious study
- the absurd and often impossibly muddled use of and arguing over religious jargon
- no admittance of how disgustingly awful the acts of both God and the revered figures in the bible truly are
- the contradictions ignored due to such reverence
- such a disregard for young women that Mary, one of the most key figures in the whole of Christianity, can be impregnated without her consent as an early adolescent and the holy rape is seen as such a gift from then on
- the vilification of real people as wholey evil due to a preoccupation with an apocryphal satanic mythology
- raising funds for new, expensive architecture comes before helping those who really need the money
- a silent acceptance of anything a pastor or religious leader does or says
- the continual bloodshed and hate-spewing in Christ's name
- the importance of using people for different ministries over caring for their actual needs
- missions/work and witness trips that end up costing those supposedly helped more in time and money than any actual help given
- those trips breeding of a white-savior complex, encouraged by adults and praised in teens
- no question for the ramifications of prettifying Noah's ark, the fall of Jericho, and other genocidal gore-fests then teaching them to small children
- a dislike for critical thinking, creativity, and self-expression beyond a purely human-based discriminatory standard of religious branding
- forcing complex theological and philosophical generalizations and practices onto children and teens by their parents and teachers
- long lists of dress code policies for girls when guys get one or two items
- seeing a church as progressive if they have at least one token minority
- an unwelcome environment for admitting one's imperfections
- sickening anxiety over living up to unclear, impossible, and ever-changing standards
- defending a God who can control the wind and the waves from being held accountable for tsunamis and other natural disasters
- competitive praise song lyrics putting down other religions
- prejudice excused in church elders
- sexual abuse and assault excused in church elders
- victim blaming before all else
- gay counseling and other forms of abusive and traumatizing bullying and brain-washing by parents, youth leaders, teachers, and pastors
- too many still won't let women preach
- holding a same-sex wedding will often get a revered fired and shunned
- inner politics destroying homes and lives
- those who pray over you one day
- the continuous refusal to admit participation in and work to change any of the above mentioned, consequently bringing up generations of self-righteous, terrified, out of touch, ashamed, traumatized, racist, sexist, classist, transphobic, homophobic, xenophobic, judgemental, hypocritical, unhealthy bigots
- and how I spent most of my life thinking that was the only way to be and now struggle every day to keep living and healing when I grew up learning how best to hate myself
Like I mentioned, this is what I've experienced. However, it's not just my opinion but rather a lifetime of experiences, both my own and those shared with me. I wouldn't go to the trouble of typing all this up if I too hadn't been a part of all of the above and am actively trying to unlearn that way and be a better man.
I get it, ok? I'm not some raving, anti-theist who blames religion for every bad thing ever. My parents are extremely devoted to their church and raised me to be a christian. So I understand what having that be such a huge part of one's life can mean.
However, I've also come to a place where I can no longer ignore the manipulative, hypocritical, and severely abusive tactics indoctrinated in me to seem normal throughout my entire up bringing and adolescence. Even now I'm having to build up a whole new sense of identity because my whole life for over two decades was about doing whatever I could to live up to the church's impossible and contradictory standards. Anything good in my life was always labeled as because of God but anything bad or confusing was on me.
Now, while I understand institutional religious practice is crucial to many people's lives, there are some inherent ideological flaws which by their very nature force abuse on any followers (and I'll relate my experience very specifically with Protestant Christianity in the US, though many points can be generalized).
Some will say it's just the abusive relationships I've experienced and I shouldn't disrespect other Christians outside that. I'm not aiming to do anything more than delve into some of the problematic aspects of the faith itself, which should be welcome for one thing and is important to me because of how tight a hold on social and political power it holds in this country.
- sin as a concept being used by leaders to police those with whom they have personal grievances
- the idolization of the bible
- the white-washing of Jesus and other important figures
- the petty game of decontextualizing various scripture passages to prove a moral and often condemning point
- the same decontextualizing used by those out to argue against others' decontextualizing
- the deeply entrenched sexist ramifications of God as male pronouns
- the consistent portrayal of woman as pure temptress and man as mindless beast in lessons of sexuality
- dangerous and foolhardy hushing up of any faults, confusion, uncertainty, or differences
- original sin and intrinsic human depravity as concepts defining people as helplessly evil, twisted, broken, and at fault for all evil
- using the above to pitch and sell religion, first proclaiming how evil we are then telling us only Jesus can help us, and in doing so trapping and monopolizing morality
- close-mindedness to the progress of scientific and sociological shifts even when it's toward more ethical and caring practices
- the labeling of women, lgbtqiaa+, minority ethnic groups, children, those with mental and physical disabilities, and anyone else who to a congregation seems less than or different, labeled as the product or harbinger of sin
- sex as inherently evil or simply a nonexistent topic
- unquestioning support of Israel
- unquestioning support of military and other nationalistic propaganda
- shaming of pacifist, socialist, or even anyone the tad bit to the left
- traditional family values as an excuse to oppress anyone outside that box
- a deep-seeded reverence for wealthy, straight, white, cis-males
-early childhood indoctrination of strict gender roles and the unhealthy presumption and enforcement that all outside them is sinful
- the constant and ready use of a lingering damnation
- the refusal to admit and hold up to a violent past and present
- refusal to admit any fault or contradiction in scripture, preaching, and teaching esp. when covered by a blanket "mystery"
- refusal to confront harmful even abusive teachings toward children, teens, and adults
- a long tradition of placing the blame for any bad thing on the shoulders of one person's or a small group's sin
- constantly returning to the manipulative teaching of just needing more faith or to pray or listen harder instead of actively confronting the issues and unknowns in this sort of religious tradition
- the false modesty combined with a cult of personality surrounding rich celebrity evangelists, bands, and political figures
- a personal relationship with a God who makes it so difficult to have anything but a one-sided conversation
- struggles such as that being portrayed as faults in the one struggling or -- perhaps worse -- as an unavoidable aspect of a mysterious deity
- war and natural disasters being god's way of dealing judgement
- love, grace, mercy, redemption, and faith all stressed to a much lesser extent than sin and the wages therein
- use of scripture and religious doctrine to persecute animals and nature
- use of scripture and religious doctrine to persecute those of other churches, denominations, religions, or lifestyles
- a consistent and political disregard for systemic sources of poverty
- a wariness toward academia, expanding one's knowledge base, and learning in general outside of religious study
- the absurd and often impossibly muddled use of and arguing over religious jargon
- no admittance of how disgustingly awful the acts of both God and the revered figures in the bible truly are
- the contradictions ignored due to such reverence
- such a disregard for young women that Mary, one of the most key figures in the whole of Christianity, can be impregnated without her consent as an early adolescent and the holy rape is seen as such a gift from then on
- the vilification of real people as wholey evil due to a preoccupation with an apocryphal satanic mythology
- raising funds for new, expensive architecture comes before helping those who really need the money
- a silent acceptance of anything a pastor or religious leader does or says
- the continual bloodshed and hate-spewing in Christ's name
- the importance of using people for different ministries over caring for their actual needs
- missions/work and witness trips that end up costing those supposedly helped more in time and money than any actual help given
- those trips breeding of a white-savior complex, encouraged by adults and praised in teens
- no question for the ramifications of prettifying Noah's ark, the fall of Jericho, and other genocidal gore-fests then teaching them to small children
- a dislike for critical thinking, creativity, and self-expression beyond a purely human-based discriminatory standard of religious branding
- forcing complex theological and philosophical generalizations and practices onto children and teens by their parents and teachers
- long lists of dress code policies for girls when guys get one or two items
- seeing a church as progressive if they have at least one token minority
- an unwelcome environment for admitting one's imperfections
- sickening anxiety over living up to unclear, impossible, and ever-changing standards
- defending a God who can control the wind and the waves from being held accountable for tsunamis and other natural disasters
- competitive praise song lyrics putting down other religions
- prejudice excused in church elders
- sexual abuse and assault excused in church elders
- victim blaming before all else
- gay counseling and other forms of abusive and traumatizing bullying and brain-washing by parents, youth leaders, teachers, and pastors
- too many still won't let women preach
- holding a same-sex wedding will often get a revered fired and shunned
- inner politics destroying homes and lives
- those who pray over you one day
- the continuous refusal to admit participation in and work to change any of the above mentioned, consequently bringing up generations of self-righteous, terrified, out of touch, ashamed, traumatized, racist, sexist, classist, transphobic, homophobic, xenophobic, judgemental, hypocritical, unhealthy bigots
- and how I spent most of my life thinking that was the only way to be and now struggle every day to keep living and healing when I grew up learning how best to hate myself
Like I mentioned, this is what I've experienced. However, it's not just my opinion but rather a lifetime of experiences, both my own and those shared with me. I wouldn't go to the trouble of typing all this up if I too hadn't been a part of all of the above and am actively trying to unlearn that way and be a better man.
Saturday, February 21, 2015
How Many Miles Between the Trigger and the Child
Like our business is murder and business is booming
Like bombs dropped on children
Like drone shadows looming
Like lies from the puppet on pulpits of policy
Like teachers telling students that we live in a damn democracy
Like the trail of tears disappears from a History textbook
Like we forget about all of our fears with this season’s new best look
Like Mrs. King sued the government for the murder of her husband
Like they settled with the family for one hundred dollars, hoping that it would hush them
LIke every twenty-eight hours a black man is shot down by police
Like corporations are more people than people and have more rights to free speech
Like you can’t trust the cops or the courts for justice
Like rape victims are scorned, informed they’re not to be trusted
Like internment camps for Japanese Americans during World War Two
Like Guantanamo Bay, which by the way is still in use
Like the terms Alien and Sedition aren’t just Social Studies facts
Like it’s held many different names, always the same, what is the Patriot Act?
Like the sizes of the countries on the map on the wall
Like little kid’s report on the greatest country of them all
Like bombs dropped on children
Like drone shadows looming
Like lies from the puppet on pulpits of policy
Like teachers telling students that we live in a damn democracy
Like the trail of tears disappears from a History textbook
Like we forget about all of our fears with this season’s new best look
Like Mrs. King sued the government for the murder of her husband
Like they settled with the family for one hundred dollars, hoping that it would hush them
LIke every twenty-eight hours a black man is shot down by police
Like corporations are more people than people and have more rights to free speech
Like you can’t trust the cops or the courts for justice
Like rape victims are scorned, informed they’re not to be trusted
Like internment camps for Japanese Americans during World War Two
Like Guantanamo Bay, which by the way is still in use
Like the terms Alien and Sedition aren’t just Social Studies facts
Like it’s held many different names, always the same, what is the Patriot Act?
Like the sizes of the countries on the map on the wall
Like little kid’s report on the greatest country of them all
Saturday, January 24, 2015
unrequited love (take 942)
Dear Internauts,
If you’re like me and fall in love with everyone instantly, a great way to deal with the pain associated with such feelings is turning your problem into your craft time or baking time or movie time or coloring time or hit the books time or pop a wheelie time or run for office time or find your real father time or fly a kite time or skip some rocks time or overthrow the establishment time or learn some new dance moves time or spaghetti time or write a poem about it time or remember that unrequited love isn’t about what someone has done to you but about the great capacity you have to notice loveliness in the world and there’s so much more beauty and wonder and hope and friendship and love and life left to live far beyond a rush of endorphins or when they laughed at your jokes and you really felt hilarious and special for once but that wasn’t them making you special but a bit of your special showing through the cloud that makes us think we need constant reciprocation of everything we feel to make it real and an endless loop about how great we are when really what we love in others and makes our heart go WOW is probably just we’re hungry or tired or lonely or maybe everything and everyone is lovely and sexy and beautiful and it’s not their job to tell you that or make you feel that way cause it’s your job to find out who you wanna be in this beautiful and lovely and sexy and totally crush-worthy of a heartbreaking world and chase after those dreams instead of someone with their own life to live and then when you least expect it the hole inside you is no longer a defect but a part of your story and it is your problem and your life and your story time...
(Every minute you waste on hating yourself is just another wasted minute.)
If you’re like me and fall in love with everyone instantly, a great way to deal with the pain associated with such feelings is turning your problem into your craft time or baking time or movie time or coloring time or hit the books time or pop a wheelie time or run for office time or find your real father time or fly a kite time or skip some rocks time or overthrow the establishment time or learn some new dance moves time or spaghetti time or write a poem about it time or remember that unrequited love isn’t about what someone has done to you but about the great capacity you have to notice loveliness in the world and there’s so much more beauty and wonder and hope and friendship and love and life left to live far beyond a rush of endorphins or when they laughed at your jokes and you really felt hilarious and special for once but that wasn’t them making you special but a bit of your special showing through the cloud that makes us think we need constant reciprocation of everything we feel to make it real and an endless loop about how great we are when really what we love in others and makes our heart go WOW is probably just we’re hungry or tired or lonely or maybe everything and everyone is lovely and sexy and beautiful and it’s not their job to tell you that or make you feel that way cause it’s your job to find out who you wanna be in this beautiful and lovely and sexy and totally crush-worthy of a heartbreaking world and chase after those dreams instead of someone with their own life to live and then when you least expect it the hole inside you is no longer a defect but a part of your story and it is your problem and your life and your story time...
(Every minute you waste on hating yourself is just another wasted minute.)
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