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ZerosRequiem
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Name: Joel
Birthday: 1/26/1986
Gender: Male
Interests: I am: a techno remix of Wagner's "Ring Cycle"; a subterranean seed-pod epidemiac; a citizen of Neon Chinatown; a Rivergreenway Conquistador; a blooming depression junkie and language lover; too wild, too rude, and bold of voice; an emergency flare; Venus as a boy.
Expertise: See above.
Occupation: Student
Industry: Other
Message: message me
AIM:  ZerosRequiem
Member Since:
2/7/2005
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| ConversationsOn bad days, the ones that follow other bad days to where I've had time to meditate on the shit I've carried on my back for years, I envision picking up pockets of slime and ripping them open over my head, bathing in them to the point that I can't separate myself from the filth I use to define myself in moments of weakness. But these days at the ol' LT program are akin to a new kind of rip; we take up these strange pockets and rip them open over each other. Pockets of... memory. And hardship. And hardness. And strongholds...
(Yesterday was Day 10 of the Amish Friendship Bread process I've been in. I received a ziplock bag with a cup of batter from Sarah King, who's here with her husband as a staffer from West Virginia. Most of the process is taking the bag from its high place on the fridge and simply squeezing it, until Day 10, on which the batter is mixed with ingredients, some divided into starter bags for other friends, and the rest baked to sweet, warm perfection. There's no telling how long this particular batter has been going around; I was at least on generation three, and gave Susan at the coffee house part of generation four.)
...vulnerability, really, giving each other the permission to be vulnerable if only we'll step into the murky territory ourselves, bring back a basket of vulnerability and pass it around for the next arduous steps.
I feel like all I've had the last few days in terms of conversations have been the deep-sea dive kind of talks. Friday night, in the bed of Doug's pickup truck on the way back from Wilmington fireworks, it was Brandon and the things standing in his way of making this the summer it can be. Right after that, reaffirmation and encouragement for Ben C (who's been pouring out encouragement since the beginning of the summer, you wonder where he keeps it all). Trading relationship wisdom with April and Sarah, and then a talk with Madison, who asked me what I thought of the book of James, which we read last Friday. We delved into the idea of how important the kind of holism James is calling for is; I'm conflicted on what my responsibility is to keep myself looking immaculate for those who may overhear bits of conversation to which they were not invited. (Really, can I really live with that kind of dishonesty and fear?)
And it all stems from years spent in survival mode. All of it. You know it. Your abrasive personality, your aggression, your insistence to control the distance of your relationships. Any idea why you still fight to survive?
Because I'm not out of the woods yet. And anyway, it's a lot of programming to reverse, getting out of survival mode. It's easy to pick back up, often doesn't even weigh much for how intensely and wholly it consumes. It's all natural, it's recyclable, and you can pass it around in a desperate world full of people with desperate mindsets.
Any idea why 'fight' is still part of your vocabulary?
Why not?
Any idea what you're still fighting?
*****
I thought of thankfulness this past week as a kind of remedy for all of this melancholy. Can I be thankful in it, with it, for it? Ben C once advised me during a nighttime run on the beach to find the beautiful parts of me. How does the melancholy make us beautiful?
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| I have so many things I want to say, and I will say them, when I have the time. But for now, I've got two things for you.
Firstly,
Dear Mom and Dad (but more for Mom because I think Dad worries less and Mom needs the heads up for when I'm back home),
I've stopped eating cheese. Sorry.
Secondly, here's a poem I wrote over the last few days:
long before we got up and danced
in the valley of dry bones
there was heard the hollow sound
of wind
blowing through bodies
which lay on the ground.
Many scattered things to say... and you'll hear them. I promise. I'll tell you this, though: I've been really fascinated by the idea of planting seeds lately. And why shouldn't I be? It's tattooed permanently on my chest...
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| I dreamed about the kid at the South Carolina amusement park, the one who was decapitated by the roller coaster. I dreamed I saw his head get taken off.
I dreamed I curled up with a black hairy pig on a couch and watched "Family Guy."
Right now at LT is the part where everything feels like broken pieces.
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| This game doesn't work if the computer won't download my Nine Inch Nails.We had the challenge to spend four hours with God this week. They mentioned that there'd be an incentive for anyone who did it, which I think is kind of queer, but whatever. At least institutionalizing it gives you the permission to kind of drop out for awhile. So I rode my bike the five miles to Fort Fisher, and, long story short, God didn't show up in any way He doesn't normally. But what did happen was this: I've often described walking around and living with this huge hole, and the hole gets deeper and deeper, and I don't know how to fill it. So I cover it up. And during my four hours, I realized I needed to stop covering it up if I ever wanted it filled. That's what I've been carrying for the past few days. Guys, I cry now. Silently and privately, but it's there. And I don't like it. But whatever.
I'm at the Grind waiting for the nine free tracks from Nine Inch Nails' latest album "Ghosts I-IV" to download. They won't download if the rate keeps only hitting 0.0 to 5.6 kps.
I'm really tired. And only slightly physically-wise.
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| Quickly, while I melt into a puddle of sweat outside the coffee house......because I made the smart decision of getting a hot cafe au lait to drink outside in the summer in the American South:
Time chugs along. I closed the produce department last night to help out my old manager. A little nostalgic, but after the store renovations, the kitchen area is no longer in view of the customers. Which I think was a bad decision on the part of the contractors. People like seeing the familiar faces in that department. But every night there's a circle of people around a hookah I can come to to laugh and destress, to practice French and be silly. I've done a lot of thinking lately, as always, found new strength in telling my story, but also new sadness. The hole is deep, friends, and wonderful and dangerous to explore.
Grace and peace.
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