I do a lot of thinking. Kind of why I keep this thing around. At any rate, the other day I sort of considered, during a quiet moment, who I am at this period in time, and how I seem to have discovered what I want to do. A lot of it has to do with the fact that I can do my job without being miserable. Which is important. Not only do many people dislike their jobs, I feel sometimes a little guilty that my particular job—Working with children with mental health/behavior issues—ought to make me more depressed. So I started thinking. And then I wrote.
I sit in a curriculum room, awaiting the start of pre-group meeting. Focus on my breathing. Relax. Everything I brought in with me is fading, ideally, to some mental back-burner that stores the laughter and stresses of the outside world. It’s an odd feeling, compartmentalizing myself. The changing of metaphorical hats.
I had always thought of myself as a chameleon. I assumed I had an ability to change myself as situations, social or professional, dictated. What I didn’t realize until recently is that that analogy is shallow, based on appearances. Colors and facades, with only the mechanical organism itself continuous and whole beneath.
My mind isn’t fragmented, or made up of transient aspects. It is the organism. It’s me. My wealth of experience: good, bad, and boring. And my thoughts and memories thereof. My likes and dislikes. The smell of fresh rain of asphalt and hypocrites.
When I’m here, my mind turns. Presents its shell. The segmented back of an armadillo can face the slings and arrows that makes up the outrageous fortunes of others. As well as protect the smooth, pink skin and hairy feelers of the more emotional me.
Here, I look for meaning, but not for my meaning. I look for patterns and signs, signals and tics, but not for a response in myself. I’m not cold, by any means. But not quite warm either. I’m removed. Purportedly objective. But with a bright, engaged look on my face. A genuine smile on top of calculated analysis.
It’s a strange feeling, one that shocked me at first. But one that I’m becoming increasingly comfortable with. I’m good at this.
When I think of myself now, I don’t think of a chameleon. A crowd pleasing harlequin. I think of a toolbox. A set of skills and behaviors. A vocabulary.
I’m what I think, what I do, and most importantly what I can do. That’s all I need to know.
I’ve gotten more than a few questions relating to how I came to this point. I wish I knew. Partially because if I could write it down, I would make millions. But all I will say is this. If you think you need to find yourself, you need to stop looking and start doing. You need to feel, you need to hurt a bit, and then get better. And you need to find hope. A goal. Then you need to control what you do. Exercise your will.
Believe in yourself, slowly, incrementally, one tiny step at a time. Get straight up in the morning without hitting snooze. Go to the gym at the end of the day. Prove to yourself that you can do whatever it is you want to. Then you’ll see you’re strong. You’ll do things you’re proud of. Find things you’re good at. And then, and only then, you can be yourself. Not the things you think you’re looking for.
That’s it.
RJC
It’s hard for me to type “10” at the end of the date, after 10 years of putting a 0. I suppose I must have made similar adjustments at the turn of the millennium, but I have no memory of that.
Anyways, in the spirit of ranting, this is SCRAPS. Blammo, internet. Blam. Mo.
1) I just returned from going on a spirited adventure to see Robin Hood, Ridley Scott and Russell Crowe’s tearful reunion piece. I assume they spent most of their time on set spooning, because they certainly didn’t spend much time making a good movie. Christ. It was, as I had effectively predicted, a capable sequel to both Braveheart and Gladiator. Those two movies come to mind because, if you ignore Bravehearts Jesus overtones, they take a historical (or in this case fabular) figure and use their story, big budget battlefields, and cheeky one liners to display American notions of Freedom and the Rights of Man in a way that is totally inappropriate to the source material. Our stories opens in King Richard the Lionhearted’s Crusade, a 10 year jaunt to the holy land which finds archers Robin, Will Scarlet, and some dickhead named Alain—As well as the beefy… is battering ram pusher a job? That’s what Little John was doing. At any rate, they’re doing their thing on the way back to England, sacking some apparent douchebag’s castle in France.
Problem 1: Too much of this movie takes place in France.
Anyways, I don’t want to spoil the rest of the story, but needless to say they get back to England and have some stuff to do, he meets the rest of his crew (Marian and Friar Tuck, who is a fat drunk idiot) and they do some things. He finds out the truth about his past and joins a movement to bring democracy to England, which as we all know totally worked, as there hasn’t been a king or queen in England since the late 1100s.
Problem 2: The magna carta appears to be in this movie.
A bunch of kerfuffle, political intrigue, and other crap happens, and the Sheriff of Nottingham briefly appears as a useless drunk.
Problem 3: The Sheriff of Nottingham isn’t the bad guy, nor is King John.
Problem 3a: The bad guy is now stock-movie-bad-guy, Mark Strong with a shaved head.
At any rate, some shit happens and they fight a bunch, and then a big battle that I was apparently supposed to care about takes place.
Problem 4: The final battle scene in the movie is taken directly from Saving Private Ryan, except its the French landing at the Cliffs of Dover and everyone has bows and arrows, and the bad guys are landing on the beach and its totally fucking stupid.
Hell, I could present you with just that, and you wouldn’t want to see it. The point is, don’t throw your money at this. Wait for the sequel, since this was effectively “Braveheart/Gladiator 2: Robin Hood: Origins.” Boo.
2) Despite seeing a terrible terrible movie, I continue to be in a consistently good mood, as I have been for several months now. Actually, come to think of it it’s been about half a year since I’ve done any stinking thinking (a term I learned at work for negativity). So that brings me to work. I have somehow gained gainful employment at an outpatient group therapy program for kids. It’s an interesting job to be sure, and gives me a great range of experience that hopefully will apply to later careers. I won’t talk too much about it, due to both the sense that it’s not hugely interesting in detail, and the fact that HIPAA literally prevents me from doing so. Confidentiality, bitch!
What I will say is that this is the first job that I have ever had that is a positive step forward in the career-sense. Yes, I’ve had jobs before that apply to my interests, and I’ve advanced fairly high up the ladder of retail sales, but that’s … Well, crap. This is meaningful, interesting work, and allows me to learn each day. Something that selling basically never is or does.
So that’s a good note.
3) The weekend was fantastic, as I was joined by my lady up here in CT. We started off strong with grilled cheese sandwiches, replete with both gouda and smoked mozzarella, and apple. Then it was bed and a Saturday brunch, followed by venturing into an antique store guarded by a homeless man. I feel like he may have served the same role as a gargoyle, as the owner didn’t seem to mind, and he may have been connected to the gutters. Anyways, after hearing the tale of how he had died three times (once due to being shot! Fun facts on the streets of Westville CT!) we were off, further indulging our food interests by shopping for dinner.
I feel like it’s important to mention, at this juncture, that we are not morbidly obese, nor do we routinely overeat to the point of horrible bloating and near-pants-pooping. We just like food. It’s important to us. A passion. I like that I share this with someone, and frankly pity people who don’t care that much about what they eat. If I had a utilitarian attitude towards food, why I’d never have done what we did later: deconstruct and eat artichokes.
Now… She will happily chime in that she is far better at this than me, and she is right. Those fuckers are scary. Basically it’s a giant thistle (and I mean that botanically, as well as in terms of the fear it inspires in me). Except instead of being all bristly and painful and get-stuck-in-your-socks-ish, it’s kinda leafy and filled with a “choke” of fluffy hairs. Which of course has to be removed, lest you… choke. Sigh. We peeled the outer leaves, chopped the tops off, and braised them in a lemon-fennel-coriander scented bath, which was further bolstered by onion and garlic. After that we removed the choke and pan-seared them, adding a browned nuttiness to the exterior. In short, it was fucking delicious. Somehow, they ended up tasting like a rich, complex tomato sauce. Tangy, spicy, a hint of sweetness. I wanted more, but we had only purchased 2, which yielded little other than labor. But when added to grilled corn and later grilled pineapple, we had ourselves a wonderful dinner.
Sunday we did breakfast here then ventured down to her parents. I can honestly say that I am good at dealing with the parents of friends and historically the parents of significant others. But I cannot say that I have ever found myself comfortable in the situation, or totally relaxed. I have reached that point and it makes me optimistic.
Now. If you’ve made it this far through my personal bullshit, I’m impressed. I figure most of you stuck with me through Robin Hood, and maybe the thing about my job, but me talking about being happy with another person? I don’t think there’s ever been a successful blog about that. So, with that in mind I bring you SCRAP 4: BITCHFEST.
4) I drove from New Haven to Madison today, in order to go see the movie. However, it was raining, and as I discovered: Rain makes people in CT go from normal, capable drivers, to gibbering brake-and-horn jamming retards. Surprisingly quickly. It took me an hour and a half to get out there, because of traffic, with no accidents. I’m sorry, but if you’re going to delay my drive that much, I would at least like to have something to gawk at. Be it a fender bender or a bloodsoaked nightmare that I will later regret seeing, just give me something. If it’s a fender bender, I can giggle at the anger on the faces of two people who have turned an ordinary journey into an expensive hassle, all due to highway hubris. If it’s a bloodsoaked nightmare, then at least I can say “Thank god it wasn’t me,” think about things in life that I appreciate, and breathe a sigh of relief.
Unfortunately, there was nothing. Only line after line of cell-phone chatting mouthbreathers, rap-music blaring idiots in luxury SUVs, and worried soccer moms driving what are effectively tanks. I was cut off repeatedly, given the finger at least once, and forced to feel as though my existence was an inconvenience to the entire well-to-do shoreline commuter community.
In short: Fuck you people. It’s just rain. Once a few drops hit the window, turn on your wipers, slow down 10 miles an hour. That’s it. Don’t clutch the wheel as though it’s the only thing that’ll float in an oceanic plane crash, slam on the brakes, and yell “HURRRRRRRR” at the top of your lungs. You animals. You fucking animals.
Right, how’s that for some vitriol? Good to know I still got it, even if I am happy and in love. Have a good night, internet.
RJC
On a lighter note, chicken defeats chicken by wing-bar at 2:52 seconds of round number delicious.
…
I’m bored today.
RJC
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Frank Frazetta did so much quality painting and illustrating in his 82 years that it seems stupid to attempt to pick a favorite. Here’s a random assortment of images from the man who redefined—No, hell, defined fantasy artwork, influencing countless fellow fantasy artists, comic book illustrators, and when you get down to it, the guys who drew the covers to every book I ever loved as an awkward fantasy-minded adolescent. He hadn’t done too much lately, but his body of work speaks volumes. He will be missed.
His most famous image, The Death Dealer was used as cover art for Molly Hatchet’s 1978 S/T debut album.
Genius. Threatening, mysterious and detailed.
His covers for Robert E. Howard’s series of original Conan The Barbarian books were fantastic, and started the trend of “Badass dude on a pile of evil guys” trend in fantasy art. Here you can see his painting for Conan The Destroyer
Finally, Frazetta did for me what he likely did for a lot of awkward, lonely tweens: drew sexy ladies. His women were often caricatures, exaggerated in form and expression, but there was always a sort of playfulness to it, or an underlying power. Somehow he skirted the line between strength, coyness and objectification the way only a man who truly appreciates the appeal of a curvaceous female could. I’d be exaggerating if I said that Frank Frazetta’s portrayal of the female form informed my sexual preferences entirely, but I might be lying if I said that I didn’t spend an undue amount of time studying some book jackets in grades 6-8.
Above is a sketch and the full painting “The Moon’s Rapture.” Both fairly representative of his fantasy work (IE Non-pinup.) The Pinup stuff I discovered later, when I was less transfixed by the painted buttocks of a female. Still though, fantastic stuff.
Rest In Peace, sir.
RJC
I somehow assume that the smarter monkeys are always sad. They haven’t mastered the tools of great apes/hominids, nor do they experience the poo-flinging abandon of those retarded lower primates.
I suppose, in a way, they are the baby bears of the ape world. Neither noble nor base, they are in fact, just right. Maybe that’s why they hold such appeal to us.
In all seriousness, I just thought this was a cool picture. And am extremely tired and weird. Hope you enjoyed it. Goodnight.
RJC
“I do not season steak. Start seasoning steak and before you know it? You’re French. No. I go to my personal butcher and say “Give me a piece of meat that’s been sawn off an animal.” And they throw me a chunk of animal. And then I say “Show me the animal this meat was sawn off.” And they show me a picture of a crying cow with a gaping hole in its side. And I say “Did the animal cry when you sawed my piece of meat off it?” And they show me a ziploc bag full of cow tears. And I say “Rub that on my steak! Let that be my sesasoning!” —
Warren Ellis.
I had a manly weekend, felt like this summed up the willingly idiotic attitude I may have adopted at various times. Now, to limp over to Dave’s to watch UFC 112.
RJC
I’ll dive right in.
1) Like so many other people, I assume the golden age of pranking to be the 1890’s. I mean think about it: the gullibility of man as demonstrated by snake oil salesman and the dubious invention of soft drinks as medicine, the advent of electricity (which opened new doors in pranking technology), and the simultaneous love for and suspicion of all things new and spectacular.
Which brings me to my point: The internet has ruined April Fool’s Day. It used to be that people only received so much information at one time. The local paper, a friend with a hilarious waxed mustache, etc. Nowadays, we are inundated. My Google Reader, while likely not over-subscribed or impressive, still manages to kick up 200-300 new items per day. And today, of those, I basically refused to believe all of them that were not hilarious photographs of people falling and/or adorable animals. Why?
Because it’s April first. A day when the internet is flooded with false news stories. From rumors of celebrity demises to Google changing its name to Topeka, the internet becomes slightly less easy to navigate and definitely more irritating. Of course, this brings forth the larger issue of whether or not we should be this skeptical of internet reporting at all times. I think we should. But I think we don’t want to. Or at least I don’t want to. It’s a hassle, analyzing it, and by the time you reach the items that are most definitely jokes, you feel tired and irritated. It’s like a toddler jumping out from behind a corner and yelling boo. The first time, he might surprise you. The second, it’s still cute. By the 50th, you just want to tell him that it doesn’t work anymore, and you wish he would go somewhere else for a while.
Oh, and before anyone even considers it, I don’t understand why Rick Astley is a joke. He has a lovely voice.
2) Aaaaaaanyways. Whew. Had to get that out there. Topic numero dos: Crossword puzzles. Seriously. A few weeks back I completed a New York Times Sunday crossword for the first time in my life. Now, I’ve dabbled before, with the local New Haven register one, various internet sites that have them, but the Times one filled me with a perverse sense of accomplishment. I craved more, feeling I need something to keep my brain alive during this long, fairly slow period I seem to have found myself in. So, I found an old book of them kicking around the house, and have done 52 of them in the past 3 weeks. Which, when you say it out loud (or even type it into the hollow void of internet space) makes me seem like a complete loser. But a loser with a brain full of bad puns and trivia knowledge!
Looking back on that sentence, I feel like those nearest and dearest to me will inform me that I didn’t need to do crossword puzzles to fill my brain with bad puns and trivia knowledge. And, arguably, that I should have left the levels of those particular items where they were, rather than topping them up. But feh! There is an obsession here that I can’t quite articulate. Each clue solved unlocks the next, and it’s addictive. It’s like… I suppose it’s like living in a Dan Brown novel, except my dialog is better written and no albino freaks are shooting at me.
Think about it.
Alright, despite that only being 2 scraps, I’m outie. Enjoy the newly wonderful weather, and have an excellent weekend, everybody.
RJC
As with all great procrastinated works, I’ll begin this post with the solemn regret that I don’t do this more often. Of course, that’s a bit disingenuous, in that it doesn’t occur to me to write on here until I exhaust most of my other things-I-could-be-doing. But today it is a seasonably cool, gray Friday afternoon. When the employed portion of the world wouldn’t read my desperate missives anyways, as they are looking forward to their weekends of comfortable footwear and pet ownership.
I envy those sandals and smiling dog faces.
At any rate, I don’t mean to make it sound as though it’s all bad, in fact life is quite good. For one thing, the American economy got a slight boost this morning after news that the EU would have to bail Greece out. How on Earth that should affect us, other than the decrease in the price of a barrel of olive oil, I have no idea. But it does. Maybe Greece misfortune will translate into my personal gain? Probably not, but hey.
Right, away from personal employment issues and onto the scraps.
1) March Madness’ Surprising Upsets Render My Idiotic Attempt at Gambling Just Plain Sad.
In keeping with now yearly tradition, I filled out a bracket for my brother’s NCAA basketball tournament pool. Knowing little, I drew on a combination of gut feelings, guesswork, and which teams mascot would win in a real-life fight. I naturally went with Syracuse, as what on earth could possibly beat an Orange Man in a fight? It should be noted that I went under the assumption that the “Orange Man” was as depicted below:
Sadly, Syracuse did not follow in the footsteps of their mascot, who would have clearly butt-fucked the Butler Bulldog into submission, if the above image is to be believed. Instead they lost, taking some of my belief in my NCAA/Orwellian motto, “Ignorance is strength” away from me. Sigh. At any rate, at least basically no one’s doing well, with Kansas out in the second round and an Ivy League school actually in the tournament. I suppose some would argue that this is what makes the tournament exciting. The thrill of upsets, the agonies of costly defeats. All I know what I assumed I could at least have one team in the Final Four as predicted, and now it looks like that might not even be true. In the future, I will stick to betting on sports I know about. Like Division 3 Polo. I did, after all, go to Skidmore.
2) I recently did a monthly wander through a bookstore, and realized something. In the bit near the front, you know, the “Shit it really seems like you ought to read” section? Anyway, in that bit, there was a row of books, alternating arguments for and against God. The “God Delusion” begets “The Case for the Divine” begets “Atheists are Right” begets “FUCK YOU, GOD’S THERE.” Those aren’t exact titles, but that progression does pretty accurately represent the increasing impoliteness of what is fast becoming America’s biggest polemic industry.
My own feelings on the nature of the divine are both complex and not really worth discussing here. But I will say this. I feel as though the amount of effort and energy being put forth trying to convince the other side is… well, wasteful. Certainly for those who purport to be believers. I find it difficult to argue with atheists writing these books, because they seem to spend most of their time loudly displaying their atheism anyways, be it at a bar, coffee shop, or christening. Most people who are evangelical atheists (won’t that term just make their skin crawl?) are basically assholes anyways, and since there is no God in their worldview, they don’t have better God-related things to do with their time. The pro-Godders, on the other hand… It seems like not every one of these Atheistic tomes needs a response. Surely God would prefer you do something a bit more interesting with your time than talk about why, according to the insufferably tight quarters of human logic, He/She/It actually IS. If you believe in God, you must assume God to have some form of awareness of God’s own existence, so you certainly aren’t writing the book for God’s benefit. Right? So why not go out and instead do all the nice things God historically seems to have told people to do, instead of wasting paper and time and breath arguing with people who, if they are right, will be worm food for eternity anyways? Life’s too short.
Oh, caveat to the “Do things God historically seems to have told people to do”: I meant in terms of charity, good works, and such. Not so much crusades, jihads, or anything the Norse or Greek gods told people to do. They were just creepy. For proof, see Odin, 1-eyed, suicidal king of the Norse gods. Gives me the willies.
3) I left this one for the end, because frankly, if you got through the above paragraphs about cartoon rape and God-arguing, then you deserve a nugget of my personal happiness. This is not a position I’m accustomed to being in, but I find myself now on what I would call the brink of serious romance. It’s a bit like being at the top of the first rise on a roller coaster. You take the long, slow, clanking ascent upwards, and then everything goes silent. There is clarity, there is peace. There is, perhaps, the honking of a distant goose, as amusement parks often have ponds or rivers. As you look in front of you, you see the long, twisting, rising and falling track and you think to yourself, “This is about to happen.” Your stomach flips in giddy horror and you know that come what may, you will not regret this.
It’s a wonderful feeling.
That’s all for now, folks.
RJC
PS: Apparently the orange monster from Looney Tunes is named Gossamer. What. The. Fuck.