There's no feeling quite like that loose-limbed, frozen-tongued limbo that is to be vilified.
To face your own villainy is one excursion of the searching soul - a journey I've made and back again. Not for the last time either.
Your villainy is that reflection of yourself - the one that grimaces at the sight of you and sneers at your aspirations. Your villainy holds you hostage and ties your better self to railway tracks while an untuned piano plinks and plonks from the outset. Your villainy has a twizzly moustache and a phantom-like cape, draping over one arm like a bat's wing.
And yet it is only once we face down that villainy do we realise it for the caricature it truly is. It's an exaggeration of all our fears and confusion with leering eyes and a goatee to boot.
And then you find that part of yourself at peace. A fitful, hero-worthy peace.
And then, if you're unfortunate enough - upheaval.
Because even once you've contended with your own villain of sorts, you find yourself caught in the crosshairs of someone else's. And I mean proper "deer-in-the-headlights" caught because this shit catches you thoroughly off guard.
To be vilified. To be accused with utmost certainty that you have committed an act most heinous. To be vilified is to become the bad guy in someone else's story of their fiction. To be unequivocally divested of all your trusts and respects in an instant.
And this is where you stand, dumbfounded. Because you are clean - as pure as the driven snow clean. You're caught with bloodied hands that haven't a trace of red upon them. And despite your protestations, the villainy remains.
Congratulations, you've not died the good guy but you've lived long enough to become the bad guy (Thanks Dent).
Someone else's cape swathed; narrow-eyed; twizzly-moustachio'd nemesis has concocted the perfect plan and made sure that you, good sir or madam, have become the fall person.
You thought you were home free - that you'd cleared your round and could skip to the finish line! And then this fiendish curr comes out of someone else's nowhere and becomes your problem all over again.
Life is not easy. Let me paraphrase Picard: It is possible to make absolutely no mistakes and still fail. This is not weakness - this is life.
I'd like to say that I often feel trapped. But I don't - I always feel trapped. Not in my life or within circumstance but trapped inside myself. I find it difficult to express in words but let me try.
I am the prisoner and I am the prison.
I am the shackles & the bars.
I am the warden and the keys at his belt.
I am my own incarceration. I am the jury that convicted me and the judge that sentenced me.
I am the parole board. I weigh myself fecklessly and decide unfairly.
I am afraid, standing before myself. Afraid and cowed.
I am without choice or free-will.
I am returned.
I am the prisoner and I am the prison.
I am dreaming. All day, all night - I am dreaming.
I am wont to longing of freedom.
I am not alone and yet I am. This dream is my cell-mate.
I am trapped. I am incarcerated. I am imprisoned within myself. And I want to be set free. I can reach out and I can grasp and I can turn the key. And I can step out from behind these bars and I can walk out of this gaol and I can breathe in a sense of self that tastes like euphoria. I can do a lot of things.
1. the intellectual identification with or vicarious experiencing of the feelings, thoughts, or attitudes of another.
2. the imaginative ascribing to an object, as a natural object or work of art, feelings or attitudes present in oneself: By means of empathy, a great painting becomes a mirror of the self.
Least fruitful of the X-Men; Purveyor of Antagony; Harbinger of Alcoholism.
I'd like to start this off like the pivotal point in the Peter Parker story - that with great power comes great responsibility. That spandex will be making a serious power-play in my life in the near future. But, no. There was no great life altering event when I was confirmed as an empathist. If anything all it did was give a name to my annoying capacity to get anxiety related whiplash.
Like this. Only not.
Empathy is like a double-edged sword: on one hand you can read peoples' emotions and responses with relative ease. On the other hand you can read peoples' emotions and reponses with relative ease. It's the kind of thing that has really come into it's own having worked in customer service for the last 6 years where hard-selling has often been a part of the game. I have no qualms with surface-reading ( check me out, I'm giving myself abilities now ) potential buyers in the moment - I don't need to know much beyond their reactions. Because a potential buyer comes and goes within the space of 10 minutes, usually. Plays out like chess. Strategic. Check. Check.
Where it gets O so much stickier is when it's people I'm closer to.
You have to understand empathy is not the kind of thing that can be controlled - I don't press two fingers to my temple and squint an awful lot/rupture something then suddenly hear a cacophony of voices enlightening me on everything I could ever hope to know. Hell I'm sure it'd be a lot easier to deal with if that was the case. Nah, empathy is a constant. Every little detail gets picked up on and relayed straight to the ol' frontal lobes for dissection post-haste.
And generally, it comes out pretty useful. I can make small, general assumptions that will help me in some way to improve a situation. If I'm feeling ballsy I can even make pretty epic assumptions that have Hindenburg-level repercussions if I fuck them up. Here's the point I get to be fantastically arrogant: it's not the assumption I'm wrong about, it's the manner in which I deal with it. Great power - great responsibility, remember? Sorry Uncle Ben!
I can already taste the chutney-flavoured forgiveness
Cutely, I heard recently that I shouldn't assume because assumptions "make an ass out of u and me". Which is redundant because I'm pretty sure "go with your gut" is also an assumption-based-out-of-context quote that we never tell people not to do. That's the kind of assumption I'm relating to, something far more primal. So u and me can fuck right off.
No, wait...
So let me link us back in. Empathy can't be controlled. Affects everyone - people I'm close to and otherwise. And it's constant. So take a guess which other wonderfully neurotic human condition is its bedfellow? Paranoia. Because no one wants to upset those closest to them, right? So you pick up on something - a tiny inkling of a detail; a miniscule emotional response. But you wait. Because what if you're wrong? Then you think on it and consider the deeper meaning of that tiny little response. And the more time you spend not acting on it, the more time you spend considering it. Then another tiny little response comes along and stacks ontop of the last one. It really gets quite confusing because these are people you spend a considerable amount of time with. So there's a lot of tiny little responses to contemplate. "There was no opportunity. There was no pause. He just kept talking in
one long incredibly unbroken sentence, moving from topic to topic, so
that no one had a chance to interrupt; it was really quite hypnotic."
So maybe a little bit like this.
So what about conviction? The capacity to stop procrastinating and actually do something entirely resolute. My conviction is as consistent as my resolve. It occurred to me only early yesterday evening that my conviction wavers because I forget that I am a sound judge of character. And in these moments of forgetfullness I seek the counsel of others for their opinions and then somehow decide that their word is creed. Which is lunacy! And entirely counter-intuitive.
Because people can be right.
But they can also be very wrong.
Yes, yes that means you too, Andrew! Do you think Eastwood takes tips on being a bad-ass from the gallery then acts on them? Or that Larsson ever asked someone for pointers on kicking a ball then went off and took it to heart? There's nothing *wrong* with opinions. So long as we remember that that's just what they are. There's nothing concrete about them. And we need to remember that we are allowed to be stalwart in our convictions; adamant in our resolve. "Preaching to the choir" couldn't be more relevent. Say it together now:
I am good at what I do
I resisted the urge to quote Wolverine there. But my point is that I somehow manage to lose faith in the one thing I know I'm pretty accurate at. And I shouldn't. If you're proficient in something why doubt it? Currently struggling with my inner-monologue right now debating the nature of blog posts like these. They're not really for anyone's benefit but my own, right? Self-reassurance in it's most literary form.
I'm going to walk away at this point because my head is about to do a Scanners. "Do a Scanners" should be useable in every-day context. Just sayin'.
The kind of thing I wish empaths could do
Sorry for such a self-masturbatory post. DEAR DIARY... TODAY I INDULGED MYSELF. IT DONE DID FEEL GOOD. THANKS FOR LISTENING.
Now I realise that the very idea of a white-picket fence may nauseate most but it's a fantastic symbol in this instance. Because it's shiny. And white. And pickety. But mostly it represents something idyllic (bear with me) and almost like the metaphorical pinnacle of our territorial pursuits. Think: "This is my land, I've built me a precious lil fence around my land and now it done look purty as well." Except it's the integrity of our relationships and stability of our lives I'm referring to. Not the residence for your amassing garden gnome collection. Which is starting to look worryingly like an army and youshouldprobablytakeoffthatuniformooerrmatron.
So in my way of thinking that fence is there as a boundary. You put that fence up because it represents security and a willingness to accept that this is your life and what you've made of it, and you're content with it to boot.
And where would this bring in where I started off? Well, it doesn't. You no longer give a shit about the grass on the other side. Why would you - you've got this sparkly, new, white-picket fence to look at now! To explain where this thought-process came about I'll elaborate a little. I accept that people quite often get themselves into a rut and more often than not they're all too aware of what's caused it. Reasoning this, it's then entirely up to themselves whether they resolve that situation or not. But I also accept that people will get themselves into a rut and not even realise it.
The difference being in the first circumstance, there's been no new fence erected (teehee). You aren't distracted by the gleaming whitewash and you can see that lush, tastey grass on the other side and you think - gonna git me some o' that eventually. If you manage that, congratulations. If not, this next bit is probably going to happen.
The second circumstance has that fence. You've been in your little hovel long enough that you've decided yeah-sure, might as well make something out of this. And you've chucked up your fence and slapped on that coat of paint, at which point making the rest of the world redundant. Because who doesn't like a bit of comfort and security? Nought wrong with that, and hell, you might like your hovel enough just to love it and be happy with it. Maybe you couldn't give a shit about what's beyond the white-picket fence regardless.
Which is where the name Fence of Obscurity comes into it. And where my thoughts as per usual get horribly convoluted and without any consistency. You're allowed to be happy. There's a reason some people will want to climb the prospective job-opportunity ladder and others are more than content to work as a servitor. We all get our happiness from different directions. We'd be a bunch of boring cutthroats otherwise.
See how boring this guy is? Really boring, right? So boring I...Damnit, where's my pegleg.
SEE! THAT FENCE! It's a manipulative bastard. It's obscuring the point I'm attempting to make. By not making it even remotely visible. The opportunity to look beyond the fence is there only if we choose to peek over the top and past that fantastic brush-stroke technique. Choice is a fantastically human notion. But one of two things lies on the other side and if I were to hazard a guess, I'd say that's why people are hesitant about considering it. You wont see either of those two things initially because that feckin' fence is obscuring it. But once you hop over it'll come to light which of the two outcomes it will be: a better life or a worse one.
The revelation will either heartily pat you on the back with a "Well done, old bean" and present you with a stein of Awesome-Ale. Also a multi-pack of temporary transfer tattoos. Who doesn't love those? Or it'll upper-cut you in the proverbial jewels then drag you away by your ankle as you try to claw your way back to your beautiful, adoring white-picket fence. How dare you cheat on your white picket fence, you son-of-a-bitch. It provided for you and kept you safe and secure. Now it's folded it's arms and glaring at you with admonishment as you are pulled away to a new, unfenced destiny all at your own behest.
'Scuse me while I copyright that idea before Universal catch wind of it. ("Honey, I Married the Premises." meets "Mortal Unholy-Pirate-Awesome-Kombat")
"Did-someone-say-pay-cheque?"
How did I end up talking about pirates? There should be a new version of Godwin's Law involving pirates. We'll call it Pinkbeard's Law. Because that also sounds hilariously like a particularly nasty STI. But yeah: fences. You'll end up with one of two outcomes and I think because the second one is so devastating we quite often come to the conclusion that, nah, it's not worth the risk - I reckon I'll keep holding onto what I'm pretty damn comfy with, say thankee-sai.
So I'd conclude that many of us miss out on the opportunity for greatness and a more...ah...exuberant? Exuberanthappiness. And I'd also conclude that many of us don't give a fuck. Because happiness is relative.
The great thing about me writing these is I've always completely lost the point I was initially making and find I just had too much fun doing the actual writing itself. I started writing this with a sort of vehemence and absoluteness that people are blinded by comforts and fail to grasp at opportunity because they straight up choose not to see it and so end up totally unphased because they're ignorant of the fact it's there in the first place. Because that fence is being an obscuring-distraction. So wait...are we to blame or are actual embodiments of fences to blame for implanting the psychological notion?
I'll need a wood-axe and a lot of lighter fuel.
Also could someone kindly write and ask if they'll let me out for a couple of days?
To finalise, a clip from Return of the King. Because I think it's fantastically irrelevant and metaphorically insignificant. And I couldn't find a fitting Eastwood clip. Mainly the last reason.
Because some people's white picket fences get a bit...extreme.
Welp. Turns out I'm capable of insurmountable amounts of DIY related chaos. This is how the last 20 minutes just played out.
>Inbetween watching movies about 04:15am >Go for pee break >Having pee >Notice sealant on the bath could probably do with redoing >Decide now is as good a time as any >Finishing pee >Search first kitchen cupboard - no sign of sealant gun >Know have seen it somewhere >Check livingroom cupboard >Success >Somewhere in the back of mind have vague recollection of time of day. >Too excited to care >Take a moment to combat roll around living room with sealant gun re-enacting Vietnam era battlefield >Single-handedly take Hill 881 >Return to bathroom >Make several false starts >Realise need to take cap off the nozzle >Go to work. >Note that sealant smells like salt and vinegar crisps. Temptation to taste almost overwhelming. >Dab dab, dab dab, dab dab >Step back and view handiwork >Messy. But niggling itch satisfied >Hands covered in sealant >Try to wash off. Remember why it's called sealant >Still trying to wash off >Still washing >Hands now red >Washing >Singing Flight of the Valkyries >Washing >Bathroom reeks of salt and vinegar crisps. Now starving >Washing >Peel off as much as possible >Give up and dry hands >Feel as though have justified two days off work with successful manly points >Still singing Flight of the Valkyries >Hands still covered in rubbery sealant >Cat has sealant on him. Both cat and human confused as to how this occurred >Assume cat was too stupid to notice it wasn't, infact, salt and vinegar crisps >Ponder how best to dramatise this in status update/tweet form >Wash hands some more >Return to computer >This >Still covered in sealant >No alcohol involved :|
Calmed down an awful lot these past few months, my thoughts aren't quite so scattered as they used to be. Felt inclined to write something - wasn't sure what though. I feel as though the needle on my compass is starting to ease off it's wild whizzing and starting to point more poignantly to somewhere actually on the chart. Don't get me wrong, it's still bouncing around and doing loop-the-loops but every once in a while it does nestle. Just occured to me where that metaphor came from: Jack Sparra'. No matter, shall keep it anyways.
To put it another way, I'm facing the sun. It's at that point where it's tip-toeing between rooftops. You know - when you can't see shit on your screen because you can't afford an LCD or curtains. For the record I'm still speaking metaphorically. I'd be rather concerned if that was the issue at 22:34. So this is the analogy I'm going with. The sun is flinging death-stars of GRAAGHSHITICANTSEE at me. Because i'm facing the sun. And it's tip-toeing across the rooftops. You follow? My point being in that mire of pointlessness is that it might as well be a rising sun. I can't see a damn thing but I reckon I've got a bloody good chance I'm looking at the start of a new day.
Metaphorically speaking.
So to speak.
It's been a long and arduous weekend of working - give me a break. I'll forgive myself at a later date.
Was watching The Outlaw Josey Wales yesterday. Fancying myself a gunslinger. Call me Andrew Deschain. Sun might be in my eyes now but I can always shoot from the hip. If you get what I mean.
My apologies to past me. I'll try ensure that this version of me is less expectant of future me's time-keeping abilities.
My good man were it you knew then what you would find yourself facing mere months after writing. The adversity you would discover as you turned that corner and made-real the vast swathes of thorny thickets strewn before you. There is no advice I could give you now to make the journey easier spare this: do not lose yourself along the way. Because I promise you there are times where you will question everything you have ever believed in and everything you stand for. By the end, you will barely serve as a reminder to the person you used to be. But so long as you still have that silouhette - that outline; that shadow of what you were, you will carry on.
There will be tremendous lows, my old friend. So low you will feel as though you're sipping from the Styx itself. As though you're keeping a penny in your back pocket just incase the Boatman will come a-visiting this day. But somehow you'll get through each day. Quite often it'll be thrashing and wailing; howling and tearing. Every night you will shackle yourself to the last of your sanity in the most paternal of hopes that you won't lose it. You will become the Shawshank that surrounds you but you won't be Andy.
I wish I could say to you now that things will improve ten-fold one year on. They will improve, you will always have that speck of light, but they won't be...resolved? Yes, that's possibly the best word to use. Know now that I still struggle with the same spectres you will shortly allbeit I've found a little more rigor along the way. My eyes are sunken and my cheeks are hollow but God knows I haven't forgotten what determination tastes like. You think you have a few gray hairs now? Give it time.
I'm writing now in a way I know you'll appreciate. You and I, we've always been the same. Trying hard to convince ourselves each and every step that we have the confidence and bearing to overcome all odds, to thwart all adversity and to slay all menial working-class dragons. But you'll also know I'm a dreadful cynic and horrible satirist. You and I, my friend, we are in a nutshell, Fucked. With a capital F. But who didn't ever get back up from a good fucking? Bandy legged and dizzy as hell, we'll make our way to the bathroom, sit down on that chilly seat and smile stupidly to ourselves, pondering "Was it real?"
I think importantly you want to know why I'm writing to you anyways. It's all well and good in that the style i'm writing to you in is a familiar one, but why am I even bothering in the first place? Because right now I am giving you the heads-up and the strength and fortitude that I could seriously do with at this point in the old continuum. People will always sit there in the background with their own agendas - preoccupied with their own feelings and happenstance. We can't blame them because we simply aren't allowed to. It's the joy of being human. Everyone has their own little garden to tend to. Why should they give up their one and only rake because you need it for a couple of weeks? And yea your grasp of metaphors hasn't transpired to anything fantastical over the past 13 months either.
Be strong my little brother. You are going to suffer like nothing else, but you be strong and you don't forget that I'll be here waiting for you in the end, arms stretched. We'll find a way through this together. Stay safe.
