Obligatory New Year’s Day post, wherein I lay bare my resolutions, exposing them to the eyes of my peers, thereby cementing myself to them.
First, I resolve to have more of my work reviewed. I sent out exactly one short story in 2012 for publication (and actually I’m sending it out tomorrow, but it’s for December 2012’s open submission period), and that is a poor showing, indeed. Moosejaw got our first EP reviewed last year, and I am preparing the package to have the new one reviewed this year, as well as a five-song Macy demo, but I need to write more, and record more, and more importantly, SEND IT OUT.
Second, I resolve to be more attentive to those I keep close to me. To achieve this end, I will make a conscious effort to listen more and assume less. There is so much I don’t say, suggest, or allow of myself because I assume it will be ill-received, which is unfair to those I care about. I need to be better at asking questions and LISTENING to the answers; get to know these people rather than assume their wants and desires.
Third, I resolve to make myself more accessible to my friends and family. There is so much I didn’t do in 2012; I closed myself off, socially, and I regret that. So many birthday celebrations missed, so many local shows wherein I was a no-show, so many honest invites that I turned down for no reason at all. In retrospect, I’ve been courting a loneliness that doesn’t need to be. That being said, I will make myself more available, and be sure that my friends and family know that I am there for them, whenever needed, but I refuse to fish for validation. I won’t beg for you.
Fourth, all the usual suspects, lumped into one: Financialpersonalfitnesscareergrowth, we’ll call it. And no, I will not use it in a sentence.
Fifth, and most importantly, to be a better husband to my wife.
I want to be a better, more productive person. Sleep is nice, though, isn’t it?
I unabashedly love Christmas. Everything about it. I love the lights, the music, the food, the family, the friends, the exchanging of gifts. I even love the commercialized aspects of it: Santa Claus appearing in every television ad, Red and Green decorations in every corner of the neighborhood that can make a buck, the artificial warmth pumped into every building with a roof. I love Christmas movies, special Christmas episodes of television shows, especially cartoons. I love hot cocoa and chilled whiskey. Everyone bundled up in overcoats with scarves, gloves, and hats. I love it all. It is my favorite time of year.
People say it gets longer every year, but for me it doesn’t seem that way. Sure, the Christmas items are in the store right after Halloween, but the past few years I’ve been broke as Hell for Christmas and so the minimal amount of shopping I did took less than a handful of hours. The subsequent exchanges took seconds, and before I could hold the moment close to me and squeeze it through my skin and into my heart, it was over. I will make a conscious effort to be financially prepared next year to make my Christmas the biggest extravaganza full of love and prosperity for all I know for all time. Until 2014.
Merry Christmas to all of you and my sincerest wishes for a very happy New Year!
“It’s alright. I’m just practicing being considerate.”
That’s a text message I sent to a friend the other day, and it’s true. I have to make a conscious effort to be considerate; it doesn’t come natural. It caused me to think of what kind of friend I am, to this person and to everyone. Do I contribute, do I enrich, or do I take away?
I genuinely believe I enrich the lives of my friends. I am done with taking from others. I think I have been for quite some time. I just want to give, to enrich the lives of others. A lot of the impetus of this is practical: I have just about everything I want, and I don’t need what I don’t have. Like I was telling a friend of mine on the phone today, I don’t have a lot of fuckaround money these days, but my bills are always paid, and I am always fed, and I am happy. I can’t afford to get my wife the biggest Christmas gift in the world, but we’re not poor by any means, and I’m still insured and saving for retirement, and not having to bum rides off of more affluent friends all the time. So, yeah, life is pretty good.
I have had friends and acquaintances that haven’t enriched my lives; that have, in fact, stolen life from me. It helps me to realize the person I don’t want to be. I am always eager to help anyone who asks, and I am open to using my resources to benefit others, though I rarely ask the same of my peers.
I only want to give, to contribute, to be the best version of myself for each and every person. In this end, I have many good friends, and I am generally well-liked. The few people who don’t like me (or don’t care) I consider to be jealous. I had to really convince myself of this, because as soon as my brain offered “Oh they’re just jealous!” as an answer, I saw every hoochied-out teen-mom Paris Hilton-clone waving their finger shouting “Oh, you just jealous!” to the detractors of their lifestyle. It’s the answer of insecure; the over-inflated bravado of the fearful. But in my case, I believe it to be true. The few people I can think of who don’t smile when I enter a room or genuinely enjoy time spent with me are more often than not jealous. One fellow in particular, who is a writer, doesn’t like me because I also write. He probably thinks he’s better at it than me (and he probably is) but just because I also write, he is intimated by me. Also, I think he wants my wife. That happens a lot.
I don’t begrudge people their jealousies, particularly when it’s because they see something in my life that they wish they had. I sometimes wish everyone could have the life that I have, but at the same time I’m incredibly happy it’s mine and I’m not about to lease it out to anyone else.
To this end, I try to only give to my friends; only make them laugh, make them smile, give them love. Sometimes it means I have to make a concerted effort to be considerate, to think of people who aren’t standing directly in front of me, and I’m working on that. It’s something I’ve struggled with in the past, and in the coming years I hope to improve in this aspect.
I don’t really have much else to say. This was just running through my mind the other day. I wonder how accurate my impression of myself and others may be in this diatribe, but I’m sure if I’m wrong, it will make itself apparent soon.
My Year of Giving Dangerously has come to a close. I have donated $50 to a different charity each month in 2012, with only one rule: humanitarian aid only. Maybe next year I’ll donate to wildlife or nature conservation, but I figured to begin I’d donate to people so that they can continue to be around in the near future to spearhead these other charities for the Earth. Makes sense, right?
(More than likely next year’s charity will be my wife, though.)
So here are all the charities I donated to this year and links to their sites:
Cancer for College – a charity devoted to funding college educations for young people affected by Cancer who’ve all but ruled out the idea of such luxury.
Tailored for Education – in many African nations, young students are required to wear a uniform to receive schooling at a crippling cost to the families, so many forego it entirely. This charity sees that those children have their uniforms without their families having to mortgage their meals for them.
We Can Be Heroes – DC Publishing works with charities involved in supplying aid to the impoverished children in the Horn of Africa.
It Gets Better – a movement meant to show LGBT youth that understanding will flourish and give them the courage to be themselves and welcome members of society.
Easter Seals – a charity that benefits paraplegic and the mobility-impaired.
Becky’s House – a shelter in San Diego for victims of domestic violence and their families.
Our Kids Read, Too! – My good friend’s son’s special education classroom in Suwanee, Georgia.
Make-a-Wish Foundation – a charity that grants the wishes of terminally ill children. I’ve worked with them at my restaurant a few times when patients have come through town to visit the zoo or Sea World, and they do wonderful work.
Doctors Without Borders – dedicated physicians who travel to remote areas of the world where medical attention is both scarce and desperately needed.
Many of these charities have offices in your city, and when donating, you are given the option to choose where you would like your money to be utilized, either locally, nationally, or globally. It’s pretty decent.
I am writing here to procrastinate working on my NaNoWriMo project. In addition to this superfluous blog, I have also done a load of laundry, ate a bowl of fish protein with butter and salt, hung art on the walls of the apartment, carved imperfections from my face with a switchblade, and checked FaceBook incessantly.
Yesterday I was in the office counting money when I heard the door to the restaurant open across the dining room. I tensed for a moment, suspicious that I may soon feel a knife slide between my ribs and bleed out on the office floor. Surprisingly, that didn’t set me ill at ease. In fact, I think I was kind of hoping for it. And that sets me ill at ease.
I know it’s not healthy at my age to have no real fears. Men are supposed to have fear; it’s a side-effect of wisdom. Knowledge and experience teach Men that the world is a dangerous place, that any slight misstep may result in irreversible fates. The naiveté of children is nothing more than blissful ignorance. So why, at 34, do I still have no real fears?
I am not naive; I know full well what fates Death has in store for us. But I don’t fear it. Not at all. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I welcome it, because I don’t want to die, but if I did, I wouldn’t be all that upset.
As I sat in the office, listening with tingling anticipation, holding a fistful of five dollar bills, a quote from Peter Pan came singing into my head. “To die will be an awfully big adventure.” That sentence played in my head, and it felt so right, so accurate, that I felt my left eye fill with tears that I didn’t let fall.
So to say I am fearless is not entirely true. I am afraid of one thing: my fearlessness.
Don’t misunderstand me: I’m not going to go dancing with trains or trick-or-treating in March in the ghetto, but I just don’t have any fear of dying. My life is amazing, and if I died tomorrow or even today, I would have nothing to lament. I’ve had music, love, wine and laughter. If I would measure success, I would use those as my inches, and find mine spanning the globe in feet upon feet.
I wish I could swallow you inside me, only to cry you out…
In a dream I once had, everyone I’d loved is gone. I am standing in a common room in an upstairs terrace of a home, evidence about me that they were once among the living. A dent in a sofa cushion, a half-finished beer, an abandoned cell phone, I can still smell her on the bed sheets. But they are gone, and I am alone. An alien creature had landed in the backyard while we were hanging out, and then started killing us off one by one. Finally, when only I was left, it liquefied itself and poured into my body, overtaking me. With my conscience the only thing left to me, I sat in the back of my mind and thought of all my murdered friends and cried. As I felt their loss, my body began sobbing, and the creature was expelled through my tears, a black tar rolling down my face, until it dissipated in the air. I had conquered the evil, but I was still alone. My victory has done nothing for my fallen friends; everyone I loved is still dead. I wake crying.
I am a janitor. I clean up everyone’s shit.
So, two mornings ago I had an interesting dream: I’m in a van with friends, cruising down a road in a wooded area of central California. I know where we’re going and why, but I soon forget when I see a sign that lets drivers know they’re nearing a music festival ground. I know we’re not headed to the festival, but now I can’t push it from my mind or recall where we’re actually going. Before I can recall, we come across a gaggle of hippies standing in the middle of the road with pamphlets. They’re part of a commune and they’re selling wares for sustenance. They stop all traffic by standing directly in the road and diverting passersby to their little stand of trinkets. I recognize four of the people in the group, one of whom has passed away from my waking life. We stop the van and get out to look at their shit, mostly t-shirts and toys, $10 each or 3 for $20. I see a few Transformers amongst the toys, one of them an incredibly rare police car that transforms into a robot that for a very brief moment in the late 80s led the Decepticon forces. I pick it up and start to transform it, quickly realizing that it doesn’t turn into a robot from my youth at all, but actually into an action figure of Tyler Perry from his forthcoming role as Alex Cross in the film of the same name. I am trying to complete the transformation, struggling with a removable cloak and strangely pivoting triceps, and I realize that my friends are starting to pile back into the van while I’m still wasting time with my Tyler Perry toy. I continue to fiddle with it, and the pervasive thought of how much time I’m wasting becomes a deafening roar until it wakes me. I realize then that it is noon and I am late for work.
I don’t know what that means.
Being an adult is expensive, and tiring. I would be more of a morning person if it weren’t so damn early.
I was driving to work today and saw a slew of people on an overpass with all manner of signs to sway potential voters’ opinions in the coming elections: Food regulation, “No on 37”, and whathaveyou. At the precise point where the bridge spread over the highway I noticed that the north-bound lanes were at a dead stop, at least one Highway Patrol car at the head of the bottleneck. I didn’t slow to see what all the commotion was about, but I assumed (rather darkly) that it had something to do with the political demonstrators. That many people with such high-held opinions in one place is rarely a recipe for harmony. Being a cynic, I assumed the worst of the people gathered there, as I often do.
Is it just me, or do people with really bad ideas seem to be the first to line up and scream them from the mountaintops, while people with good ideas seem apathetic? This line of thinking bounced around my head for the rest of the drive to work and I decided I’d start a blog entry about and talk it out, out loud, to myself, on screen, while all six of you watch.
First off, when I agree with a certain ballot initiative, my first thought is not to leave work and buy poster paper and glitter paint. I don’t know that I’ve ever been considered a proponent for… anything, really. If I do agree with something and want others to know, I’ll talk about it to people that I’m close to. I might blog about it, or post a blurb about it on FaceBook or Twitter. These things are both lazy and super-effective; it takes about ten seconds and reaches four of five hundred people, some of who actually give a shit about what I think.
It’s always the zealots with really bad ideas who are first to hit the streets, hit the parks, hit the innocent bystanders over the head with hate. Standing on the side of the road holding a sign that says “Vote ‘Yes’ on Prop 8 & Honk if you hate Fags!” might reach the same amount of people as a Tweet, but about half or more of them will swerve to hit you. I think the “apathy” I refer to that those with good ideas feel is based on the assumption that their conclusion is the obvious one; “Yes, all people should be entitled to marry. Obviously.” Why scream and yell about something that’s should be understood intrinsically? That’s like standing outside a courthouse with a bullhorn, yelling “Air should be Free!!!” Yeah, we know; we get it. You have to scream to get someone to hear you when your argument is as preposterous as “I should be able to govern your vagina!!!!”
Of course, this assessment is not 100% accurate; there are exceptions on both sides. What it does do is make me wary of anyone holding a sign with an opinion on it. I see a person not working, consuming, or actively petitioning for change; I see a person holding a sign. Life is short, kids. We’ve all got a lot to do. If you have time to hold a sign for several hours, you’re probably doing something wrong with your life. And before reading the sign, I’m going to assume it’s something I don’t agree with. Because if it was, I would have read about it on the internet, not in purple glitter paint on neon yellow posterboard with egregious misspellings.
Again, that’s just my opinion. For you to peruse. On the internet.
Here’s a kitten:
Opinions are like assholes: most of them stink; and they’re better heard, not seen.
I was walking through the mall today on my way to see a movie when a GreenPeace worker saw me, noticed my Marvin the Martian shirt, and said “Ah, you’re a fan of cartoons; we should chat.” I said “It looks as though I’m headed somewhere,” and gestured forward in the direction that I was clearly walking towards with purpose. She stood shocked, mouth agape, and eventually called out to me, as I’d passed her by this point, “Well, have a good day, then.” I called back “You, too,” and went to my movie, which was just starting. I felt like I’d been short with her, rude, but I knew I hadn’t. The fact of the matter was, I did look like I was headed somewhere. I was moving, trucking, my shoulders and hips in concert as I strode forward, cutting through time and space. I merely pointed it out to her as a fact, to persuade her that maybe people with an air of purpose aren’t her target audience. I spend a lot of time in a teeming public while I am totally alone, and I can tell the difference between someone ambling to and fro and someone actively going somewhere. People who amble don’t use their hips or shoulders; their sad little feet shuffle and pull them through advertising-laden environments while their head spins on a swivel to detect the secret something that will fill their soul with happiness. More often than not, it’s Jamba Juice.
I thought about going to see if she was still there after the movie and explain my position, let her know I’m not an asshole, just a guy with purpose, with drive. But I doubt she’d listen, or agree that a movie is more important than the Sumatran Tiger which is near extinction. It’s not; I get that, but keeping someone from an appointment, no matter how trivial, won’t drive the threat back, either. In retrospect, I should’ve made myself a little more late for the film and explained it to her right then and there; stopped mid-stride and walked back to her. Sat her down on a bench nearby and people-watched with her, pointing out the slower sheep who were ripe for slaughter and also the brazen antelope which were well out of her predatory league. Again, I doubt it would have done much good, but at least I would’ve taken the time, and that can’t be rude, now can it?
I know the amblers; I see them a lot. I was driving home from work yesterday and I saw a man crossing the street, his shoulders hunched over, his head down, a black plastic bag in his right hand hanging heavy, almost touching the ground. He pressed the button for the crosswalk and looked up to see the traffic conditions and his look was so vacant and yearning that I felt my heart catch in my throat. His sadness, his sense of misplacement, was all too familiar to me. I felt an empathy toward him, and it reminded me that I feel it a lot. I am constantly being manipulated, however minutely, by the feelings of those around me. Not just those socially close to me; those in my general vicinity. I was at a stop light and a gentleman crossed in front of me, looking at his phone, earplugs in, smiling one of the dopiest grins I’d ever seen. I chuckled to myself, and immediately chastised myself for it and fell into a deep remorse. Then the light turned green and I left them all behind, my mind cleared, the wind came in from the window, the song changed on the iPod, and I was myself, again. Or maybe someone else. I don’t know if I’ll ever really know.
I’m just tired of pain, you know? Everyone is so sad all the time, and they have plenty of reason to be. When I was younger, everything seemed so much more positive. Television was populated with people we could aspire to be like: Matlock, Jessica Fletcher, Mr. Moore from Head of the Class. All the popular music was about love and happiness, and the human interest story was the highlight of the nightly news. Now it seems like dissonance and despair reign supreme. Television is filled with negative role models, people we’re genuinely pleased not to be: Snooki, Jerry Springer’s guests, Teen Mom, OctoMom. All the popular music is full of angst and disillusionment, and the only human interest story we hear on the news now is when one of our former idols dies. It’s just so sad, all the time, and I can’t help but feel it pressing in on me.
And it’s not global, and it’s not just strangers; my friends and family are suffering, and I can’t help the situation. Some days, I don’t even want to.
I have returned from a ____________ Pacific Northwest Tour with Moosejaw. I leave the modifier open because I’m unsure of one word to sum up the experience. It was fun, no doubt, and the memories will last a lifetime. Monetarily it couldn’t be considered successful, however we garnered plenty of new fans and connections and played consistently competent sets in each market we visited. And, best of all, we survived!
Now it is back to my rather uneventful and underwhelming work life. (Not to be confused with my awesome and awe-inspiring home life with Meredith.) Like Icarus, I may have flown too close to the sun, burned by its rays and forever blinded to the normalcy and relative darkness of the earth below. It’s the usual post-show depression I feel, times twelve.
Rather than wallow, however, I’ve decided to do something constructive with this trough and re-record a few favorite Macy songs in hopes to achieve the sound I was striving for at the start of it all. I will begin with the backing tracks, recreating them without the hiccups or mistakes that I’d accepted as compromise rather than scrap the whole track, then take these to a studio and record the vocals without the bounds of my apartment and my misplaced consideration for my neighbors.
After that, I plan to write new fiction. I reconnected with a friend in Portland while on tour and she sent me a few pieces of her short fiction to read. I’ve read a lot of work from a lot of people, and more often than not it is painful and self-indulgent, at best, but her submissions were a breath of fresh air. I realized as I read that I’d completely divorced her face or voice from the work, which is incredibly difficult to do consciously. However, her work stood alone so well that I had subconsciously forgotten her and lost myself in the narrative. I felt as though I were reading something I would have happily paid for and learned from. Her talent lies outside of mine and I could never hope to kiss the clouds that she rests upon, but it did inspire me to get back to it, to push myself farther than I have in the past.
In other news, I smashed the screen of my smartphone. I think I’m perhaps the last of my friends to do this. I was starting to feel excluded, but no longer. As timing permits, my contract is up for renewal next month and I have the opportunity to upgrade to a new phone, so I’ll be joining the iPhone community, another exclusive club which I’ve found myself outside of for many years. Don’t think this will subject you to tireless Instagram pics, however, as that is just not me. I appreciate the aesthetics of the technology, but I’d rather share it with myself than with you. Instagram is photographic masturbation.
Here is a Duncan Sheik song that has been inspiring me the past few days:
Oh, if you’re keeping score, I’m 34 years old now.
Eric McClanahan 