Dating Advice

Gravity-Defying Land Art by Cornelia Konrads

"If you date a boy, you'll be treated like a child. If you date a prince, you'll feel like a princess. If you date a gentleman, you'll be treated like a lady. But whatever you do, never, never date an asshole because the only thing he'll do to you is make you one."

-My mother

Friday Night Poetry Club, Part 3

Insomnia and restlessness can be a source of inspiration. Had a night of culture and I might be trying to drag it out longer than I should.
Regardless, I wrote another poem. Clearly I have too many feelings for my own good.

Untitled

I'm afraid of blood.

Or at least I think I am

Or at least I wish I were.

I wish I were afraid of blood but I think I’m just indifferent towards it.

Indifference is the disease I acquired as an emotionally scarred preteen--

In which "emotionally" is a euphemism for acne,

Formally known as the Holden Years, (which is a play on words on the Golden years and Holden Caulfield, just in case you didn't get the reference.)

I found indifference while

Lying in bed, wondering why the world wasn't any different,

Trying to decide if it was reassuring or devastating that

The world is as stubborn as my mother, my sister, me,

Refusing to spin in any other direction besides forward

Unwilling to commend or rebuke my direction of travel.

But,

What is "forward"?

If I go forward, to the right, three times, suddenly I’m backwards

And history has a tendency to repeat itself.

So the world and me must have a lot in common:

We never stop spinning,

Maybe to our own demise.

Except instead of forward, I only spin out of control.

But maybe that's what it actually means to move ahead.

For lack of a better word, we settled upon "forward"

And for lack of a better feeling, I settled upon apathy.

From ages twelve to nineteen,

I’ve never loved anything more than indifference.

Clutching my poorly sewn quilt of apathy and cynicism

Stitched together by resin treated strands of polyester,

My misshapen security blanket became my second skin--

My only skin.

Maybe that's the reason why I’m not afraid of blood, but wish I were.

Instead I’m only afraid of my lack of fear,

Because blood is the color of life,

Blood is the color of passion,

And the only shade that matters.

I'm afraid that when I prick the synthetic fibers that make up my skin,

All I’ll find is a sea of indifference--

Watered down red paint masquerading as blood,

Too thick in some parts, too thin in others,

Worse than any sickle celled nightmare

Because even sickle cells require passion to emanate.

I'm afraid that if I prick my skin,

Nothing will come out because

Every drop of Red #40, interspersed with my life

Was already absorbed by my indifference.

And if my blood runs dry, then I might as well be dead.

But more than anything, I’m afraid that if I prick my skin,

I will bleed the tears, pains, and sorrows that run through my veins,

I will bleed the joys, laughs, and smiles that keep my heart pumping

I will bleed every boy I ever loved and-slash-or hated,

Every smell that reminds me of my mother's home cooking,

Every instance that ever made my hands clammy,

Every sound that made me raise my voice—

More than anything I’m afraid that if I prick my skin, I will bleed--
I will bleed red hot hemoglobin blood,

And I won't give a fuck.

I am the world's greatest externality.

Everything is meta. Meta is meta, which is meta. Fuck that shit.
I love storms. But I can't fall asleep to them. I have a paper to write. Cool story, Hansel.

"Unfortunately, all languages deteriorate. They become more and more shallow until there's barely anything left."

-Harry Obst

White House Interpreter

Harry Obst, the White House German Interpreter for seven US presidents (from Johnson to Clinton) was not an "amazing speaker for an eighty-year old," he was an amazing speaker, period. He manipulated the English language beautifully--even though German is his mother tongue. He divulged a fresh yet intimate perspective into the presidency, while weaving in wit and charm, instantly lending familiarity. 

But, Harry Obst doesn't have a Wikipedia page. Isn't it funny how almost all relationships are mediated through some digital medium? I believe Harry Obst is a great man who lived a rich life who has enough stories to show for it, but can I actually measure greatness without a fully documented Wiki spread? Probably not. At least not with confidence. At least not with immortal confidence. Today he's great. But tomorrow I might not remember his first name without that digital file that acts as both a record and a promise that he did in fact do all of those great things.

Mr. Obst claims the English language is deteriorating; natural born citizens don't know basic grammar rules (guilty), slang and IM-speak plague our daily speech, and words that shouldn't be are constantly being invented and then used. Sentences have been reduced to acronyms (YOLO so YMAWSYB--which stands for "you might as well save your breath," coined by yours truly). Words have been reduced to emojis. And the people behind them are nothing but icons, bad prof pics, and poorly written Twitter biographies. Words are falling apart but so are the individual and our interpersonal relationships. And naturally, I want something or someone to blame.

Personally, I think the digital era is the culprit on both accounts. According to Facebook, I have as many friends as there are Urban Dictionary entries. So why am I always alone? Oh right, because facebook friends aren't real people, they're internet pages filled out by real people. (THANKS A LOT FOR THAT FALSE SENSE OF SECURITY, MARK FUCKERBERG!) I'm literally always plugged in. GChat. Facebook. Twitter. Texting. BBM. Ping. Skype. Hangout. Pinterest. Instagram. Blogger. Tumblr. Youtube. Myspace (lol). The world has never been smaller, shrunken by the seemingly infinite modes of communication. I can connect with anybody in seconds and yet I've never felt so distant from people. This somewhat novel versatility of communication has lent itself to incredible mobility. And with mobility comes incredible distance. I can go to the far reaches of my internet provider's service area, and I will never be quite alone. As long as my phone doesn't die. As long as I don't lose signal.

How does this affect face-to-face interactions (and no I'm not talking about FaceTime)? No matter who I'm physically with, I'm always talking to somebody else. The majority of my relationships are held together by a thin rope made of binary code. We take talking for granted--we take people for granted because we know they'll always be there even when they aren't. As of late, when I do talk to people face-to-face, it feels breathy, chatty, forced, empty, like, you know what I mean, that's awkward, wait what, but actually, good talk. Luckily, if we don't have a meaningful conversation in person now, we can always talk it out later on Gchat, where I can write and rewrite and edit and copy and paste exactly what I wanted to say. I can take my time responding and pretend like I was just away from my computer. But no matter how much I give away on the internet or through my text messages, there will always be something between us. Whether it's my phone or my computer, there is a physical barrier, let alone physical distance, between us that is not conducive to intimacy. This is worse than knowing someone superficially. Superficial, by definition, means being near the surface. Our relationships today are at best a mediated superficiality, a superficial superficial, n-times removed from the origin.

Language is deterioriating--both in form and significance--and yet it is proliferating--both in form and signifiers. Language, the great mirror of society.