vacances

Last week my family and I vacated to the Cape, where I tried hard to be agreeable and not spend my days catching up on sleep and reading in solitude, which to me constitutes restful leisure, but this is not the purpose of vacation in my family. Rather it seems to be togetherness at all costs, which, when it succeeds, is wonderful, but when it breaks down, is incredibly unpleasant. Much of the week after an initial fight on Monday was spent either enduring or awaiting further upsets while pretending nothing had happened. For once, it didn't feel like it was directly somehow my fault, but as usual, I did intervene. It didn't help, and given that the actual underlying source of the argument is deeply embedded in the personalities of the involved parties, I don't think things could've been helped.

After I helped him vacuum the unfortunate wineglass (an unusual occurrence; violence of any type other than verbal is rare, and even that is wrapped in cushioning layers so as not to seem what it frequently is) out of the carpet, Dad and I sat on the sun porch for some time, talking very little and listening to the sounds of the others going to bed. Watching me cry without sound, he said quietly, "I wish you weren't so sad," and I felt then that I had let him down, underscoring his helplessless to fix anything, a helplessness which always hurts me more than my own and more than anyone else's. I have the sense that he knows, probably better than anyone, why I am so sad, and feels the least able to do anything about it- not that anyone anymore can, or should, except myself. But it is painful to have reminded him, and I regret it having done so when I could have hidden it, but did not try.

It was heavenly to see our friends, to be around people who have known me since before I was born and who (in the case of my godparents) are not so reserved as to avoid showing that they care. My godmother noticed me kneading the side of my neck which refuses to heal, and gave me an impromptu back massage which was better than a long hug; she always takes special care to look me in the eyes and give me a little shake as we say goodbye and remind me that she loves me. It makes me shy and feel slightly overwhelmed because it's so unlike anyone else's interaction with me, even my parents, who although loving, are not always able to behave lovingly.

Poor girl in the coffeeshop probably thinks I'm slightly nuts as I go to find another napkin, having saturated the one I had with stupid tears, but the more recent ones were happy, at least. Mostly so, anyway. I wish I knew more people (or rather anyone else) like my godmother, and feel like I should go apprentice myself to her to learn how to live like she does. I have the feelings, but not at present the capability, to embrace the world as she does, and wonder if taking up one of her suggestions to come hide out at her place for awhile might not be the best thing I could do to replenish my reserves of giving, which have felt extremely depleted from lack of any return from those to whom I have given or approval from those to whom I would- making it particularly difficult to be open to new opportunities.

...a fight is breaking out between a guy who walked in seven minutes before closing and an employee now, so discretion/valor: I'm guessing it's time to flee. Maybe more tomorrow.

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mute.

...so. A few people from various quarters have written me some very nice things lately. It makes me grateful- I wrote happy, but erased it, because what can I say? "Happy" is an incredibly ephemeral state, and I don't lay claim to it, despite being fortunate enough to have moments of joy, or just enjoyment, now and then in response to some stimulus. My mood has been variably shitty in the past ... while. Enough so that even were the usual stage fright- prompted when someone makes basically any sort of positive-ish response towards something I've done or said- not an issue, I would still have the problem of not being able to stay in a good enough state of mind to be able to write an entire reply. A few nice sentences, and then a sharp left turn at self-deprecation, followed by an uncontrolled swerve into bitterness.


And while there's no little voice that literally says, "you don't deserve to know anyone who has a chance of genuinely liking you. You don't deserve to have people be nice to you," there may as well be, for I do believe it, when you come down to it.

Not that it should matter- what does any of it ever come to, after all? But this hasn't yet stopped mattering. I suppose than in the midst of everything else, I should let myself be glad for that, even if I don't have any idea what to do with it.

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An experiment

The cords to my scanner are in the storage bin, I think, so instead of a semi-crappy scan, we have a very-crappy photo. The eye on the left was pretty much ruined by a glare from the lamp which I couldn't fix no matter where I positioned it.



I mistrust my skill in handling color, even when working in oil paints, and I never made myself learn to use colored pencils correctly. I don't think I've touched any in the past ten years. But I found myself picking up a pack of them the other day with the feeling that I had better learn to work with them, or give up any hope of progressing further in general. I could tinker endlessly with line and shading and improve technically without coming any closer to being able to accomplish what I want, which is to give form to personality as accurately as I can see and depict it. Not only hue, but whole shades of meaning are lost or at least altered when there is an involuntary restriction such as a limitation to black and white. I was afraid they would always be beyond my reach because I don't have a natural understanding of how to use colors. But this is not as discouraging as I was expecting. It's just possible that I might be able to learn.

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ought

I don't honestly know the use of trying, except for the lack of alternatives which are actually alternatives, and the chance of helping someone whose heart hasn't given up.

In the past day or so my thoughts have hovered around the fact that my reason for existence seems to be a combination of indulging a handful of what I think are relatively modest desires, an essential clinging to immodest and improbable dreams, and a sense of obligation to be of use, to relieve suffering in compensation for that which I inevitably cause, a moral compulsion which I am unable to kill despite a long-lived resentment for those things that have been done to me for which no apology or comfort is ever likely to come. I wish I could kill it, or else find a way to sacrifice the desires instead, as well as the one or two dreams which make drastic life choices less appealing because of what doors they might close. I cannot shake the burden of what seems to be conscience, and I don't know exactly what to do with it, either. No amount of reasoning successfully convinces me that I ought to do anything other than everything I can, though the demands of making a living and the wealth of frivolous distractions my comparatively privileged life provides do a good job of muffling the voice of the moral imperative.

When I have my own attention, though, and distractions have temporarily failed, I know clearly that I do want to answer that voice with an unequivocal yes. The troubling question is whether I have anything of value to offer- how to decide what to offer- and how to educate myself so that neither it nor I am wasted. I don't know how to make that determination yet.

It's so late, and I've lost an hour more than usual. Would write more, but must go to bed in order not to guarantee myself a foul mood and a headache to take to work.

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important:

Recognizing that at times my tone can be rather lackluster, I have added via Cornify the ability for readers to inject as much sparkle and glitter into this blog as they think it requires. You're welcome.

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