Such stuff as dreams are made of

I came across a girl at the beach. I was out walking with the dogs and my Dad, when we became separated from the puppies. We turned and walked back, calling as we went, and some people shouted out to us, “here they are!”

Two were friends of my brother’s, or acquaintances, and the third was a girl.

She was so beautiful, I forgot sense for an instant and dreamt of a future, less an idea and more a feeling, perfect. She was a ghost, a platonic form, our meeting a reunion with one I’d loved with all my heart: first elation, then redoubled misery with the truth she couldn’t be real, as though seeing one long dead in a crowd-- the dawning that It’s been so long since I felt anything similar, because I’ve learned slowly, unconsciously, not to dream of love.

I can say she was beautiful, and she was, but what does that tell you? She was a dream-- just rosy skin, sunlit hair, and two steady, green eyes against the snowy seashore.

God

I've been looking for the right place to use this, and perhaps this is not it, but oh well.

"Ask God for forgiveness? Surely he is the one struggling and reaching out to us, asking forgiveness of us, for all the things he never meant to do. It takes power to forgive him far greater than any other. And perhaps the splendor of our world is the creator trying, the best way he knows-- to show us he's not all bad"

Some character may speak these lines, or a version of them, someday. I thought it was an interesting reversal of the normal idea.

Kung Fu

The reasons behind my imminent adventure in China, in no particular order, as I think of them. I have tried to organize essays on the subject, but it appears futile for the present.

I enjoy martial arts on a level separate from reason and I'd like to be proficient.

It will not lead to a lucrative future, but, as I have no purpose in life, I've decided to reach for the opportunity while I can and deal with the consequences, whatever shape they may take, later on. The adventure is within my grasp-- what a slow torture it would be to remain, and not go and regret, and wonder for the rest of my life what could have been.

I'm tired of a life of lethargy. I feel that if my sedentary behavior is allowed to continue it will lead to very poor health in the future. I want to get in shape, learn how to stay healthy, and build habits that will last a lifetime. Good habits are like trees. Given enough time they'll grow and stand independently, but in their youth the antecedent weeds can destroy them.

I'm looking for some like-minds. Not that I expect to find any really, but there's a chance.

I want to make an earnest, hardworking effort-- something I haven't truly done in far too long. I want to focus and live a simple life away from the entrapments of normality. I want to do a thing because I want to, not because I have to.

I want a true adventure, to see another culture, learn another language, and to broaden my experience. I want an interesting life!

I can't stand the idea of pursuing a job "just because" or getting locked into a career that I'll ultimately hate. It appears my answer to this is to spend all my money and avoid work altogether. Such a solution won't last forever, but we'll see where it gets me. The money I lose on this venture is likely to be far less than that entailed by any other education I could pursue, and I believe I'll actually appreciate it rather than despising it.

I can't live with myself without being true to myself.

Intellectual knowledge and internal acceptance

Intellectual knowledge does not influence the subconscious as much as I would like. I know that physical appearance is no criteria to judge a person by, yet I can't help judging myself. I tell myself not to, and it happens anyway. Not that I'm so concerned with my looks, I don't really care about my dead, yellowing front tooth or my receding hair. But there's something that does bother me, and if ignoring the topic would get me anywhere it bet it would've done it by now, so I need to try something new. I do not like being fat. I absolutely hate it.

I was a chubby kid. It didn't really bother me in elementary school, maybe a little bit in fifth grade, but not much. I lived my life reading books, watching star trek, and playing with friends. Self image was not important. I barely remember thinking about it. Middle school was the different, and it was not an improvement. Somewhere in those three years I was made to know that I was fat, and, because of that condition, I was more or less inferior to my peers. This grew on me gradually, kids picked on me, but I didn't realize until much later what was going on. There was one particular incident, though, which stands out in my memory. I was in class (Geography with Mrs. Hull) and talking with a couple guys, surreptitiously during lecture, when I encountered an unflattering drawing of myself complete with man boobs (as pointed out by a label). This cut deep, because the guy who drew it, and the other fellow to a lesser extent, had been my good friend in elementary school and I had still considered him one. I don't remember exactly how I felt, but I felt bad. Bad enough to remember my mental screenshot of the picture as I write, ten years later.

I was desperately unhappy about the situation, but I didn't know how to handle it. I had never been active, had no interest in sports, and I felt prohibited from joining anything of the sort for fear of ridicule, which I had received enough of in gym classes. Thus I continued on: chubby, unhappy, and a total nerd. In retrospect it was probably my personality that drew attacks just as much as my weight, but that never occurred to me. In my mind I grew to demonize the traits of athleticism: equating fitness with vanity, stupidity, and cruelty. It wasn't the most enlightened perspective, but it was my defense mechanism (and I knew there were exceptions). Simultaneously, I was a very diligent student, since academic achievement was basically my sole source of praise and self respect.

In high school it was the same. At least for the first two, maybe two and a half, years. I was an unfit nerd with few social connections, by this point conditioned not to approach anyone, and not likely to be the receiver of much interaction. At some point in there I decided to do something about my condition and lose weight. I accomplished this solely through caloric deprivation. I didn't realize it at the time, but looking back I was probably bordering on an eating disorder. It did the trick though, and I became skinny. As a result people were basically more interested in what I had to say and, in senior year, my former image was replaced with the new Taylor: a thin pessimist with piercing and bitter insight, not to mention tongue.

People loved new Taylor and I had a great year, but, as I'm beginning to understand fully now, the damage was not repaired. I still have a tendency not to invite anyone to anything, because deep down I don't think they'll accept. I'm hesitant to share my feelings with others, because I know most people love little more than to mock. And, I have an unhealthy aversion to fat on my body. My last few months have been relatively sedentary, and it's the holiday season. I've been gaining some weight. And even though I know, on an intellectual level, that it's not really a big deal, other people don't care nearly as much as I do, if they even notice, that I will easily lose it in a month when I go to China, and it has no impact on my worth, it still drives me crazy. It would make sense if I felt disappointment, regret, or annoyance when confronting my returning jiggles, but what I actually feel, now that I think about it, is fear.

Somewhere inside that murky subconscious I must have an ingrained correlation between fat and alienation. As if gaining a few pounds will cause people to shun me. Now, to an extent this is actually true, but not anywhere near to the point I feel it. My question is now, "how do I change myself?" How can I straighten this kink and put image where it belongs, in the irrelevant category? I already "know" that it doesn't matter, but that hasn't changed the way I feel.

Oh well, this has basically been a rant, although I guess it's not angry, but you know what I mean. Well, as usual, the only "you" is me, Taylor, so of course you know. And although the subject today has been rather dark, it's not all bad things lying ahead. I have a much better understanding of what's going on these days, and, despite my tone earlier, I think my self possession is strong enough now to break down the misunderstandings and put things right.

Home

I'm living in the same old house, still living with my parents and my brother, but it doesn't feel like home when the other people want you gone. You know the feeling of standing in a place just as you're about to move out: at once so familiar, and yet empty of all it held before. This is the feeling I have now, not just in this house, but in my own mind.

It's taken me longer than most to reach this mark in life. I don't want to ask for things. My family is a mental burden. I don't enjoy being a disappointment, but it's not going to stop anytime soon, so I must leave. I'm sure they still love me, though I know I don't really understand the relationship between parents and children, but living with them is fettering.

It's mostly my Mom. Maybe she doesn't realize it, but she almost never speaks to me without mentioning something I should be doing, something I should have done, or something I did wrong. What I thought was a nice sunday morning, today, turned into a bothersome one when she began quizzing me on the jobs I've failed to secure. Why? I don't know. Did she think that anything good would come of it? Every day she asks me what I did and the answer is always the same, and she always knows it before she asks. "Not much," I say. I can only interpret her inquiries as criticism.

Perhaps I'm over-thinking, maybe. That is a habit of mine. But in any case it seems my days of unconditional acceptance at home are over. And it's not just you, even to me it feels like a case of dragging feet. If I had a job and lived in my own place none of this would be an issue. At the same time, though, I can't help but ask myself, "why? why did this all happen?" again, and again, and again. Life is an imposition, but I suppose I should concentrate less on how I got into this situation, and more on how I'm going to get out of it.

Well, I know how I'm getting out of it. I'm going to China. That's a about a month and a half away, with Christmas in between. I hope we can have some good times together before I go, because I won't be back for a long time. In the back of my head I feel I may never come back, maybe for a visit, but not truly. There's something appealing about life in a land where nobody knows you.

Note to Self

things that I'm making for thanksgiving:

eggnog, flan, black-bottom pie, bread. That should be good, need some way to use up all that whip cream, lol.

The Call of World Gone By

Today, for the first time in a long time, I caught a glimpse of Azeroth, World of Warcraft, and I was heartsick. I doubt you are able to understand, but I'm writing for myself, not for you.

To me, Warcraft meant community more than anything else. It was undeniably a game, and I enjoyed that aspect of it. However, not a single game exists which doesn't depend on the players to make it worthwhile. It's never the rules you follow which make a game. it's the people you strive against and the people you work alongside. To me, a person with very few friends, none of whom I could truly relate, Azeroth was a place to belong.

I guess it comes down to this: I felt needed. In Azeroth people depended on me and I delivered. One night, our guild wiped in molten core. It was a total wipe with no soulstones (translation: we'd played towards a goal for hours only to lose all hope of achieving it). I was the only member left alive, and as luck would have it I was carrying a rather uncommon item, albeit with a low success rate, that held the potential to reverse the situation. And it did. They were all so surprised when, as everyone pissed and moaned, we all started coming back to life. It may sound sad to you, but to me the gratitude and elation of those 39 gamers was the best thing I'd ever felt.

Anonymous people, some would say counter-intuitively, can be more sincere than close friends. Talking with my allies about their real life issues paved to way to some of the more adult relationships I've experienced, and that remains true today. We weren't afraid of one another, and that meant everything. I felt safe in imagination land: clever, strong, respected, and in good company.

But, while I loved my time there, it undeniably weakened my ties to the "real" world. Outsiders call Warcraft pointless. "The game never ends!," they'd say, "all you do is chase the best gear, compete with the other players, then, when you've got it all, new gear shows up and the whole thing starts over again, there's no point!"

And I wanted, so badly to scream back, "that's life! don't you see!? Should I work harder for material gear, to compete in the physical world? So I can be outdone here? Chase after the new stuff, again, here, with you? It's all pointless! Don't Fuck with me!" Yes, I was angry, and not just with them. I could feel my immersion slipping away, and I was afraid.

Ideal as it was Azeroth, the world without need, poverty, or true hate, has a glaring flaw, we can not actually live there. We hunger, we get cold, our goods can not be generated by code, and, so, we tear one another apart. Day by day, in one way or another.

I was right you know. "Real" life is just as pointless as Warcraft. They're pointless together, and what makes any of bearable are the people you're with, and how you play the game. Don't play to win, you can't win, it never ends. But, I could not return to Azeroth even if I tried. Azeroth is just the form of the apparition, the identity of the thing I miss so dearly is childhood.