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Do you like wind?

Thursday, 13 August, 2009
This diatribe was inspired by comments left by S A. Garrison during a recent wall-to-wall session on Facebook. I initially intended this as a reply, but it has taken on a life of its own. It is written upon the assumption certain names are familiar to you. Providing context which may not be strictly required would burden this with confounding detail.

For a while I took some comfort in my closed-away upbringing, usually characterized as “being locked in Phyllis’ house”, thinking in that way I was statistically less likely than other alumni of Pleasure Ridge Park High School to appear on the Jerry Springer show. While comforting in a way I could accept, this assumption no longer appears accurate. I may not have acculturated into any element of society under any circumstances. Had I been raised in different socioeconomic circumstances, I would almost certainly had been pushed toward the sciences, written off into Vocational Education, or made use of some kind of ongoing independent study which may have lead to a life long fixation at which one could make a living. As it is, I’ve been blundering around for thirty years trying to discover some kind of rationale. This leads to observing to world differently than most people for whom society makes a kind of sense.

Typical angry-young-man queries such as: why are all those trailer-park residents protesting for more poverty?; are not unanswered to me. I know, at long last, what a angst-ridden young woman means when she says she accidentally had sex with someone.

I seek an objective for myself, if only because I cannot work out how to not leave a corpse in a way that does not involve natural bodies of water of which I am phobic. The progress here is that I do not feel the need to participate in certain activities, like “go to the lake”, which cause me anger and fear. This anger and fear is authentic despite not fitting the dominant paradigm.

The fundamentally inexplicable nature of essential human relations drove your humble narrator into some peculiar places over the years. This happened because I had not and have not yet assimilated that one does not do this. Like the esteemed W.F. Terry, Jr., and he may have served as an unconscious role model, I could be simultaneously:

  • a semi-regular at Sparks, later Atomic Cafe
  • part of the post-Punk scene … In fact, had I not been raised in a particular era, the default interest of music may not have been a significant part of my life.
  • the guy who planted the seed for Danny & Jamie to print up and post their authentically cerebral, and IMHO required at that time and place, Bickle-esque diatribes all over the conspicuous parts of the city
  • a dedicated listener to Phil Bailey and Joe Donovan, mongers of not-generationally-approved music through an unacceptable medium

All the while feeling completely alienated from the society in which I was living, and the distinct, for lack of a better word, subcultures I was experiencing. Getting laid occasionally, impressing people with knowledge gathered for that purpose and accumulating possessions to communicate le idée juste is not worthwhile.

I am exhausted with the assumption that the objective of knowledge or any particular effort is to exalt the self above the peer group. My interests and topic of continuing study today, are mine alone, and quite literally no one I know shares them. People on internet boards and in my community of bloggers and such are not counted as “people I know”. I cannot relate to a phenomenon recently revealed in which one studies just enough of a subject to appear knowledgeable. As a point of fact: I only know a little about wine, one of my great cultural voids along with dance and opera, and a recent subject of study. I now know enough to understand when I am in the presence of someone who is just bullshitting and I quickly develop a desire to be especially unpleasant.

On the other hand, being sincere about ones own interests and enthusiasm for living in general, “getting in touch with your self”, is an excellent way to find yourself shopping for a new bed and wondering if you really need the full/double.

The two months I worked the system trying to solve the Rube-Goldberg equation of accessing the mental health services allegedly provided by my PPO proved useful as I had been obsessing about my state of mind for months when I finally arrived to the medical mini-mall. As I related previously, I performed a series of tests and withstood a special interview only to discover they had no treatment available for what certainly appears to be the authentic underlying issue. The depression and hysterical confusion is nothing more than a manifestation of not comprehending so very much of society for many years. In my specific case, and what drove me to seek professional help, was my “stress” level was so consistently high my mind was manifesting hallucinations. Pooling blood on the floor at work was particularly common. I would sometimes experience two Janes, my previous feline room mate and co-conspirator. That was kind of fun, actually. Knowing on an intellectual level these things were not real, I always made absolutely certain about the blood at the plant, did not make the phenomenon subside.

Once given the key the door was more easily opened. Reading entries on Wrong Planet and other spaces by aspies for aspies, my spine would frequently tingle as someone would make a humble inquiry about an issue about which I taught myself to never, ever speak. I now know instead of attempting to work through or around  my anger, fear and confusion to do “normal” things, I need not do some of them at all. Going to the Entertainment District in Austin (read: drinking district) is now one of those things I can do only with very specific purpose. Going to see a monologist last March was the first time I’ve attended a performance of any kind in years. I seldom attend the cinema, but this may have as much to do with the poor cinemas around here. I tend to my no-longer novel fear of crowds by doing most of my shopping late at night and tend strongly toward places with which I am familiar and therefore unlikely to become distracted and fearful by unanticipated elements. Not being able to find something common, say pasta, in an unfamiliar grocery is now enough to cause a panic attack. I will delay going to the proper laundromat for weeks because I don’t know what to do with myself while I wait.

Although I deal with it so much better than, well ever really, my state of mind is getting consistently worse. I am moving to the part of my life in which I specifically require a partner. If nothing else, someone who can tell me not to stick beans up my nose, and in front of whom I will be ashamed if I bring home something I’m not really supposed to eat. Of course, my state of mind is such re-establishing the kind of social contacts required to establish that kind of relationship is impossible. Despite the dismissive intent of those giving this advice, I am now convinced sometimes one does “just need to get laid.”

My thing about sugar is worse also, and I am not convinced these phenomena are not related.

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