luna and the swan

a common english idiom, such as an idiom can be considered common, given their seemingly gradually decreasingly extant existence, is to express that something seemingly uncommon or rare in occurrence is equivocal to happening "once in a blue moon." a blue moon, nominally occurring once every 2 to 3 years, could indeed be used, metaphorically, to ascribe rareness to an occurrence that happens infrequently, as most of us, it could be surmised, would describe something happening less than once a year rather lacking in commonality. however, one finds that, if one were to reside in the midwestern us, the phrase may actually, instead, be interpreted differently - if one were to attribute a physical good that occurs frequently to said idiom. a quick perusal of any ice cream parlour in the midwest will almost certainly reveal an ice cream flavor described thusly as "blue moon ice cream," its blue color, of course, a seemingly intentional (or perhaps not) misinterpretation of an actual blue moon, whose astronomical occurrence has nothing to do with color. it could be said then that those events that occur once every blue moon are perhaps more common than previously assumed, as blue moon ice cream occurs on a daily basis in towns and cities throughout a handful of states. while this would be an entirely inaccurate and willfully obtuse interpretation of an idiom, one that seems fully intent to take liberty with language and use it only smarmily to make a miniscule and intentionally dishonest point, the present author would also like to point out, quickly and also haphazardly, that both the philosophical problem of deduction, and black swan theory, have statements that use language in comparatively similar ways, such as that of citing a black swan, which, as far back as 2nd century roman poet Juvenal, was considered an impossible occurrence and thus an apt metaphor for something incredibly rare. it was, of course, several centuries later that endemic populations of black swans were found in various regions of australia. it could be said then, that black swans, much like blue moons, are actually poor examples to rely on, and could be replaced with something more viable and legitimately lacking in common occurrence. given that it would require listening to the original populations of a region for a better comparison, which, in the latter case of the black swan, involves listening to residents who happen to be dark skinned and non-christian, it seems safe to assume this will not occur. through it all, nassim taleb, unfortunately, will still make money off of it.

30 is the new 30

sometime many, many years ago, you decided you would not live until age 30. you would not deal with the number, the age, and given your obsession with death and suicide, well, it seemed like, statistically, you weren't going to make it anyways. and if you did, well, that would be the last day. you had it all planned out if it came to that day. you'd finish what you tried to do almost 11 years ago. you would turn 30 and then you would never turn anything again. you never wanted to live long. you never wanted to see more of life than what you had.

you were 29 when you realized you had a change of heart. you suppose it's never to late to change. you are going to see your 30th birthday, and you are going to enjoy it. part of you still doesn't understand how or why it happened. but it did. you have plans, ones that don't involve death or falling or cutting. plans that involve music and kissing and hugging and love. you tear up writing about it, this very second, black letters appearing on a white background on a 21 inch screen. you feel thankful, lucky, like you made it through something. like you won the lottery. your fiancée tells you she is taking the entire day off to be with you. you wonder if you are a burden. a few weeks ago she came home and found you asleep with a knife on the table next to you and a strong dose of xanax running through your veins. she surprises you with coffee and hugs and songs and speeches and you think you could never offer anything like that to anyone, and that she is so much better than you. but she says she loves you, no matter what, that you are always good enough. and then you realize it is not a contest, not a scoreboard, not a 'you do this, I do that' but a 'you love me, i love you' and, well, it all clicks into place. when you turn 30 you will turn 30, and then you will turn 31, and you will keep going until your bones decay and your body breaks down. you hope that day, when you stop turning, when it all comes to an end, is very, very far away.

you missed it

you hear people complain about obligations to friends and you get it. it's pressuring. a wedding you can't afford to go to. a game night or movie night you really can't make. saying no. making time for yourself. and it takes work and upkeep. but you missed it. you remember in washington dc with a good friend years ago, your first time out and socializing in years and years. two women approached and the four of you flirted and laughed and got drunk and ate 2am jumbo slice pizza. it was a highlight amongst a trip full of sights and museums and skyscrapers. you missed it. you missed late night drives to lansing with your mcdonalds coworkers to crash a msu party your friend was going to, and even though you didn't drink with your friends, you all laughed and talked and played rock band.

on saturday you slept in with your fiancée then went shopping and got some cool things and took it easy. you cuddled and napped. at night you had friendsgiving and ate way too much mexican food, then you all went to your place and got drunk and high and laughed so much it hurt.

you missed it. you missed relationships before you even had them, and you missed friendship after you had said goodbye to it for good. now you have both and you could never ever go back. even the commitment, the work, the cleaning the place up, the cleaning yourself up, the driving, whatever, it's all worth it, when before the laughter and drinks and food and too much money spent, there was just you, on a friday or saturday or sunday night, deciding how much xanax should go with how much alcohol, eying the blade on your nightstand, wondering why you couldn't be put out of your own misery. you had that past and it was awful. you're no social butterfly. but maybe you've spread your wings a bit. that's all that can really be asked.

turkey

it's always bad. always! it's like clockwork, because it happens every year. every year, some shitty jokes or comments, questions, you try to keep your head down at the table, just quietly eat the turkey. you've come back anxious and upset after your uncle told his wife to get over almost being raped and learn to work with the guy, even when home alone with him, where the first attempt happened.

nothing absolves them. but this time you had a thigh to place a hand on, someone to laugh and sing with on the way back home. no matter what was said at dinner, nobody could take that away. she was there for you the whole time. and you've never loved her more.

were wrong/are right

'This constant reminder of how wrong I’ve been'

in class you sit and stew and realize you were wrong, again. that all things you are bad at are just all things, the few things you thought you maybe, might be good at it, you are bad at, too. you can't really write. in 7th grade eric marveled at you doing long division in your head. like, hard long division, in seconds. dividing 16437 into 2348912 and remembering each decimal as you went through tenths... hundredths... thousandths. you had the lowest score on your team in the state competition because you changed an answer you knew was wrong because you couldn't have gotten it right, to a different answer. the first one was the correct one. you played yourself. your mother doesn't realize how well off she is because she enclaves her self in those who have more. you were never gifted. don't think you were. a good ACT score is money.

you can no longer do that division in your head.

your brain is a constant source of telling you that you were wrong. even when it turned out ok. you were wrong to protest your parents sending you abroad because you had fun and grew and learned and found something to hang your hat on. maybe you were wrong to protest them. maybe that's the point. and it reduces and reduces into it's not you were wrong but you are wrong. the books you read were trash, the grades you got were trash, the way you kept your room was trash, until all things that are built or consumed by you were trash and that renders you what, exactly?

you will hurt people. it is unavoidable. everyone does. and yet the way in which you can hurt people seems worse. for the longest time you viewed yourself unfixable, and so why put anyone through your existence? you got better and yet, cruelly, that just gives you more room to hurt. isolation is not an answer. living in fear is not an answer. it's an incubator that warms and warms you until you incinerate into ash and leave a messy form on a mattress that hasn't been changed out in 15 years.

every mistake is a potential mark, a potential heartbreak. you keep a running total in your head of how you've fucked up. of hands on shoulders, of faked signatures, of high school grades, of your fiancée coming home to a knife next to you, edge unmarred by blood, thankfully, still a few years clean of that one.

you told her earlier that day the one time you knew you were right. you were wrong to get there, that's the irony; your parents dragged you kicking and screaming, but in a moment of clarity, standing there, sun setting over the pacific ocean on a warm evening, you realized this was right. this was right. you are scared and constantly reminded of being wrong because you can't let those get in the way. you were wrong, again. wrong about love, about a future, about happiness. you have them now. even with the knife there, the pills upstairs, the tears shed, the pain you caused, the lack of power, the fear, everything, and how you wonder if you'll ever be good enough for you or your family, how you hope to god that you can hold on to her forever, you realize that this was the result. no, not what you did that night, but holding her, lying down next to her, being there, and you drill into your brain to never do this again, because just like the sunset over the ocean, you wouldn't want to tarnish anything about this for the world. this time, you're right.