it always seemed far away

when the present author was younger, i.e., an age range presently described by the word "teen," it was largely assumed that the trials and tribulations of an aging body started much later in life. afterall, athletes were in their 20s and 30s, so it stands to reason that the body aches and pains complained about by the present author's parents were something that were decades away. of course, it's easy to not realize that said athletes often wrap up entire limbs in ice and soak in hot tubs for hours after sporting events, but from all outside appearances, physical competence seemed to be something to look forward to for another 20-30 years.

alas, when pulled muscles, neck spasms, knee pain, and general malaise began setting in by the latish 20s, the present author - in talking with others the same age - realized this was truly, gratuitously faulty thinking, and that body pain really just sort of starts way earlier than it is commonly implied when one is told by parents "oh you are soooo young" when in your 20s.

of course, the desk jobs many of us inhabit - including the writer of this piece - likely contribute to the very pains said writer is complaining about. one might be ready to then suggest that doing more physical activity my render these pains a bit less severe. alas, given the present author badly pulled a back muscle this very morning, said activity will have to stay where it has for some time; as a passing thought, the perfect cycle of an inability to play sports anymore, because the present author now has an inability to play sports.

tyndale found nothing in this town

there was nothing. it was that simple. if you made it until 30 you wouldn't make it any longer. there was little to tie you down. maybe the horror of your family stumbling upon your body, if they did, maybe a sunset, who knows, but really, nothing to convince you to stay.

this town is littered with potential past graves. the parking ramp you were going to jump from. the train tracks you could have stepped on. the overpass you could have catapulted off. the lake you could have driven into. the garage you could have hung yourself in. the nightstand that held your razor blades.

there was nothing in this town besides that. no people you knew, no experiences to enjoy. you tossed yourself halfway around the world, tossed back a bottle of liquor and benzos, tossed back all the stress of work with the tobacco spit in your mouth that leaked out and made you want to tear every inch of carpet out of your room, all to try to escape, but it didn't do anything.

you never thought it'd be a person. maybe that was your folly. you used to dream about waking up and looking outside and seeing a palm tree. about walking in winter somewhere warm enough to be in a t-shirt, no longer caring about scars. you used to dream about chicago neighborhoods or paris charm or kuala lumpur hawkers. but dreams are just that, and the older you got the more they became taunts instead of goals. there is no charm in a bedroom that is filthy, in a life that has nothing to keep you here. everything becomes routine. no matter where it is.

you convinced yourself that the only mistake was staying. was keeping yourself here, holding onto to... something, anything.

maybe that's why you'd do anything to not lose her. maybe that's why at work, sitting at your desk, all you can do is think about her. maybe that's why you want so hard to be perfect for her, even though you know she doesn't require it at all. nothing in life ever made you want to live a life like she does, just to see her smile, hear her laugh, look at her dark brown eyes, cuddle on the couch and wonder why this guy is burning his dessert on the cooking show she is so good at coming up with recipes for. maybe that's why you tear up the few times you've fought. it's conflict, but it's conflict with her. and she's not the only thing keeping you alive in the sense that she is solely responsible for your safety, she's not someone who has to cradle your mental health, and your handle on things is the best its been in so many years, but for awhile the world was grey. the palm trees were grey. the neighborhoods - what few there are here - were grey. now nothing is grey. and no matter what, you always want to see this color. the nicest person you've ever met is spending her life with you. she is nobody's keeper, but she will always keep you with her.

the rule of writing

very few things in life are said to be permanent; the common refrain is "death and taxes" although even that is a misnomer given that there are no taxes when one is, well, dead. in that sense, impermanence, as often referred to on this blog in application to some sort of personal failings we all ascribe to, is the most consistent outcome. however, the present author would like to perhaps suggest a sort of permanent reality of existence, that, while like all things is not made duplicitous towards death, exists within the constant bounds of one's lifespan. it is commonly stated that writers eventually grow to the point where previous work they have created appears crude, simple, or poor. many have stated that reading things that they have written in many years past generate so much discomfort as to, in common internet parlance, be "cringe." this experience is not held just to writers, but is commonly described by other creative types, such as singers, songwriters, poets, painters, digital artists, and more.

the present author has found this remarkably true for previously written material, particularly that which construed attempts at writings during said author's late teens and early 20s. however, a series of remarkably mediocre writings from the mid 20s on had seemingly escaped this sort of self-critical critique, largely existing in a settled acceptance of "well, it's not at all good, but it's not completely terrible, and maybe with some tweaking it could be a little less not at all good." alas, the present author committed the cardinal sin of assuming time would not wield its sword, and, upon reading said works this morning, finally felt towards them what was previously felt towards earlier works. the stories that tempted edits and consideration and feelings of potential pride now read as hollow, rushed, pointless, and simplistic. given that said stories - which compromised the entirety of this morning's evaluation - were the last stories the present author ever wrote, and will likely be so, it goes without saying that, like all things, the present author goes out with not a bang, but a whimper, stories condemned to the only permanent fixation we happen to eventually settle on; death.

as usual

"Nothing amazing happens here. Everything is ordinary. The huge factory that can be seen from our town, the Medical Mechanica Plant, all the adults got excited when it came here, like it was really a big thing. The white steam that billows out every day at the same time, it looked to me like smoke that signified some kind of omen. Smoke that spreads out and covers everything."

I stepped outside on a warm summer night at around 10pm. The last vestiges of light were gone. A swampy humidity hit my nose and I was instantly transported to the tropics. In the darkness, you could almost imagine the drooping trees in front of the condo were the outskirts of a tropical rainforest.

"Or like a panda with a mean face, or like sandals with pressure points drawn on them, or the smell of a blackboard eraser, or a Sunday morning where you wake up and it's raining. Well, I like him more than hard bread."

There is something entirely electric about the air on nights like that. Everything feels more alive, like a pulse beating through the atmosphere. You feel like you could reach out and hold air and in a closed fist feel it breathing. The comfort and convenience of just stepping outside is not lost. No coat, no gloves, no hat, no adjustment to cold or wind or dryness. The fireflies that danced around my thighs as I walked through the grass lit up repeatedly, and a pang of jealously at areas of the world where this was permanent, year round, hit me.

"At the time, I didn't notice the sirens that were coming towards us. I don't know where the lies end and the truth begins. I asked myself what I could do for Mamimi. I decided to stay by her side forever."

The fireflies were even thicker a few weeks later in July. Endless days of 90 degree weather, the sun beating down on black pavement during the day, the swarms of bugs at night. How alive everyone feels contradicts how slow and hazy it feels too. It seems possible to lie on the grass beneath the sun forever, listening to music, eyes squinting, faced upwards, the endless blue seemingly starting to bend and waver and melt. It's probably a trick of the long daylight, sunlight from 6am to 9:30 pm makes each day feel like it could last forever.

"You're Puss in Boots, the one who tricks the prince. He hides who he really is and pretends to be someone else forever. So in time he becomes that person, so his lie becomes the truth, see? He transcends the mask. Well, don't you get it? That's how he finds happiness. That's pretty good, right?"

The first time I smelled tropical air it felt like home. I can not explain this. I remember as a kid stepping out of a plane in Florida at age 6, breathing it in, and realizing it smelled different. Every time since then, wherever the world has taken me, any time that smell hits me, I get nostalgic, or wistful. It feels almost like something I need, I have to have, that not breathing it will eventually kill me. On summer nights I think back to sitting outside a hostel in Hong Kong as the city woke up around me, from 4am to 6:30 am, hearing the gradual crescendo of traffic and construction, the sun slowly inching up over the trees and skyscrapers. I once looked up if it was possible to keep a palm tree alive in Michigan. I can't remember when I decided I had a favorite type of tree, only that as long as I have been aware, that has been it. I used to wonder if I could climb them and look down on a beach from their tops. When I was older, I wished I could say as gracefully as they did when I couldn't keep myself still.

"Nothing can happen till you swing the bat."

Years ago I'd drive throughout town in search of something. I was never sure what. There isn't so much to see. Nothing amazing happens here. After decades the roads and buildings have all become familiar. Still, something about the warm air and dusk colors - orange and pink and purple hues lightly brushing each and every puffy cloud - loud music, windows down, made me think that even the most mundane locales could hold some beauty. But it wasn't enough. I made a promise to myself that I'd leave this place. I made a promise to live somewhere where the neon lights and sounds of the city stretched forever, possibilities seemingly endless, where feeling cold and overburdened with layers of clothing never existed, where night drives and walks were just another day, any day, any time of year. I was 17 when I promised myself that.

"By the time I realized it, I had already swung the bat. My palms still sting. I wonder if Haruko feels like this all the time."

As soon as the sun and warmth and dusk and fireflies are here, I am reminded that they will soon be gone. It's a perpetual sadness, that to enjoy something is to be reminded of its impermanence. Everything can be dragged down by a melancholic realization that it to shall pass. In winter, I long for summer to come. In summer, I dread winter. I feel the tug towards something that will not last either way. A lot of people would say this is some sort of intrinsic human condition, former posts on this blog certainly would, but maybe such a generalized point is largely without significance.

"When you're in a town like this all covered with smoke, you forget that there's a world outside. Nothing amazing happens here. And you get used to that, used to a world where everything is ordinary. Every day we spend here is like a whole lifetime of dying slowly. But now Haruko is here. That's how I know there really is a world outside."

We drove around town at 10:35 pm on a night not unlike the one a few weeks ago, or a few years ago, or a few decades ago. It is all the same and yet entirely different. My hand traced tiny circles around her thigh as she shared a new band she was excited about with me. She remembered that I used to do this, I used to love it. At each stop light, the fireflies seemed to light our way. "Turn here" they suggested. The top of the hill overlooking downtown was at once beautiful and disappointing, a reminder that it's the same view I've had my whole life, like a city that could fit in the palm of my hand, one that wouldn't breathe, unlike the air around us.

"Nothing amazing happens here. Everything is ordinary. We crossed the bridge as usual, and before we knew it the seasons had changed. Mamimi left town. She said she wanted to be a photographer. I don’t know what happened to her after that."

The drive lasted forever and not at all, like a summer day. Our car rolled to a stop before the front door of our home as usual. I smiled at her. I never used to smile on these drives; there wasn't anyone to smile to, nobody to see, nothing but the emptiness of a car on a late night drive. We walked in and kissed and swayed back and forth. For a second, I was a palm tree, gracefully moving, side to side, slow and rhythmic. I still fear winter, I still fear being trapped in this city, the pull of convenience and cheapness and familiarity and work. But maybe that's not the point. The person looking for something on those late night drives no longer exists. Something amazing happened here.

senescence for the individual, immortality for the group

a commonly crude nomenclature wielded by a large percentage of the population - primarily online - is one in which a negative thing is often prescribed to be "cancer." given that this is both an inconsiderate phrase given that cancer actually exists as a terrible and painful experience, and that this phrasing is often applied to things like "the video game didn't give her massive tits because cancer" or "i lost this video game because the other player is using a character who is cancer," both of which dramatically oversell the negative outcome of such results, one would have to be daft to not assume that stated nomenclature is rendered largely both meaningless and bad (do not make the joke).

one finds that there is an equally likely portrayed value, that, while not a pithy, rude phrase, conveys a sense of a slow, immaterial march towards death. that is; an entire house of popular culture, from music, to self-help literature, to tv, and more, commonly prescribes the idea that one must be constantly working at all times. this 'hustle' as it were, is key to acquiring the requisite money and standing to survive in the modern world, and said hustle never truly can be allowed to end if one wants to succeed.

what these two seemingly disparate ideas or phrases have in common is a stretch the present author, in this hereto notably infelicitous post, will make via a haphazard rendering of the english language and a medical discovery from the year 1961. it seems reasonable to conclude that the idea of working in perpetuity, until one dies, is actually a distinctly bad thing. that to suggest that exhaustion is essentially the normal state we must occupy in order to exist might be something that society at large should endeavor to avoid. some unfortunate 19 year old dude online might suggest that such thing is 'cancer' which would, while continuing to exist as a rather unfortunate and crude use of the term, be, at least in this case, nominally accurate.

of course, all of this is dramatically and fearfully destitute if the interpretation is not nominally accurate, but instead entirely accurate. given that cancer cells are the only human cells that avoid the hayflick limit, and that said societal value does end with an individual's death (after working nonstop), one might surmise then that the idea of working constantly will, like the immortal cells of cancer that are able to replicate forever, outlive the individual humans subject to said value; all of the latter eventually rendered obsolete, telomerase shortened, existence lost to senescence.