I don't know where it has gone, but I seem rather uninspired of late. The past couple of months, namely. I used to find the inspiration to write essays about non-personal things - science and society and politics - the stuff I've always pondered and been keen to write out my thoughts upon.
Lately my blog entries are taken up with personal travailles; nay, not even that - more, frustrations in the realm of feeling, without real events necessarily accompanying. I see that as selfish. As a sign of withdrawing into myself at the expense of the world around me. And let's face it, others - my audience, that is, find it boring. At least I do. When on Opendiary.com or someone's blog, most uninspiring is usually the kind of writing that goes on and on about one's personal life. Writing about feelings surrrounding one's social/romantic life has a tendency to seem to matter to no one but the author. No one else really cares because although they might be able to relate at some level, the subject matter is so personal and particular that it inevitably loses most of it's meaning.
Conversely, essays and writing about society, etc., concern everyone; everyone can relate to, and ponder what is said equally. In point of fact, this even applies when returning to read one's own blog after time has passed. Feelings and emotions shift and change day-to-day, thus what is written loses its impact and much of its meaning after the mood has passed and the circumstances have moved along. It is better to write on the world around us. If one can place oneself into a more universal, less temporal, self-concerned context, the better the quality of blog entry; the more interesting and noteworthy and meaningful it becomes.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Drowsy / Impotent
I feel impotent. I mean this literally and figuratively.
Since I am between jobs right now and not in school, I have free time during the day, and as I have explained in previous entries, Seattle has world-class espresso joints that I love. I've become somewhat addicted. I fuckin' love the stuff; it's such a delicacy, such an indulgence. Usually mid-afternoon, I bring my books and sit down for an hour, sometimes two, at Vivace or Cafe Vita.
I quaff my latte/cappucino, then dig into my book, but inevitably I nod-off. It surprises me because this happens right after I've gulped the coffee. I've always wondered if coffee doesn't produce the opposite reaction with me - it makes me drowsy. Nodding off while reading a book - a frustrating situation. So I force my eyes to stay open, with varying degrees of success. But this shouldn't be.
I mean, sometimes it is so bad that I read one or two pages in an hour. Then I leave, puzzled and slightly disgusted with myself for being so dopey. If I am at Cafe Vita sitting at an outside table, nearby patrons may presumably see me in this state - trying again and again to read the page, head drifting slowly downward, eyes drooping. Ridiculous. And pathetic.
This can't go on. I feel like I'm deluding myself. Self-discipline has always been important to me. Feeling as though I maintain some discipline, some maintenance of rigor and fortitude and constancy in certain areas of my life - intellectual being one - makes me satisfied and makes me feel whole and like I am a worthwhile human being. When I falter, it bothers me. Significantly.
I don't know. There is another piece of the puzzle that I am not mentioning, but which I have chosen not to get into in my OD pages. Perhaps I will at some point, but right now I choose to simplify things by omitting certain things and keeping these things private. The gist of it is that I am on a certain prescribed medication that causes what I've been describing.
And the impotence. I do not know what to do about it. An obvious option would be to consult a doctor, and I will look into this forthwith. I do hope something can be done.
I have a girlfriend now, and this impotence thing - well, it's not impotence so much as simply an inability to cum - and this has been a real downer multiple times for us. A major bummer. Worse, girlfriend thinks it has something to do with her, that it's her fault that I don't always cum and that it's hard for me to. I'm totally freakin' erect, that is not a problem at all. And it's almost like the relationship is not consummated sexually unless I come. And I don't. More often than not, I don't.
Fuck.
- d.g.w. 8/16/07
Since I am between jobs right now and not in school, I have free time during the day, and as I have explained in previous entries, Seattle has world-class espresso joints that I love. I've become somewhat addicted. I fuckin' love the stuff; it's such a delicacy, such an indulgence. Usually mid-afternoon, I bring my books and sit down for an hour, sometimes two, at Vivace or Cafe Vita.
I quaff my latte/cappucino, then dig into my book, but inevitably I nod-off. It surprises me because this happens right after I've gulped the coffee. I've always wondered if coffee doesn't produce the opposite reaction with me - it makes me drowsy. Nodding off while reading a book - a frustrating situation. So I force my eyes to stay open, with varying degrees of success. But this shouldn't be.
I mean, sometimes it is so bad that I read one or two pages in an hour. Then I leave, puzzled and slightly disgusted with myself for being so dopey. If I am at Cafe Vita sitting at an outside table, nearby patrons may presumably see me in this state - trying again and again to read the page, head drifting slowly downward, eyes drooping. Ridiculous. And pathetic.
This can't go on. I feel like I'm deluding myself. Self-discipline has always been important to me. Feeling as though I maintain some discipline, some maintenance of rigor and fortitude and constancy in certain areas of my life - intellectual being one - makes me satisfied and makes me feel whole and like I am a worthwhile human being. When I falter, it bothers me. Significantly.
I don't know. There is another piece of the puzzle that I am not mentioning, but which I have chosen not to get into in my OD pages. Perhaps I will at some point, but right now I choose to simplify things by omitting certain things and keeping these things private. The gist of it is that I am on a certain prescribed medication that causes what I've been describing.
And the impotence. I do not know what to do about it. An obvious option would be to consult a doctor, and I will look into this forthwith. I do hope something can be done.
I have a girlfriend now, and this impotence thing - well, it's not impotence so much as simply an inability to cum - and this has been a real downer multiple times for us. A major bummer. Worse, girlfriend thinks it has something to do with her, that it's her fault that I don't always cum and that it's hard for me to. I'm totally freakin' erect, that is not a problem at all. And it's almost like the relationship is not consummated sexually unless I come. And I don't. More often than not, I don't.
Fuck.
- d.g.w. 8/16/07
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Rachel Out in the Country
This past weekend I visited Rachel at her parents house near Gig Harbor. They are somewhere in the country between Gig Harbor and Tacoma. I don't know - all I know is that there is no cell phone reception for miles around, and it is an hour from Seattle.
It was quite an uneventful weekend. Rachel does not do much of anything there, apparently, although to her credit there did not appear anything to do. It is Rachel, her mother, father, and nephew Tyler - her younger sister's 2 1/2 year-old son. Oddly, her parents did not seem to mind one bit that I was there. They were completely neutral. Not very interested, but not in the least resentful or annoyed. They were not inhospitable, but not gracious at my presence. Apathetic, rather. A little odd, I thought.
Her mother is around 50, a bit wrinkly and pale from sitting inside, chain-smoking cheap Bronco cigarettes all day. Father, whose name I didn't catch, was supremely the quiet-type. A thin, balding, blondish man with glasses and a mustache. Stoic. He said perhaps 10 or 20 sentences the entire two days.
Saturday night he requested Rachel and I come out to the fire pit, where he was stoking firewood with a sharpened pool stick. We sat with him for half-an-hour, virtually wordless. I was going to start some conversation, but I was curious to see if - as I was guessing was the case - either of them would speak, as Rachel is fairly quiet herself. So I held my tongue, and there we sat, staring at the fire.
After Rachel got up and went inside, to read her V.C. Andrews book, her father spoke up a bit. He explained that he grew up in a small German settlement in Texas called Bolvell or something like that, and that there is a sister-city by the same name in Germany. Rachel's mother is German; born in Germany; and they met while he was stationed there, in the military. I flipped through a scrapbook of their wedding, and of Rachel and her sister as young children: apparently a contented young family. They were not unhappy now, there was just the feeling of burden and apathy at, obviously, Rachel's and her sister's troubles.
I considered that 2 1/2 year-old blonde, blue-eyed Tyler was a gift of sorts for Rachel's mom, as she doesn't work and would be stuck out there alone all day if it weren't for him. Apparently the father lives nearby, but rarely comes to see his son. If her opinion of it weren't clear enough, Rachel's mother has trained Tyler to explain his parents to those who might wonder:
"Mama's in the clinker, dada's a loser."
That was a bit shocking to me when I heard him say it. Hilarious though, to hear from the lips of a toddler!
Rachel's sister is supposedly in jail in Texas somewhere. It's quite a sad case. She is younger - 21 or so.
Tyler is quite a rambunctious guy. Rachel's mother had him in the car seat when she picked us up from the bus stop. Both she and Rachel then proceeded to smoke with the windows only cracked, the whole way back to their house. They both smoke inside, too - chain smoke - with Tyler and Rachel's non-smoker dad, too. Rather inconsiderate, I thought. If ever there would be a case of secondhand smoke causing a health problem, I should think this would be it.
I left with dad at 5 Monday morning, as he began his long commute to Tukwila for work at the federal Department of Homeland Security. He was mum in the car, too, even as I questioned him a bit about his job. It seemed quite interesting. I couldn't get much out of him. Rachel had told me that he worked in Immigration matters, and was formerly an Immigration agent for the Justice Department.
He dropped me off in Tacoma at dawn and I boarded the Sound Transit bus for the hour trip back to Seattle.
It was quite an uneventful weekend. Rachel does not do much of anything there, apparently, although to her credit there did not appear anything to do. It is Rachel, her mother, father, and nephew Tyler - her younger sister's 2 1/2 year-old son. Oddly, her parents did not seem to mind one bit that I was there. They were completely neutral. Not very interested, but not in the least resentful or annoyed. They were not inhospitable, but not gracious at my presence. Apathetic, rather. A little odd, I thought.
Her mother is around 50, a bit wrinkly and pale from sitting inside, chain-smoking cheap Bronco cigarettes all day. Father, whose name I didn't catch, was supremely the quiet-type. A thin, balding, blondish man with glasses and a mustache. Stoic. He said perhaps 10 or 20 sentences the entire two days.
Saturday night he requested Rachel and I come out to the fire pit, where he was stoking firewood with a sharpened pool stick. We sat with him for half-an-hour, virtually wordless. I was going to start some conversation, but I was curious to see if - as I was guessing was the case - either of them would speak, as Rachel is fairly quiet herself. So I held my tongue, and there we sat, staring at the fire.
After Rachel got up and went inside, to read her V.C. Andrews book, her father spoke up a bit. He explained that he grew up in a small German settlement in Texas called Bolvell or something like that, and that there is a sister-city by the same name in Germany. Rachel's mother is German; born in Germany; and they met while he was stationed there, in the military. I flipped through a scrapbook of their wedding, and of Rachel and her sister as young children: apparently a contented young family. They were not unhappy now, there was just the feeling of burden and apathy at, obviously, Rachel's and her sister's troubles.
I considered that 2 1/2 year-old blonde, blue-eyed Tyler was a gift of sorts for Rachel's mom, as she doesn't work and would be stuck out there alone all day if it weren't for him. Apparently the father lives nearby, but rarely comes to see his son. If her opinion of it weren't clear enough, Rachel's mother has trained Tyler to explain his parents to those who might wonder:
"Mama's in the clinker, dada's a loser."
That was a bit shocking to me when I heard him say it. Hilarious though, to hear from the lips of a toddler!
Rachel's sister is supposedly in jail in Texas somewhere. It's quite a sad case. She is younger - 21 or so.
Tyler is quite a rambunctious guy. Rachel's mother had him in the car seat when she picked us up from the bus stop. Both she and Rachel then proceeded to smoke with the windows only cracked, the whole way back to their house. They both smoke inside, too - chain smoke - with Tyler and Rachel's non-smoker dad, too. Rather inconsiderate, I thought. If ever there would be a case of secondhand smoke causing a health problem, I should think this would be it.
I left with dad at 5 Monday morning, as he began his long commute to Tukwila for work at the federal Department of Homeland Security. He was mum in the car, too, even as I questioned him a bit about his job. It seemed quite interesting. I couldn't get much out of him. Rachel had told me that he worked in Immigration matters, and was formerly an Immigration agent for the Justice Department.
He dropped me off in Tacoma at dawn and I boarded the Sound Transit bus for the hour trip back to Seattle.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Serendipity and an English Parakeet (Aug. '07)
2002: I'm walking down Rockville Pike to my grandparents' house. I've just gotten off the metro at White Flint station. Rockville Pike/355 is the main thoroughfare north from D.C. up through Montgomery County and into the Maryland suburbs. There is an office park with some greenery and short trees lining the traffic-congested strip that is home to offices buildings, auto dealerships and fast-food joints. I'm walking along minding my business, my eyes were probably down toward the ground as cars were coming at me, giving me the pedestrian-look-down they sometimes give. It is muggy, the smell of exhaust hovers in a pasty, translucent sky.
I spot a little green thing moving, I barely register it, almost miss it entirely. A lizard? No, a little bird. An obviously weak, helpless little thing I recognize as a parakeet. A budgie! Oddly, it is hopping, almost limping in the direction of the road, through the grass under the sparse shade. I kneel down and consider the little guy, block his path to the road. I pity the poor parakeet, I need to get him some help, I think to myself. Notifying the Human Society - this is the first thing that comes to mind, as he seems so weak, possibly - probably near death. Surely he would not survive much longer out here. Probably wouldn't make it the night.
He is still going, however, tiny black, beety eyes sparkle some intelligence and perhaps fatigue - if I could divine as much. He was regal looking - a tall forehead, hooked beak tucked primly into his cheek feathers, and intelligent, pensive, though anxious, eyes. An English parakeet - separate, more-refined breed of budgie carefully bred over the years and favored by the British. There are office buildings and apartment blocks scattered along the Pike, I look up at the structure towering nearby and consider perhaps that the bird escaped out of one of those windows. It's hard to say how long he might have been out there. Probably not long, as he was in such a fragile, weak state that any sort of creature with a predatory inclination would have gobbled him up.
I cup him in my hand, thinking about what to do. I decide to avert all of the outside dangers here near the road and slip him into my backpack. I carry it gently in front of me, making sure to leave it partly unzipped to give him air. I take out my phone and call mom, tell her.
She and I both love animals. We have a weakness for any small or baby pet, we both love dogs and dote on our Begian sheepdog, Conree. She agrees to drive down from my grandparents' in Gaithersburg and pick me up.
So she arrives and I hop in, open up my bag and out pops the little green and yellow and white bird!
Mom is fairly tickled. At this point I haven't considered the next step, but she intimates that we ought to take him home. She told me later that she had kept parakeets as a child, her mother/ my grandmother always loved wild birds -bluebirds were her favorite - and was an avid bird-watcher.
I'm hungry and budgie needs some water, so we swing into the McDonald's near White Flint station. I remember this most fondly about that day - I have Big Bird (we settle on this name later on when we find that he talks and enjoys spouting the name "Big Bird" in a comical, exclamatory tone that always elicited laughter from my mom) cupped in my lap along with french fries and a Big Mac - rather presumptuously, ravenously - as he is evidently famished - hops up my arms and begins nibbling on a french fry. I am trying to give him a little sip of ice water, but instead he goes for my Coke! He takes little bites of the brown liquid that has seeped up above the lid of the cup! This is one of my fondest memories of Big Bird.
We soon discover, after he has recovered and regained his strength, that he's got quite a knack for mimicry. He blabbers and warbles on in garbled English, not unlike an ill-received radio station. Mom and I get a kick out of this when we discover his this cross-species linguistic talent of his. And as I mentioned, he had arrived with an affinity for saying, "That's Big Bird." And so hence the name. We surmised that this may have been the name given by his previous owners. Before too long, he is mimicking sounds and speech from us! When I come in each day, for example, I would often whistle a little catcall to him - soon he would anticipate this and whistle the same little tune to me! I whistle back and he likewise, with perfect mimicry. Very cute. And alas, I say "was" because Big Bird died not long before I moved to Seattle.
He had become quite thin, emaciated at times; in fact his health seemed fragile for the entire two and a half years I had him. He would have sick spells and be lethargic and unresponsive for a week or two, but he did recover again and again. I devised a hydrotherapy for him - whenever I'd shower I would cart him in with me on my shoulder and he would perch atop the cabinet for an hour, door shut / fan off, soaking up the warmth and humidity. He truly loved that.
As a matter of fact, he loved taking baths too! A sucker for lukewarm water. Big Bird had a Pavlovian response to the sound of a tap running - Often he'd whistle to me if I was in the bathroom, soliciting a ride to the basin. He needed the tap ever so gentle and warm - needed it just so - and he'd flap his wings and boogie-down his hindfeathers into the bath. He could sit in his bath, tap flowing, for a half-an-hour! It was pretty adorable. Kept his plumage nice and clean, too.
Eventually, not long before I left for Seattle, I awoke one morning to find him at the bottom of his cage, breathing heavily, near-death, no longer perched on his little perch below his favorite mirror. Several more days of this and he expired. Mom and I buried him in the backyard. We weren't so sad, as we could see it coming, in fact I think we were surprised he had lasted so long - a good 3 1/2 years with us and however-long with his previous owner.
And so Big Bird sparked in me a love of birds, and upon reaching Seattle, I sought out a budgie breeder from Bremerton whom my niece, who works at Animal Talk in Fremont, knew of and recommended to me. I got two two-month old fledgling budgies, sky blue and white. However, as I was staying with my sister for several months last year, I soon had to turn them over to my niece (my sister Sarah has two cats, two rather incompatible species if there ever were). I still see them fairly often, though, and they are in Fremont in my relatives' house in a nice big cage together!
One other little anecdote about Big Bird - my mother once said he was like an angel - a guardian angel perched on my shoulder who had arrived in my life during a difficult and transitional time. Sent from heaven! That might sound corny, but it always rang true for me. He was an angel - a whip-smart little sentient being, my little "man", as I affectionately referred to him.
- d.g.w. 7/9/07
I spot a little green thing moving, I barely register it, almost miss it entirely. A lizard? No, a little bird. An obviously weak, helpless little thing I recognize as a parakeet. A budgie! Oddly, it is hopping, almost limping in the direction of the road, through the grass under the sparse shade. I kneel down and consider the little guy, block his path to the road. I pity the poor parakeet, I need to get him some help, I think to myself. Notifying the Human Society - this is the first thing that comes to mind, as he seems so weak, possibly - probably near death. Surely he would not survive much longer out here. Probably wouldn't make it the night.
He is still going, however, tiny black, beety eyes sparkle some intelligence and perhaps fatigue - if I could divine as much. He was regal looking - a tall forehead, hooked beak tucked primly into his cheek feathers, and intelligent, pensive, though anxious, eyes. An English parakeet - separate, more-refined breed of budgie carefully bred over the years and favored by the British. There are office buildings and apartment blocks scattered along the Pike, I look up at the structure towering nearby and consider perhaps that the bird escaped out of one of those windows. It's hard to say how long he might have been out there. Probably not long, as he was in such a fragile, weak state that any sort of creature with a predatory inclination would have gobbled him up.
I cup him in my hand, thinking about what to do. I decide to avert all of the outside dangers here near the road and slip him into my backpack. I carry it gently in front of me, making sure to leave it partly unzipped to give him air. I take out my phone and call mom, tell her.
She and I both love animals. We have a weakness for any small or baby pet, we both love dogs and dote on our Begian sheepdog, Conree. She agrees to drive down from my grandparents' in Gaithersburg and pick me up.
So she arrives and I hop in, open up my bag and out pops the little green and yellow and white bird!
Mom is fairly tickled. At this point I haven't considered the next step, but she intimates that we ought to take him home. She told me later that she had kept parakeets as a child, her mother/ my grandmother always loved wild birds -bluebirds were her favorite - and was an avid bird-watcher.
I'm hungry and budgie needs some water, so we swing into the McDonald's near White Flint station. I remember this most fondly about that day - I have Big Bird (we settle on this name later on when we find that he talks and enjoys spouting the name "Big Bird" in a comical, exclamatory tone that always elicited laughter from my mom) cupped in my lap along with french fries and a Big Mac - rather presumptuously, ravenously - as he is evidently famished - hops up my arms and begins nibbling on a french fry. I am trying to give him a little sip of ice water, but instead he goes for my Coke! He takes little bites of the brown liquid that has seeped up above the lid of the cup! This is one of my fondest memories of Big Bird.
We soon discover, after he has recovered and regained his strength, that he's got quite a knack for mimicry. He blabbers and warbles on in garbled English, not unlike an ill-received radio station. Mom and I get a kick out of this when we discover his this cross-species linguistic talent of his. And as I mentioned, he had arrived with an affinity for saying, "That's Big Bird." And so hence the name. We surmised that this may have been the name given by his previous owners. Before too long, he is mimicking sounds and speech from us! When I come in each day, for example, I would often whistle a little catcall to him - soon he would anticipate this and whistle the same little tune to me! I whistle back and he likewise, with perfect mimicry. Very cute. And alas, I say "was" because Big Bird died not long before I moved to Seattle.
He had become quite thin, emaciated at times; in fact his health seemed fragile for the entire two and a half years I had him. He would have sick spells and be lethargic and unresponsive for a week or two, but he did recover again and again. I devised a hydrotherapy for him - whenever I'd shower I would cart him in with me on my shoulder and he would perch atop the cabinet for an hour, door shut / fan off, soaking up the warmth and humidity. He truly loved that.
As a matter of fact, he loved taking baths too! A sucker for lukewarm water. Big Bird had a Pavlovian response to the sound of a tap running - Often he'd whistle to me if I was in the bathroom, soliciting a ride to the basin. He needed the tap ever so gentle and warm - needed it just so - and he'd flap his wings and boogie-down his hindfeathers into the bath. He could sit in his bath, tap flowing, for a half-an-hour! It was pretty adorable. Kept his plumage nice and clean, too.
Eventually, not long before I left for Seattle, I awoke one morning to find him at the bottom of his cage, breathing heavily, near-death, no longer perched on his little perch below his favorite mirror. Several more days of this and he expired. Mom and I buried him in the backyard. We weren't so sad, as we could see it coming, in fact I think we were surprised he had lasted so long - a good 3 1/2 years with us and however-long with his previous owner.
And so Big Bird sparked in me a love of birds, and upon reaching Seattle, I sought out a budgie breeder from Bremerton whom my niece, who works at Animal Talk in Fremont, knew of and recommended to me. I got two two-month old fledgling budgies, sky blue and white. However, as I was staying with my sister for several months last year, I soon had to turn them over to my niece (my sister Sarah has two cats, two rather incompatible species if there ever were). I still see them fairly often, though, and they are in Fremont in my relatives' house in a nice big cage together!
One other little anecdote about Big Bird - my mother once said he was like an angel - a guardian angel perched on my shoulder who had arrived in my life during a difficult and transitional time. Sent from heaven! That might sound corny, but it always rang true for me. He was an angel - a whip-smart little sentient being, my little "man", as I affectionately referred to him.
- d.g.w. 7/9/07
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)