oh the pressure

My previous www establishment was a) pretty b) messy. In retrospect I think that allowed me to be more open by hiding behind the confusing, yet beautiful, clutter. Now, I have a blog. Bliagh. I’m beginning to worry about the boringness of my posts and the banality of my worries. Look at me now writing a post on my blog about having a blog. It doesn’t get more banal than that. Or does it? Fortunately, I get over myself pretty easily.

There.

Phew. Now this is over and done with let me tell you about a new thing I discovered about myself. I can panic. Anxiety–attack kinda panic. The over–the–top–need–some–help–will–you–fucking–chill–bitch kinda panic. Sooo over–exaggerated. I’ll spare the details and give the essential structure: presentation on Monday afternoon. Supervision on Monday noon. Procrastinating tasks all (most) weekend. Tension builds up. Instead of just getting on with it on Monday like I would normally do, I panic. I’m really anxious. Adrenaline, quick heart–beat, frustration, walking up and down and behaving like Hollywood movies tell you incredibly talented autistic people behave. Yup, it was that bad. Cancel supervision with honest terse email and then spend rest of day preparing in Negativity–plus. I was going insane. I even went insane during the end of the talk. Does this count as temporary insanity? Is this different only in degrees to a full–blown mental episode?
The interesting thing was, that the talk went very well, despite my shooting myself in foot. The reasons it went well are irrelevant right now. What’s relevant is how easily you can allow yourself to be completely delusional. Negativity feeds on itself and gets superimposed until it presents you with a viewpoint that you can’t break out of. The whole of the day I kept telling myself I would fuck up and so by the end of the day I was so deluded I couldn’t see anything else but my fucking up. I think eventually such repeated actions lead to self–fulfilling prophecies (thoughts are actions too: they mark your interactions with your world). But the delusional cases are more telling because they show how you easily you can interpret things to be as you expect them. This can be used to one’s advantage of course but the story can’t be a straight–forward `fake it till you make it’ because you need some kind of reliable feedback mechanism to correct the delusions. I guess the real take home message is that you can’t correct all delusions by yourself. You need external confirmation.

fuck me rules?

I may (or may not) currently be in a fuck buddy relationship. I’m doubtful because this is a new situation and not stable enough for me to judge yet. But you don’t care about that do you? What you want is `The Fuck Buddy Rules’.

I know you. You google junkies. You want to know how you ought to go about fuck–buddying. You want to know what to do. And what not to do. What to feel. And not to feel. You come across rules such as: no hand holding, no prolonged cuddling, no sleep–overs, and you wonder what it means that you resist some of the rules. Relationships and sex are, well, complicated. Perhaps we can simplify things if you have enough common sense to put the complexity back. So on with the generalisations.

Now, a `fuck buddy’ or `FB’, the way I understand it is someone you have occasional (perhaps regular) sex with. The FB is not your friend. (See friends–with–benefits for that.) You may have nothing else in common with the FB besides the sex. You may not even like him/her. What concerns me here is having a purely sexual relationship with someone where it is clear to all concerned that it is a purely sexual relationship.

Some claim that such a thing is impossible because `feelings get in the way’. Some go even further and claim that when someone, particularly a female, says that `it’s just about sex’ what she means is `I want more but have to settle for what I can get’. There are multiple meanings in that but I’ll leave that as an exercise for the reader. There is some truth in all of this and the existence of such ridiculous things such as `The Fuck Buddy Rules’ goes to show that.

Now, as a google junkie myself, I’ve been through The Rules. I even found some of them useful. But I have one major problem with them: their purpose is to protect your feelings. Hold on now. I’m not saying heart break is desirable or anything silly like that. But. If you’re worried about your feelings in an FB relationship, you shouldn’t be in one. It’s as simple as that. If you need to follow a list of rules to prevent yourself from getting hurt then don’t do it. It’s a classic rookie mistake to make: a) Get in a relationship that’s bad for you. b) And then build barriers to protect yourself from the negative consequences of the relationship. What the fuck?

So myself, I have only one question to ask: Do I need to protect my feelings? (i.e., follow The Rules religiously, avoid affection when you feel like giving it/taking it, pretend you don’t care when you do, etc.) If yes, then an FB relationship is bad news. If there’s nothing to protect, because this is really just about the sex — no more no less — good. You are FB material.

blast from the past

Did the dad–daughter bonding trip with my father. It’s become a new ritual. (The last couple of years.) We go together to north Cyprus. Visit his home village. Have coffee by the sea side half way through. Then fish near his village. Then coffee and baklava at the old Venetian town of Famagusta.  Lots of Turkish/Cypriot/Greek coffee.
The trip is never fun. He gets a bit melancholy. You would wouldn’t you? The bastards who voted against the reunification of the island have signed its de facto division. A shame.
We don’t speak much during the trip. It’s good we can do that. My mum hates silence. Fortunately, my dad doesn’t. So we drive in silence that gets broken for the inevitable comments that get repeated at each journey. When we pass by the trees planted at a field, the trees that make up the shape of the island we congratulate the initiative but criticise its location—it ought to be more visible. (You wouldn’t see it if you didn’t know what it was.) When we pass by bad roads we criticise the idiotic planning. And so on…My dad will tell me the same stories of his childhood.  He will show me his land. Whenever we stop I’ll take a walk by the sea. Stand in silence and say hello. I hold a map and he asks me where we are although he knows. I tell him nonetheless.
It’s hunting season too. Men with dogs all over the places going to the mountains. My grandfather used to take my dad. They were one with the land and they would go fishing and hunting and plant the land and work the land and the women would make feasts for twenty people or more on a half day’s notice.
This time we got slightly lost in a village near his place of birth. An old man stops to give us directions and invites us for coffee. There are still places where men go to play backgammon and smoke and talk and the only woman there makes the coffee. I like those places. All the men there are more than fifty so still speak the old beautiful dying dialect of Greek: the Cypriot language. They speak Cypriot amongst themselves. By accident a relative of an old friend of my father’s father arrives. They speak of old times. My dad is touched.
Meanwhile the initial old man is telling me stories. He tells me how they all used to fuck this girl. He tells me who married whom. He tells me he knows of a couple of young men about my age I could meet. He tells me of eating and drinking and having fun throughout the night. Of lamb and birds and meat meat meat and drinks. He gets melancholic as well at times. His face changes. But mostly he talks of fun. His face is completely wrinkled. Two long lines—furrows. And his whole forehead is checked where lines meet each other.
On our way out a much older  man bids me welcome and asks me where my sir is. I haven’t heard this expression in ages. Your master—freely translated. He’s taking a piss, I said.

fill that space man

I will force myself to write something everyday. Externalise some thoughts—why not? I’m beginning to lose track of my non–philosophic personas. There just isn’t enough time to pay attention to them all. So today’s topic is power.

I recently had sex with a friend of mine. This isn’t about the sex. Although the sex has made clear that this isn’t relationship material. Yup, yet another instance of that unfortunate allocation of resources—the small (and thin) dick. I’m a bit frustrated because this is the second time in more than a year that I’ve had sex of this limited kind. Both times with people I really like and get along with. Intelligent. Funny. People whose company I enjoy. Both small though. This sucks. And I’m only being metaphorical unfortunately.  Anyhow, I feel bad about this because I realised I had some sexual interest in this friend of mine but I was uncertain if it was a good idea or not. But before rationally processing all the information I had and deciding where I stand on a possible sexual advancement, I got, yes you guessed it, drunk. And I had sex with him. Now, had I paid more thought to this I would have realised that he’s liked me for some time now. And that therefore I shouldn’t foolishly act a few days on a suspicion of possible attraction. I have power. But I didn’t realise in time. I’m an intelligent and attractive woman. This eliminates a lot of men who don’t like the combination. But it makes me more attractive to a few others. So I ought to have been aware of this. Simply because it is true. (Fuck arrogance, this is an accurate description.) I’ll be more careful from now on. I’ll start looking at men’s crotches. Fill that space man.

silly girl

before I start by adding that working on someone else’s computer is irritating because it’s not custom made to your habits.
Anyway
I’ll have a spliff—correction I’m having a spliff—and might try to tap into my powers and verbally rehearse an erotic rejection.
So I’m going to start by putting down my thoughts.
I like _. We’ve been forming a friendship, a rewarding friendship, for some time. I enjoy his company and we understand each other, at least on the level of social awkwardness. We are both ambivalent towards others and we are a bit fucked up. Hmm all reasons not to like him I suppose, or at least shouldn’t be reasons to like someone right? Anyhow, back to track. So I’ve also enjoyed getting to know others through our rapport, and poker nights and fancy dinners and all the rest that I guess will have to stop after I break his heart and he hates me. Good thing I don’t really mind not having a social life. And also I’m more likable in the department than ___ so it’s fine. Speaking of the department that’s part of the problem. I spend so much time around that personality. It’s my work and my life and a very intense environment and you need the contact and support of your peers. Plus you don’t have time to socialise with anyone else. But can go down the pub and drink with them. Narcotics. They cloud one’s judgement. Also it’s an 8:2 male:female ratio. So women are few and scarce and I’m one of the hottest. So I should have guessed there were others interested and leave the `maybes’ for nights down the pub. But no. I have to go out and have sex with someone I think I may be sexually interested in and he’s definitely very interested and desperate, emotional and touchy, and have sex with him. Three times. The second after coming up to me in front of everyone and ask aggressively and be abusive, drunk, and ask if I’m coming home with him or staying on to flirt. What the fuck? And I end up having sex with him? Because I’m horny, and needy, and vulnerable, and having no one better around? What the fuck? Show some discipline woman. Now I have a date with him tomorrow and have to , erm, what’s the right phrase, `break up with him’? Not that I owe him anything. But still, shouldn’t behave in ways that are only going to end up in other people’s feelings getting hurt, and put me in a difficult position too. But I now see that  have a responsibility towards men. I am powerful. It’s strange to realise I’ve been repeating it to myself the last few weeks, relishing its significance, trying to tap into its power, the fact that I know that I am beautiful and intelligent, and prize to be had, and an attractive personality. But I have to be responsible because of my power. I have the power to hurt. Not purposively. But I attract and take but give nothing of myself. I am always detached. I enjoy others’ company but don’t miss it when it’s not there. I’m friendly and helpful and give willingly not because I’m a nice person but because I don’t care. I’m not petty so I don’t keep count of my good acts. I do them automatically. I don’t expect reciprocation because I don’t care. Give me efficiency and common sense. And so I give people the wrong impression. A friend once told me that I am a deep misanthropist although no one would ever be able to tell. It’s true. The opposite of love is indifference not hate. I hate no one. They leave me indifferent. I hardly have any friends. Although blessed with quality.  It’s a shame you can’t tell. Although I do try to warn people. They don’t believe me or think I’m lying. And they come like butterflies and I burn them. All right, I’ll burn __. But I also burned G. A deep, rewarding, wonderful experience. But when it was time to end it, I saw it, I thought it, I tried to discuss it, I tried to discuss it again, and then decided to end it. Because it was in the best interests of the both of us. Or so I concluded. And I started regaining control as I started falling out of love. I started falling out of love because I told myself I had to. The decision was made and I shut off my emotions because I was the only one who could do that and get us out of there. When there’s nothing more to learn, find a new interest. The other becomes a memory, part of a collection of memories and gathering of evidence of personality traits, the study of behaviour. So back to oneself to analyse and understand. In the meantime you move, indifferent, in the world, and give the impression you care.
We go round in circles. I’ll have a relationship eventually. It will end eventually. And so on and on. Same with philosophy. And smoking, quitting, smoking again, and so on.
My unreflective behaviour is going to be responsible for hurting someone’s feelings. And I could have prevented it by applying more common sense and regimentation of my feelings. I’m disappointed in myself. I’ve behaved in surprising ways. When do I ever fuck up?

welcome monday

[I'm glad that's not my life anymore...]

I suppose a great way to draw a caricature of a person is by describing the main recurrent themes of their life. A general picture emerges and it might help you see your self from a third perspective.

My typical week (spring 2006 and after):

Standard features: Monday, at some point read article that we will discuss at senior seminar, five to seven. Afterwards, the pub. If I go to the pub I get home at eleven. I make myself a spliff, or two. Watch Star Trek, or read, or both, possibly doodle. Possibly daydream. Maybe write something. Tuesday morning I work at the dept. library. Break—might take long walk. Read before afternoon shift. Take notes for seminar at five. Go to the pub after that for a couple of hours. I’m usually bored, depressed and isolated as a result, but I still go, although not always. I sometimes socialise when I don’t want to. Probably because I rarely feel like socialising but feel obligated to do it often enough so that I might be able to socially function at at least on a very minimal level. When I get home I’ll have a couple of spliffs and do pretty much what I do on Monday night, which is what I do most nights. Wednesday afternoon I work at the library for an hour and half. I try to study throughout the day.  Thursday mornings and afternoons at the library. Friday afternoon I pick up A-trouble from her school and spend all day doing bonding rituals. At late nine-ish her mum comes and we have a few glasses of wine and cigarettes and she tells me about her life and her daughter, and I too on occasion share information about myself. Mando is very intuitive and as a psycho-analyst she can’t help but be in touch with everyone’s possible feelings. I have come to love this family very much. But I won’t be working for them next year because I think that would drive me insane. Especially the part about having to spend so much time with another person, and did I mention it’s a child? Friday nights, get even more stoned than on weekdays. Weekends I usually spend alone unless mrk comes in which case we get stoned together, watch even more Star Trek than usual and psycho-babble about ourselves a lot. If mrk doesn’t come, I do what I would have done with mrk but I also read more, take very long walks (probably stoned too) alone, often going by favourite routes, British museum, my favourite bookshops, the comic book stores in the areas, I read outside if the weather permits. I come home and study or listen to music or read, or write like I’m doing now.
I usually smoke thirty cigarettes a day, and two spliffs on a weekday and many more on weekends. I do not seek social contact, but will see a few friends on occasion particularly if it is they who bother and not me, and might socialise with uni associates, I even went to a poker night recently—voluntary socialising. I will get moody during the week. My base mood—the state you’re in when you’re not in a particular mood, not hot or cold, just neutral–is melancholic and I also spend a significant amount of time self-doubting. I’m also lazy. I am not tidy nor very clean. I do not bother very much. I must always have an hour in the morning before having anything to do. I need that hour to properly wake up and have my coffee in peace. I drink a lot of coffee, but lately I’ve been better. There are even days I only have one cup, although usually I have two or three cups. (Much better than the previous five.) I prefer a double machiatto. Also music is vital. I always have my ipod and listen to music when walking. And I always have music at home. I choose music to suit my mood.

taste of cynicism

Non–cynics—who are they? Those who dare not ponder pointlessness—

The cynic as an optimist.

Ours, say the cynics, is not a position of hate. We don’t hate existence. We just look it in the eye and find nothing of interest there. Whether I exist or not, is a non–sequitur. I just am. I will cease to be. The rest is what happens until non–existence. Life. I had no control over its initiation and I’ll have no control over its eventual end. I have no choice but to do something to kill time. Even if I choose to end it when I want I still have to have experiences in the meantime. I am not the originator of my experiences. They are in and of themselves involuntary. But am I their master? Am I the author of my thoughts? The cynic knows this doesn’t matter. Although you wouldn’t think so by his behaviour, the cynic never takes himself too seriously. He goes with the flow. But he knows how to glide with the waves. Therein lies the lightness of optimism. It is black humour.

The cynic as a pessimist.

Ours, say the cynics, is not a position of hate. We don’t hate life. We just look it in the eye and find nothing of meaning there. We resist life. It tries to bend us to its will. There’s nothing of amusement there. We don’t float. We are heavy. Our weight pulls us down away from the frivolity of lightness. It is dark where we lurk. We move to feed. We affirm our will by living only as we must. To call something our own, we must affirm it. But there’s nothing to affirm. So we must resist life to save our will. Eat my liver.

The pessimist non–cynic. Bitterness.

Life has been unfair to me. Therefore, I hate it.

The optimist non–cynic. The idiot. Bliss.

Life is good. The question `why’ does not get asked.