Help! I am a misanthropist. Part 1

humor, miscellaneous, writing

I am a very curious, horridly direct, incisive sort of person, afflicted with uncontrollable truthfulness, which means that I find most people obtuse, insecure, boring and kind of namby-pamby. It also means that I frequently make these same people quite bothered or at the least uncomfortable. Being, as I am, in the minority, I realize that I am perhaps more the problem than they are. It’s a miracle really that I managed to get married, and happily, and early on, even my mother thought I would end up as a bit of a feral thing living deep in the woods up in some tree surrounded by wet man-eating koalas.

3eead2e018dc98ee533b2cfb4ac63cbbee3dd69ca217719a6a757512ae7e8768The qualities that I respond to in people are universally hailed as well as claimed by most, while being in fact possessed by almost none. Earnestness, good nature, true inner confidence, directness, decisiveness, insightfulness, self awareness, consideration of others and an agile mind are just some of the things that are necessary for me to form connections with other people or simply to find them likable. I am not just rattling off a catalog of positive human qualifications either, I take careful inventory and fastidiously measure every one of the items mentioned in all whom I meet. The list is absurdly long too, but it has organically grown inside me like a weed, regrettably I am not its gardener and haven’t the power to redact it. Trust me, I would if I could, life would be plenty easier.

If I had to sum it all up I’d say integrity is what I find to be most lacking in my species, and I mean the daily kind, the integrity of little things, small decisions, ordinary moments, minute conversations. I think this is a legitimate gripe against western peoples and something that amply justifies my burgeoning misanthropy-ism. The trouble is though, that it’s the other, much less weighty, much more superficial stuff that often informs my feelings about my fellow humans. Sometimes, before I even have the chance to examine their deeper, more substantive aptitudes, I find myself either painfully disinterested or worse, not being able to stand them at all. Therein lies what I’ve discerned to be my central (and only actually) character flaw. Intolerance.

funny_rebel_cartoon_stickers-rffdddae71bdc43df849fe2d77df2dd33_v9wf3_8byvr_324 I am intolerant. Sometimes it means that I’m short, sharp and dismissive. It also means that inside my head I am unkind, judgmental and even unjust. The side effect of my, lets call it “persnickety”, mental conformation is that I have throughout my life been sort of socially lacking, more so than my communicative, lively nature would ideally have it.

One of my resolutions for this new year, which marks the beginning of the fourth decade of my time on earth, is to better myself (where betterment still can be attained). There aren’t a lot of areas for improvement here, cus I am obviously awesome, but this intolerant thing, well I’ve started working on it. It’s time to do some changing. I’ve realized that not all friends have to be great or close or real even, some can just be friends “lite”, like the free version of the app you want with the ads and the limited functional scope. A connection does not have to be absolute and exact to warrant some level of friendship or social engagement.  I don’t know if this is progress or regress, because it certainly smacks a bit of a kind of disillusionment and settling. I am hoping though, that it’s not so much an abandonment of my exalted ideals, as it is their necessary modification and softening. Bonding being achieved not through an instant congress of souls or minds but rather through repeated physical proximity and shared social experiences? Seems like reasonable recourse.

It has not been easy. These new friends might look good, but they are trying the hell out of my patience and resolve. I do find myself having bits of legitimate fun here and there, and whereas my mental health is sometimes stretched to its limit I opt for hugging, rather than kicking or biting. I am testing the theory that negative thinking can be remedied by positive body language. I realize this might seem utterly ridiculous, but I am actually a very physically affectionate person by nature, and hugging or touching those I love is very natural to me, so I’m hoping it works similarly in reverse with those I am trying to love.  Also, going out has given me a reason to color coordinate again and that’s like totally like EVERYTHING.


Mmmm that’s all I care to say on this subject right now…but it will be a multi-part post, detailing my experience as a newly minted social person with friends and things to do on a Saturday night.


Blogging leads back to Noveling “Excerpt” #1

art, writing

Art: original

Excerpt 1: The Aftermath

“I walked down the street for hours until darkness fell upon the city like a soft blanket. For a time I was all cried out, everything seemed new and strange, even the sight of my moving feet entranced me. While I tried to concentrate all of my attention on the patterns in the broken pavement, in the back of my mind loomed a chilling realization that my life could never be the same. Hours must have passed before I finally felt the pangs of thirst, aching legs spoke up next, pulling me decidedly back into my body. The escalation from discomfort to pain was quick and unsparing. It felt as if 25 pound dumbbells had sprouted from my limbs, with another draping itself around my neck. I hailed a cab and requested to be taken to the closest hotel. All I wanted then was to free my throbbing feet from their shoes and disappear. While the entirety of my luggage, including my purse, had been abandoned at the apartment, my wallet was, luckily, in the pocket of my coat. I handed the cabby some loose cash and dragged myself into the hotel lobby. I don’t remember much after that. Somehow, in a daze, set on “automatic”, I managed to check in and make it up to the room. Heaviness is all I can really recall, so steadily it pressed itself upon me. My feet, my hands, even my head were filled, to what felt like their absolute limit, with gravity, too heavy to be carried around for another second. I laid them down on the bed with the rest of me and gave in to a dreamless sleep.” 

On Blogging: The day after


I felt quite exulted today, having written my very first blog entry just last night. My decided resolution is to write one blog entry every single day for a year. I am now a blogger, I can justifiably use the word “blog” as a verb. It is in a very, and I mean very, small way an evolution. It would be reasonable to wonder what was stopping me from trying to blog years ago. I love to read, I love to write, what possible reason could I have had to be so very weary of this endeavor. I know what you are thinking, but it wasn’t so much for fear of inadequacy, I can promise you that, although I wouldn’t rule it out 100% either. I just couldn’t reconcile the idea of writing publicly and for no good reason. What would that say about me? Oddly, as little as I typically care about what people think of me, I do always care that people do not misconstrue what I think about myself. I revere the craft of good writing, it fills me with wonder and awe, but I felt that an initiative to blog, would suggest to others, some random others, that I see myself as someone whose writing deserves an audience. I do not suffer hubris well in others, and certainly do not allow it to burgeon within myself. I know all the arguments against letting yourself be limited by such silly considerations, especially since the blogging medium is by its nature for everyone to enjoy, irrespective of skill. But still, I want it to be known that I do not consider myself a writer, not really anyways. How could I, when amongst so many a great, countless others there are also giants like J. M. Coetzee, Amitav Gosh…or most recently discovered the lovely Geraldine Brooks…never you mind all the dead ones. So yea, it took me years to become comfortable with the idea of blogging. But here I am now, the question that might follow is, why now?

It was actually another blog that inspired me to join this here blogging community. Until that blog, I hadn’t read any where I felt anything really beautiful was happening. In my limited exposure to the blogging world, I’ll confess having had little to no luck estimating any writing beyond mediocre. I found that most of the very few well written blogs are either all about content e.g. opinion, advice, review, instruction or marred by some regrettable stylistic aspiration. Not this one though. Although it is a personal blog about nothing wildly unique or remarkable from a girl around my age, it possesses a beautiful flourish for narrative and meaning. The language is restrained, polished, structured at times rather elegantly and at other times plainly; it presents with a real balance between scenery and insight. In a word, it’s all class. I read it and suddenly, just like that, I wanted to blog. I do not write like the aforementioned blogger, in some ways I am simply not capable, but neither do I aspire to write like that. It is the difference between a beautiful canvas depicting a lovely sprawling landscape and a macabre illustration of a vintage surgical set. I appreciate both in equal measure, but only the second is hanging in my bedroom. Furthermore, I have resolved to free-write my blog, as not to get too hung up on anything other than letting thought commit itself to paper i.e. computer screen. Obviously, I hope what I have to say amounts to some kind of substance and maybe develops eventually into something stylistically palatable.

So far, it seems, all I have been able to blog about is blogging. Not exactly reaching for the moon here. I know. But it would appear that a handful of people read my first entry, how anyone finds my obscure little zygote of a blog I have no idea. But if any of you guys are reading this second entry, I wholeheartedly thank you. A few people even followed the blog. Panic. I feel now, to some extent, that I have to offer them something readable. Pressure. Free-writing might become more of an aspiration than a utilized method. I don’t think I can withstand the urge to edit or structure, knowing that I have readers. But I will certainly be trying, I don’t want to be Gainsborough here, I want to be Pollock.