enemies

Bed of Roses

While pretty, I am best viewed from afar.

Greetings and Salutations!

For some strange reason I decided to overhaul this blog instead of just trashing it. Originally, my plan was to delete the thing and end this voyage and abandon any dear readers that I may have collected along the way. Readers which I am certain have moved onwards and upwards and have forgotten about an alleged narcissicist with  tendencies for degeneracy on scales that can only be measured with “epic” as a qualifying adjective. But I ditched the plan. I have no reason why I have done so – I was having a bastardly bastard of a time coming up with things that I felt were relevant enough to write about (and we all see where that went…). And beyond explaining what has happened it the eon that I have been away, I find myself wondering if I will have material beyond a few days, maybe weeks.

Now, things have changed. I have moved on to a new chapter in my novel existence (see what I did there?), and wonder if the coming experiences will rate sharing with others. It is not that I feel that my life has become or will become boring…that is not something that I believe is possible for me. What is at issue is that I have been avoiding – the collapse of The Foundation. Yes, the collapse of the what was the single most beneficial asset to Samurai City. From beginning to end, the tale is one that I am sure would amuse, horrify, and possible bring about several more indictments; it may be told on various turns of your humble narrator’s new adventure, but do not plan on it (for any of you that care, for those of you that do not…pick a finger). The fall of the Creator of the Thunderdome is a tale wrought the joy, sadness, treachery, and ultimately, a tragedy of Greek literary tradition. But our Foundation life was not a bed of roses, this way is better for us (snicker). Needless to say, instead of focusing my empire on “charity,” I decided to go back to the University. A career in psychology/psychiatry seemed like a new and exciting path for Dear Xavier, so I packed up my office, and traded my ledgers for textbooks.

We all press the lever for food.

The road back to academia was an interesting and treacherous one. I found myself immersed in a culture of students that were significantly younger than me. Now, I am not unused to being around young people, but typically I am bossing the younger people around like some self-important autocrat. However, they younger people are now my peers and colleagues. I am now faced with having to remind myself that these are people with opinions that I owe the same consideration and respect that I would give my fellow Generation Xer’s or some junk (which is not necessarily all that much). Still, the journey has been pleasant, despite learning that I still can count mathematics as an area that I am lacking in superiority. I have also learned that psychologists are an incredibly interesting lot of people.

 

I think the best part of the journey that led to my literary hiatus was  that I got to avoid discussing the 2016 election. I also have to struggle to refrain from speaking of the result of that train wreck. 2016 will always represent where three to four decades of dismantling public education will lead. I cannot even bring myself to watch the news anymore. However, this is not a bad thing because I can avoid local news stories that have not gone away (I get it, the Thunderdome and Arboretum would make an excellent public park and demonstrate good will to Samurai City after the unfortunate turn of events that may have involved the Foundation! I said I was thinking about it assholes!).

These are not real babies.

In addition to avoiding the election, I was able to rediscover a few old interests. Namely, photography. I have turned into one of those people that is an unabashed and unashamed iPhonographer. See that shit? I even used tend-iLanguage to talk about my old/new thing. I am not sure why it all started. I mean, it could have been when I was taking naughty innocent pictures of various sex acts statues. It could have been when I got the idea to take a bunch of babies used for teaching how to not abuse babies and arranged them into neat photos. Whenever it was that it started, it started and now it is a thing. One thing that does not bother me about my journey into iPhotography (I am addicted, maybe?) is that I cannot take selfies. It bothers me that I had to type “selfies” multiple times to discuss this, but it was unavoidable. You see, dear readers, it seems that my arms are in fact too short for me to take a decent self-image. No, it is not an angle thing. No, it is not an inability to frame an image. My arms or too fucking small to take one, and I refuse to use one of those horrid sticks. Instead, I have to request that others take pictures of me, and aside from my secretary, I trust the photographer responsible for the image of me featured above (and one other). Other people will make my head to big or get my fat side or get too much forehead or not tell me what do in the picture so I do not look like a hideous fool. This is why images of myself tend to be a year old, maybe two.

What does any of this have to do with me? Loser!

When people quit smoking, or retire, or elect a dangerous Ferengi that had ear reduction surgery to public office, they tend to remember the date that the deed was undertaken. People remember import, significant, life-changing events. So, it would seem to reason (to me) that I would remember what date the doors to the Thunderdome closed leaving the looming structure abandoned in heart of downtown Samurai City. But, I do not. Which is a little disconcerting to me now. I mean, the amount of litigation alone would probably warrant a course in some law school…but I guess when you leave the minutia to attorneys and sycophants and spokespeople one does not have to be concerned with dates and outcomes. It sounds terrible, but other than maybe having to pay for the demolition of some property, the outcome does not really effect me. And is that not the American way? What does not effect me, should not concern me…right? Is that not the direction our species is headed? I believe you should all be concerned that someone such as myself is questioning the humanity of humanity. I mean, my idea of helping the less fortunate involved elephant stampedes parades, and alleged forced substandard-wage labor in apple orchards. I am not saying that I was bad person (just horribly misunderstood), but friends, I am just saying consider whom is writing this and the implications.

Lately, I have found myself having Dante running through my head: “In that part of the book of my memory before which little can be read, there is a heading, which says: ‘Incipit vita nova: Here begins the new life’.” It seems that I am headed into a new life – I admit to being eager and horrified.

“…disconnect and self destruct…”

“…one bullet at a time…” – A Perfect Circle, “The Outsider”

I used to play this song in my Darkside Radio days, typically “The Frosted Yogurt Mix” (or what ever the rest of the title was). Maybe it was remix. Who knows? What I do know is that song has been stuck in my head for the bulk of the day. Sometimes, it feels good to be the outsider. Other times, it seems that one is just on the outside. I never could appreciate the latter of those feelings, I believe that I can now.

Last night, I scared the shit out of myself. I was watching a program on H2, it was discussing how the Earth has shaped human evolution. Well, toward the end, the folks on the show began to go on about how seventy thousand years ago, a major extinction event occurred. That was not a surprise, the majority of species that do exist, have existed, have gone extinct. So, hearing of massive extinction was not the problem. What sent me into a severe head-spin was when one of the guys on this show said that after the event seventy thousand years ago, MOST of humanity was wiped out. Approximately two thousand humans survived, enough to fill a “multi-plex movie theater.” Damn. Talk about your near misses…

All humans living today are descendants of that small population. Our genetic diversity is .1 percent (I really hated not being able to write that out, that will bother me for the rest of my life). It would seem that I, Lord of the Orchard, am closer in relation to those peons that work for me than I realize. Maybe I should be treating them better. I mean, we are all related…closely related. I suppose I could provide higher wages, fewer tazings, end the sixteen hour day, etc. But in the end, what do I have to gain from this?

I mean, is that not what life is all about? What is the use of spending anytime seeing beyond my beautiful eyebrows, if I am not seeing any benefit to my own personal being. Recently, I have enjoyed a rise in my number of followers. This pleases me greatly. Everyone should read my blog. Everyone should want to buy me drinks…and possibly sleep with me. But I digress, back to the followers. Some of them, I am rather enjoying. I can understand why they may have an interest in reading what your humble X has to put to word. I have ascertained that those people are not reading because of my superb writing skills (my hackery is legendary), and I may not know precisely why they read, but I can understand why.

Then there are others. Some that I have no idea why they come here. They should take Dante’s warning and abandon all hope upon entering here. Whenever I have gotten a new subscriber (follower is sounding potentially too cultish for me at the moment), I have made it a point to go to their blog (if they have one), and usually, I find something that makes me wonder why in the Hell would this person even think about looking for my blog? Admittedly, my last few entries have been rather tame, not very dark at all. But, these moments are few and far between. For example, I am actually writing this BEFORE getting into the absinthe, so things will be a little light. I feel the need to behave for a bit. I have no idea why.

Typically, I tend to be a bit obnoxious, pretentious, and generally carry myself in a supercilious manner. My ramblings range from the subtly erotic to downright pornographic. Okay, so I am not usually very subtle, and I have not really written any porn, but I am given to bouts of hyperbole. I am a person of contrasts, you are just as likely to hear Depeche Mode on my stereo as you are to hear classical music. jazz, or sometimes Johnny Cash (Johnny Cash is not country, neither is Willie Nelson. I hate country music). I love foreign films, comic books, threesomes, and I watch professional wrestling. Everyone should. It is a soap opera featuring large sweaty men rolling around in their underwear. And “Big Brother.” Along with those programs and shows about sociopaths, there is “Big Brother.” Seriously, my Twitter feed is all wrestling, “Big Brother” and #FF (I am a horrible tweet-er).

If I go to the bar, I prefer them to be pub-like or a gay bar. One of my favorite bars is owned by my diggity-dog Manthony. It caters to a mixed crowd of straight, gay, bi, what ever. I think I even saw a pangolin in drag there; Manthony claims it was a hallucination from one of those “party pills” I decided to enjoy that night instead of the usual Captain and Coke I get, I still say I saw a pangolin. A sexy pangolin.

My other recent subscribers I found during searches. To be honest, I probably found them by using “sex” as a tag search (is that what they call what that is?). I tried searching other things, and typically found people that I would rather beat with clubs before reading them and getting to peak at their brains through their writing…sex seemed to work well. Searching for sex, I found more outsiders. Finding them was good for me, maybe not so much for them. More than likely, finding them may give me a sense of uniqueness that will afford me to make more connections. Who knows? In any case, finding interesting things to read has provided a better distraction from the Foundation than television programs that wind up scaring the crap out me. Well, leading to a cycle of terrible thoughts that scare the crap out of me.

Now, please do not be offended, if you are reading this and have thought that I am talking about you, remember Carly Simon and realize that this song may not be about you. It probably is, but may not be, so do not get all cray-cray. What this is all about is my life on the outside. My life lived in perpetual Nielsen Family membership. My life spent listening, trying to understand, and fitting in; a life spent kicked out of the reindeer games because my jib is cut a little bit askew to the main. The panic from the near extinction seventy thousand years ago led me to thinking of ancestors of mine that suffered from dementia and other tragic ailments. I lived a life on the outside of my family as well. I think different, am different; I am the cliché black sheep. However, will my lack of romance with fried foods and generally healthier lifestyle keep me away from the flock this time? Our will genetics show that I am not really an outsider? Will it show that I am truly a part of that lucky rabble of two thousand that almost bought the farm for the rest of humanity?

The Answer: “Not a Damn Thing”

The Question: What’s wrong with Xavier? I have been hearing that a lot the last few days. And my answer to that question seemed to be a perfect way to title this post.

I guess my actions of late have upset some. Apparently, I have been acting out of character. Funny. I hear those words, but my brain translates that into “Why aren’t you letting me walk all over you anymore?” Language is a funny thing. Words have meanings in themselves, but when arranged to form a sentence or thought, it is up to the listener to determine understanding of those words; lately the understanding people have been trying to convey to me is not the understanding that I myself have be getting.

For years, I have been a “go to” person. Always there to help, listen, shoot you in the face, etc. For years, I have walked the borderline between good and evil; those on my good side have always been honored and loved. Those on my bad side, or of whom I have no opinion have been subjected to what had to happen at the time. Within that matrix have been friends who turned out not to be such, and I still kept my loyalty.

Until recently. Recently, I just decided that I needed to start cutting loose the deadweight. I have begun saying: “You know what? I am done accommodating and feeling cheated like some cheap whore in an hourly rented hotel room. I am sick of placing people on pedestals and treating those I call friends as the highest on my list only to be forgotten, left behind…neglected.

I decided it was time to go back to my roots and stop being jaded into believing that my actions would be returned in kind. This has been a long time coming; my sense of altruism slowly being replaced by wanting something in return. Now it is blossomed into a wondrous sense of not giving a fuck, and trying to carve out a sense of peace for myself.

I have learned that I am totally responsible for my own happiness and that waiting for the Karma bus is a long, cold wait. My optimism may finally have been turned to a seething cynicism that tells me the truth, burning away the mote from mine eyes and revealing a knowledge that I had denied, had never wanted to accept. I am no better or different than anyone, why should I be treated so?

With that thought, I arrive at the answer for those who claim I am not myself, for those who wonder wrong with me. The answer: nothing. Absolutely nothing. I have become just like you.

“Living well is the best revenge.”

Thank you, George Herbert; while I appreciate your statement, I cannot say that I agree. I first ran across that quote when I was in elementary school. You see, attending a school for nerds is a double-edged sword: on one edge, you are an easy target for bullies – they know where to find you. The other edge gives you tools: vocabulary, insight, literacy, etc. that give you a means to wittily assail those who resort to brute force to intimidate and belittle. However, that sword ends in a nasty deadly point: both sides combined provide the aggressor with a weapon of irony that cuts both the bully and the bullied, yet provides the bully with the handle and the deadly point directed squarely in the eye of the victim.

But, I digress.

A fellow nerd had just finished amusing a group of asses by being subjected to their various torments, and I asked him why, since he was taller than the other boys, did he not just punch one in the face? He may end up getting beat up by three, but at least he would have gotten one of them, and besides, that one punch may have been the one that shook the morale of the others in the troop, prompting them to desist with their shenanigans and leave him alone. Mind you, this was not an attempt to convey any bravery to a friend, I would have acted just as he did (and had done so in the past). My mind was geared toward survival: I believed that had he attacked, even if he got his ass kicked, it would have kept the fiends away from me another day. However, if he had been successful, and put the Fear in the bullies, then we nerds would have a champion and we could move about in peace. He would have to maintain his status at times, perhaps, but that was not an issue for me…

The first part of his response was that they were telling him to leave because he did not belong where he was, the second element of his response was to babble on size being irrelevant, the hydrogen atom and the energy created when split, and not making assumptions about the power of the assailants based on their apparent size. Big things, come in small packages, was basically what this fellow was telling me, and that I already knew; his words were not going to prevent any further attacks. He then added: “Living well is the best revenge.” To me, his future of living well for revenge was not changing the fact that while he was still where he was and had not left, it had changed the fact that he did not belong there. That he was not wanted there. And nothing would change that.

He had a plan, it turns out. He was going to use his superior intellect to get wealthy, the ignoramuses would be working for him and be subject to his whim. He figured that he would just bide his time. He suggested that I do the same. And so, that is what I did. I kept up my grades, got involved with the band and other band-things, and even enjoyed a moderate bit of popularity in High School. But the damage was done. I was tortured by the idea that I did not belong. That I was too different. That I was consigned to my own Private Idaho for the remainder of my life.

Still years later, I was using my superior intellect to lord over those who victimized me in the past. I have a wealth that I cannot calculate. Some of those that were my personal criminals have become public criminals and are living as residents of the penal system. Despite all of what may be consider wellness of living, I am not getting the best revenge. That is not to say that I have it bad. I live rather well, to be completely honest. My problem is that I am not completely sure that I am living well what I need to be living well.

To me, life has been a quest to understand and to be understood in kind. That may be a common theme to humanity, but I do not wish to make blanket statements. It has never been enough for me to simply look around me and be content. It has never been enough to live my own intellectual version of the “abominable fantasy,” to look at my former tormentors burning in their own private Hell has never been sufficient. I have always had a desire to be accepted, to be understood, to be validated. I wanted to be what I was and meet others like me and live a life with a collective of like-minded people who wrote together. Danced together. Ate, slept, fucked, ran together. I have always wanted to belong to something; I live the life of an outsider who wants to constantly peer inside.

But the Hell of my past tormentors keeps me from staring down and enjoying their suffering. The reason behind that is because I have not fully enjoyed my own personal Heavens: dangled before me like a grapes before Tantalus, they are stripped away just when I have grown to realize what I have. As a result, when I should be getting the best revenge, I find myself living of life of constant nostalgia for the images that were once present before my eyes. While I may see myself above them, they still have that one thing to hold over me, that one thing that was their weapon: I still do not fit in and still, I do not belong.