Spaces

I was unashamedly reading Shob's old blog post today. It was called "corner" and in it, she describes the Big Sad.

Here is the thing with the Big Sad, as she put it: we are stuck because we know how to be stuck. Our gluttony and starvation and full mouthed binging and purging and maniacal wakefulness - all are an accumulation of something wholly familiar. I'll stop speaking for her now, but for every stomach wrenching year of sitting in the stench of disappointment, I know it all so well. I was afraid that I might enjoy the pain, but this kind of demented torture is just unrelenting sin. I regret it and I beg to be freed and forgiven. Still there is no relief, no victory, just as there never will be. I know everything about winning and losing and playing, and I hate everything about it, save for a few teary conversations.

And beyond the Big Sad -

Nothing feels better on a Tuesday morning than a good hour of punching the crap out of a 100 pillar of sand. Feeling my sweat slide off my skin and my body propel itself straight off the floor... seeing my knuckles peel behind the thick boxing gloves... There have been few times in my life where I felt such a restless anger. There have been still fewer times where such has been used so arbitrarily, yet in such a way that not a single person, not even myself, was hurt. If you have $60 a month to spare, check it out.

In Frozen, Olaf says this rather profoundly: "Oh look at that! I've been impaled." I'm afraid to impale someone. Well, cheers to cowardice and young perplexity; here it is, misplaced conjunctions and semicolons alike. I can't stand the way it perpetuates intimacy on such a shallow level. I can't stand our broken resonances that frequent side by side, clashing at every wrong period, every mismatched amplitude. I hate the feeling of disorientation until the moment I step away, the stumbling restraint that bursts forth and recedes into contradiction. The Matrix is playing in the background, so excuse this..sullenness. But let me make it clear that this is no result of love or infatuation, but some gross play of experimentation and thoughtlessness.

Until it isn't. And so it is that when that space can no longer be filled and the glass shatters, over, and over, and over again, the sparks still fly.

And for you, my dear readers, artists, friends - during this indomitable trek of loneliness, I haven't really been alone at all.