hopelesshindu's Xanga

Monday, February 02, 2009

Mon, 02 Feb 2009 09:29:44 GMT

Talk to me for a few hours straight, and I will guarantee you two things. First: At least one of us will be entertained throughout the entire conversation. Second: I will tell you little, if anything about myself. I have an uncanny ability to extract juicy tidbits from others, yet when it comes to my own stories, secrets, and sins, I remain reticent. I can name on one hand how many people know anything I consider substantive about the real me.

The reason for shutting people out isn't anything sinister, nor is it a ploy to make myself more mysterious. No, the reason is much more boring: I am quite boring. I have not journeyed to many far off exotic lands nor have I accomplished any great deeds. I have produced nothing of artistic, spiritual, or scientific significance yet consume all three in great abundance. All my loves have gone unrequited... all my battles remain unfought. I have been punished with banality for merely living my life.

During my first weeks of college, one of my professors asked if we were living or just existing. I, without a shadow of a doubt, just exist. I am here, however, to throw down the gauntlet for all those who just exist. I have listened to people who have had full lives, and I envy them- oh how I envy them- but despite experiencing more than I, they all started sounding the same. I could no longer stand hearing about how awesome this is and how I should really try that... the mush of what they said had become predictable- boring, even. Maybe it is due to their inability to tell stories, or maybe their stories were not worth telling... but maybe my stories were; I am not saying we are better or worse than those with more lived lives- we are their equals. I have for too long bit my tongue, hesitated because I didn't think my stories were good enough. They are.

I may not know what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel, but every year as far as I can remember, I have had the heat of Las Vegas take my breath away. I may not have accomplished anything, but all the things I have started speak volumes about who I have become. I know a Scorsese from a Spielberg; I have spoken to many Gods on many occasions; I understand a great many things from dinosaurs to black holes. Though none of my love stories panned out, they each have more vibrancy than so many that have- there is nothing more bland than Happily Ever After. And about fights... all I have to say about fights is to beware a pacifist’s scars because they cut deeper than flesh could ever go.

It is true banality is my punishment, but I get to chose whether or not I suffer.

Friday, October 24, 2008

Fri, 24 Oct 2008 01:24:49 GMT

   Life is a series of I-told-you-so moments. For a single action, there will be as many people encouraging you as there are who are discouraging. All actions are binary; you either do it or don't. No matter what your decision is, if the decision turns out unfavorably, people will be waiting to greet you with I-told-you-so on their lips. Yet, as with everything you know is true but don't want to be reminded of, I-told-you-so comes off as condescension. To avoid this patronizing attitude, we tend to avoid seeking those who gave us unheeded guidance, despite the fact that they were completely correct in their assessments... which is understandable; who wants take the counsel of someone who is a total dick about it?

   Good friends with good rationale learn to reign in their I-told-you-so reflex. But now a perplexing paradox arises; since people know you have respectable philosophical vision, and even if you don't ever say “I told you so,” those seeking your advice know you are thinking it- if you didn't, then your wisdom and friendly competence comes into question. Since they know you are passing judgment on them based on whether or not they take your two cents’ worth, they don't even bother seeking you out to begin with.

   The problem now lies in one of two places; the advisee or the advisor. If the consequence of a failed choice is too unbearable for the advisee to relive in the company of a counselor who was correct, then maybe the advisee wasn't ready for the choice in the first place; you can't snub a friend for an insult of thought just because you can't stand silent scrutiny. If the advisor feels bad that less and less people look to their truthful take on things, they must look within and ask whether or not they value the soundness of their opinion or the brilliance of their friendship; one must be sacrificed to save the other.

   Now that poses another set of decisions... decisions which have to be made without anyone’s help.

Sunday, July 06, 2008

Sun, 06 Jul 2008 15:52:27 GMT

   Invariably, you are destined for more hellos than you are goodbyes. Meeting people is often accompanied with fanfare and introductions, but ending relationships usually occur over long periods of time with seldom a glance backward. People like using the term drift… as in “we drifted apart.” The image that accompanies this word is easy to visualize, but its place in describing goodbyes is quite inaccurate. Drifting conjures an image of two people, on wood planks huddling in the middle of a choppy ocean; it implies that, through no intent or planning, the currents of life pulled these two people apart so they are left bobbing in isolation. This isn’t how it happens...

    I prefer to think of relationships as lights in a dark room. Being alone, friendless, in the dark, we welcome the light of friendship. It is blinding in its magnificence at first, and then comforting as we get used to it. Things become clear and life comes into focus. The light wards off things that creep in the shadows and allows you to expand your perspective. The light makes you more visible to new friends and many more lights get turned on. Soon, the room is full of light. You are quite happy now, experiencing things you never knew you hadn’t experienced. You leave your first light and see what other lights have to offer. Searching every nook and cranny of your life, you become who you are while failing to see the first light dim and shut off completely. You don’t notice because the darkness left from the first's absence has already been filled.

    To drift is to deny responsibility, which is ultimately more selfish than actually abandoning the friend in the first place. Chasing other lights, while at first seems ungrateful, ultimately accepts one’s role in leaving while still acknowledging the things the first friend gave you- as someone who pierced through the darkness with a hello and faded into the light without a goodbye.

Sunday, June 15, 2008

Sun, 15 Jun 2008 19:01:29 GMT

  I have harbored many not so secret desires to be many things. I’ve wanted to be an author, a creator of comic strips, a restaurant chain owner, a stand-up comic, a children’s television show producer, and currently, though medical school bound, a movie director. These impulses usually fade or lack the impetus to warrant full fledged following. Yet, for as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be either a paleontologist or an astronaut.

  Let it be known that I wouldn't be good at either of these professions; I tire easily from just digging in my mother’s garden and I am confused by even the simplest of calculations let alone astrophysics. Yet, time and time again, I find myself daydreaming about brushing dust off dinosaur fossils in the North American Badlands or orbiting our closest neighbor- Venus.

  Clearly, both of these careers are quite different from each other. One requires digging into the earth and one involves leaving it, yet, to me, both of them have the same appeal. Paleontology deals with the way life was, millions of years before anything even resembling humans existed. Astronomy deals with mankind's destiny though untouched by anyone.

  I, with my feet firmly planted in the present, would essentially be a tourist to the past or a visitor to the future. The draw of these careers is that they offer some sort of enlightenment; a glimpse of what life was like before petty emotion or what life will be like after rising above emotion. I would only be enlightened at work- once I came home, everything would be back to normal and I would just be another resident of the present. Therein lies the draw of these two jobs; I am too cowardly to either live simply or to soar to greatness that I have to achieve these things by burying myself or leaving the planet altogether. And I couldn't even do that.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Tue, 22 Apr 2008 02:26:04 GMT

  It was a cold night. I am not going to lie.... it was cold, but I barely felt chilly because I was so angry. Being hot and bothered is not something I am used to, but these were extenuating circumstances. I was disappointed in someone who I considered such a good friend; for someone who became such a big part of my life relatively quickly and who I was so eager to see and hang out with, I was quite disarmed at how insignificant I was made to feel at that moment. On an unknown street surrounded by unknown faces, the flickering yellow streetlight only compounded to my abandonment. I felt more alone, physically and emotionally, than any point in my life.

  My climes have warmed. My anger has subsided. And, with the dissolution of that one friendship, I realized how many true friends I have around me. Yet every so often, I wonder why I still think about that night. Though I am no longer angry or even disappointed, I can't keep from feeling... unsatisfied. With enough time having had passed, with many new friends in between and to come, I guess I needed some closure. I've really thought about it and came up with this explanation to myself as to why it is still on my mind:

I am unsatisfied because you don't know that I know the truth of what happened that night.

  Of course, there was no way of knowing I know the truth, but I do. I knew it back then, actually. For someone who pines for decent, "drama free" friends- who claimed to understand and value friendship as supreme- these complaints seem shortsighted after a decent friend, quite without drama, is overlooked when arriving, literally, at the doorstep.

  But it is okay, all is forgiven. After today, I will no longer complain, the story of that night will become a humorous anecdote, and I will no longer tell people how awesome of a friend I was. I guess I just wanted to say that I know the truth. I know what decision had to be made that night, and what decision ultimately was made. Obviously, friendship fell to the wayside.

  I just wanted to say I knew the truth, and it hurts that you never admitted it.

Just be happy with the decision you made.

Thursday, February 28, 2008

Thu, 28 Feb 2008 13:15:04 GMT

    When I am eating with Indian people, and am stuffed- where I am afraid that the seat of my pants will tear or my shirt button will fly off- invariably, someone will offer me more food. I say "offer", but I mean "practically force feed." And, boy, do I put up a fight over that food. I say "put up a fight", but I mean "smile, say no a few times, and quickly acquiesce."

    So there it is: a generous helping of some vegetable on plate or a high-fat sweet in hand. Often times, it is both. I am a rather large man. I don't care for calorie counting nor do I hesitate helping myself to food. Maybe that is why I get "offered" so often. Whatever the reason, I really don't want this new food. Now, I love Indian food, I really do, but when I am this full, I don’t care that the dish was deliciously made and the fact that the sweet is my favorite isn't important to me. Also, I know that if I leave the food, the hosts would feign hurt but would get over it and forget rather quickly. Really, the choices are clear. I eat it and I’ll pay for it with indigestion or I don't eat it and nobody will really care in the long run. All roads lead to leaving it on my plate and walking away, guilt-free.

    Yet every single time, I eat it.

    The food is lovingly made and always lovingly offered. I sit back and justify to myself, while the seams of my pants stretch and my shirt buttons strain, that I complain on a daily basis about the lack of decency and love there is in this world and how none of it is extended my way. Yet here is a person who is being perfectly decent and has offered me something with love. How hypocritical would it be of me to fight it and leave it for waste?

    So many times in life, things I so desperately want have been right in front of my face, but I overlook or dismiss them because they did not come in the form I had imagined. It goes to show that I am not worthy enough to be ready for such things in the first place.

Sunday, October 14, 2007

Sun, 14 Oct 2007 23:45:36 GMT

    I've sat here and listened to your tell your story for the umpteenth time, yet I really don't mind. I can tell it as well as you can. I know when to keep my voice soft to raise the tension. I know when to speak slowly and clearly at key parts of the story. I know how to tell those seemingly unrehearsed, but quite deliberate asides and tangents that give necessary context. I know the little hand movements that you do, and while I cannot do them as gracefully, I can recreate them down to the subtlest bend of the finger to the wild flailing of the arms. I know every detail; every in and out of this story that once was uproariously funny to me, but now is something I silently relish.

    I have not gotten bored of the story; not because it is an exceptionally interesting story, nor does it age better with time- no, it is an extraordinarily ordinary story about extraordinarily ordinary situations that merely seem extraordinary superficially. The reason why I still love the story is because it is uniquely yours by the way you tell it. Though the events are quite mundane and universally shared, the excitement you tell it with is matched only by my vigor in listening to it. I crane my neck to hear your voice crack with giddiness. I move where I am sitting as to get a clear view of your eyes as they gleam with glee. I watch your lips constantly shifting from a deep and thoughtful purse to a wide and uncontrollable smile. Even over the phone, I can almost hear the look of satisfaction you get after you are done telling the story.

    I never interrupt you though. Never. Not to tell you that you have already told me this story, not to tell you a story of my own that "reminds me of this one time" something similar happened to me, not even to exclaim and remark at parts where other people shriek or babble on- my, "Oh, really"s and "Oh, my God"s come when you pause for them; being the natural storyteller you are, you do so often. I know you hate interruptions. You are polite and let interrupters say what they want to say with a smile, but I've seen your eyes flash daggers for a femtosecond when your story gets put on hiatus. When you do start your story again, you start hesitantly, almost pathetically, but quickly build up to your triumphant climactic end.

    Maybe I listen to your story because I was brought up well, always told to give everyone your undivided attention when they speak no matter what they are saying... or maybe it is something more, I cannot say. But one thing that irks me is that for someone who tells your story, as well as other stories, so many times, not once do you stop to ask if I have heard what you are saying before. You don't even stop to ask if I have time to listen to your story. You just jump into your story- all your stories without hesitation and without any consideration for my situation. It is not something I can fault you on, though; it is a social grace many lack. But another thing that bothers me is that for someone who is so hurt by interruptions, you have never once let me finish any of my stories. It is as if you are constantly waiting to say what you want to say that anything I say gets tossed aside. You babble. You shriek. Your "Oh, really"s and "oh, my God"s are not genuine exclamations, but rather are ham-handed segue into your own stories. Yet, again, I cannot fault you because, like before, many people are impatient and lack the listener's ear.

    But maybe what bothers me the most is your utter disinterest when I tell a story. You immediately forget what I say. You are not shocked when you are supposed to be shocked. You zone out during the slow parts. You ignore my hand movements. You never laugh. Never laugh. Whether it is about politics or philosophy, movie stars or fancy cars, gossip or praise, no matter what the topic, as long as I am saying it, it does not interest you. Maybe you weren't brought up like me... or maybe it is something less.

    I cannot say.

Saturday, November 25, 2006

Sat, 25 Nov 2006 10:34:32 GMT

   It is funny what you remember when watching really bad television. You know, when its 4 in the morning and you can't sleep; you don't want to study, you don't want to commit to a 2 hour movie on HBO and your TiVoed Seinfelds don't seem that appealing. So you end up watching Boy Meets World reruns or Ron Popeil infomercials... really bad television. Your mind starts to wander and you bask in memories that aren't quite nostalgia (because you don't long to return back to those times) but they aren't merely emotionless reverie (because they resound you to your soul).
   Back when I lived in the motel, every night I would watch my one TV show a day and then bring my mom a glass of water in a steel cup after I was done. My mom often got thirsty in the night, so she kept a glass of water by her bedside. She still does. She still uses the same cup. We lived right above the motel lobby in the manager's apartment. As small as it was, it was home...
   This memory is an old memory. It is from about a year before my brother was born and many years before we moved into a proper home. She would often sit on the top step of the stairs just waiting for me. I still remember the stairs; fifteen stairs to the landing and four more stairs on the right and you got the second floor. I used to love running up the stairs as fast as I could- so I would crash on the landing being careful not to drop any water- and seeing my mom sitting on the step underneath the abstract painting of two horses playing under a silver sun. That golden, unframed piece of art now is up, forgotten, in our guest room where it is barely seen.
   My mom and I didn't have a variety of games like me and my brother do. We always played the game where she would keep her hand closed in a fist and I would try to open it. After her hand was opened, she would tickle me. I was intensely ticklish and would try to squirm out any way I could. My mom would sometimes get mad when I overreacted and flailed too wildly that I would break a nail or kick her in the face. She also made sure that I wouldn't laugh so hard that I would pee my pants.
   Every once in a while she would bite my cheeks. Now though I fight being tickled tooth and nail, I tolerated it. I hated when she bit my cheeks. See, before I gained alot of weight mid-elementary school to become the fat kid, I was quite thin, yet I still had chubby cheeks. Pinches and kisses to my cheeks are the only thing that remained constant from my transformation from scrawn to chub. My mom, however, was the only one that could bite my cheeks. I was afraid that when people bit my cheeks, they would bite them off.
   The only reason why I put up with even her doing it was because she would always offer me a chance to bite her cheeks back. When my mom bit me, it was very gentle, but long. Right before letting go, she would bite down real hard- real quick- to make me yelp. When I rubbed my cheeks afterwards, she would laugh and laugh. If it weren't my own mom, I would think it almost sadistic. When it was my turn, I almost invariably would start off slow and instantly bite as hard as I could. My mom would say, "Ow, ow, ow!" but I still wouldn't let go nor would I ease up. I kept going until she pulled away.
   I don't know why I did it. And it wasn't just a single occasion; it was every time she bit my cheeks. I call my mom every day from college and today, after remembering this thing last night, I wanted to apologize for it, but I didn't. Not because I think my mother wouldn't remember- she would, she remembers the randomness things- but because that's the least of what I should apologize for. I know it is a lame excuse, especially since I know it would make my mother's day that I would remember something like that. I guess I didn't bring it up because...
    We don't play like that anymore....
    And I'm sorry about that more than anything....
    How do you apologize for that?

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

Wed, 16 Aug 2006 09:30:37 GMT

   I can usually tell what is going to be around the trash chute by the debris strewn on the ground on the way to the elevator. While waiting for the elevator, I invariably check the trash area because people often throw things away that don't fit in the chute door, so they leave it on the floor. Look, when you do the same thing everyday, to keep from going insane from the monotony, you have to look forward to something. It just so happens that what I look forward to is other people's trash. To be honest, it's kinda fun to see what people throw away. I've seen everything from seen stacks of empty beer boxes to whole computers to piles of dirty magazines to piles of academic journals to cribs and high chairs to even an old walker. They each tell a story; a party the night before, a new purchase, future distinguished company, past distinguished company, an infant entering toddlerdom, an old man entering the afterlife...
   The other day, walking down the hall, I noticed a few flower petals on the floor. Flowers... flowers can fit down the chute so I wasn't expecting to see any, but lo and behold, there they were. At least five dozen long stem roses- tossed upside down in the corner. Though they had become brown and cracked from age, it was obvious that they had been cared for. Most of the petals seemed to still be attached and the rose hadn't opened up and gotten all droopy like roses can get. The bright red ribbon that held all the roses together was still there, tied in a pristine bow. Someone must have loved these flowers just as much they must have loved receiving them. I wonder if it was for a five month anniversary or a five year. The only other things on the floor were an empty box directly underneath the chute and a smooshed Valentine's Day Hershey's Kiss.
   Ah.... must be love lost.
   But its nothing to really think about... other than my voyeuristic habit of checking the trash, someone else's personal life is none of my business. But the roses got to me. I pushed aside the reality that even a single long stem rose is expensive, let alone 5 dozen and wondered why would someone dump everything else down the trash chute, but leave the roses. The person knows that, invariably, whatever is not thrown directly in the trash chute will end up in the dumpster in the basement somehow anyway. Why take all the effort to bring the flowers all the way down the hall, presumably in the box, to the trash chute and not chuck them in? They must have been angry enough to want to get rid of them- like the rest of the seven-month-old Kisses and whatever else was in the box. Then why couldn't they take that one final action? One more ounce of effort would have given them the finality they so wanted.
   It's because, truly, we don't want finality. We don't like finality. We want to hold on so dearly to everything- even things we hate at the moment- because we loved the very same things long ago. Sentimentality. If, by some happy miracle, things were instantly resolved, the broken hearted lover would come back to this smelly place and reclaim her roses.
   Yet things don't happen like that. Moods fester while wills remain stubborn. People rarely get back together and remain as happy as they once were. Yet we are so comforted in the idea that at least we allowed ourselves one final chance to return things to how they were, and, through some fault in the other person, it could never be. We play these games with ourselves even when nobody is watching. It helps us delude ourselves into feeling as if we took the moral high ground when in fact all we did was leave a bunch of dead flowers on the ground. That's not the moral high ground... that's just your hubris hurting you.... hubris always hurts... it never heals.

Monday, August 07, 2006

Mon, 07 Aug 2006 20:20:38 GMT

In old cartoons, a fairly ubiquitous gag was that when a character was being chased, he would reach into a bag or pocket and pull out a hole. After throwing the hole onto the ground or the wall, the thing chasing them would be tricked and fall into or run through it to some far off land. Ever since I was little, I thought that was so cool and wondered if scientists would ever invent holes like that...

Growing up, however, I realized that there are two kinds of people: those who already possess these holes and those destined to constantly fall into them. People seem to carefully plan out whole courses of relationships right at the beginning and know the exact right time to trick others into falling into whatever traps laid out. While the holes may not lead to an upside down China, they do leave those who fall through them confused and wondering how in the world they fell for it. They vow never to be tricked again, yet every single time is the same story and same despair.

Every person has at least one other person that they unwittingly jump through hoops for and every person has someone who will jump through hoops for them. The difference simply is that some of these holes will result in the other getting closer and some perpetually create a distance between people. People who constantly fall through know what its like thus make their holes small and easy to navigate. People who are more likely to throw them out have so many that eventually they all merge together. The resulting chasm becomes so encompassing, that even they fall in. It is then when they really wish there were people out there to pull them out. There were, but you lost them... no... you made them lost.