People Like People Who [Are] Like Them

  So, I’ll cut straight through the chase; no fox-hunting today, just the gun and the hounds and the horn. But while my horse canters away at the fox (I don’t condone fox hunting, nor do I like hunting to start with, but this is metaphor) it leads me to a den full of other foxes, so similar to itself. And the people I’m hunting with are probably similar to myself. Because people like people who are like themselves. Affinity, in the greatest sense of the word.
   Affinity, at first, seems common sense for happiness. And while it is common sense for happiness, it’s not only common sense; it’s essential. Surrounding oneself with various fun-house mirror images of one’s own reflection creates stability. I think, “A.” All of my other friends think, “A.” too. Some with a “+” or “-” involved, but an “A” nonetheless. We are all similar, we are all right, we are all good. Thus, I am similar to the norm, I am the norm, I am right, I am good, I have a role here, I belong here.
   Essentially, this affinity is a motion against change. If I fit in, I am appropriate. I need no altering. None of my friends need altering, there is no conflict. The life I lead is a still, as cold, and as distilled as an old, algae-covered pond. We aren’t looking for people to have fun with, who are interesting; we are looking for images of ourselves varied enough to fulfill the belief that we are normal, that we are unique and yet not. We create our own reality in relationships, and the reality is such an absurd bundle of egocentrism we never see it.
Even the idea that “opposites attract,” is a lie. Romantically, the mechanic might be hot for the PhD candidate. But they’ll share enough beliefs, traits, and thoughts to reinforce each other. If they don’t, they won’t have enough spark. If the mechanic is Catholic and the PhD candidate’s agnostic, they will fit to each other’s contrasts so that that contrast is minimized, or discuss it until it’s no longer abnormal in itself. It’s understood. There is no stigma, there is no conflict. It is normal. He/she is normal. He/she is good.
   I have friends with whom I don’t agree on certain things: politics, homosexuality, religion, etc. But we never discuss these things. We don’t want to grow outwards. We want to reinforce the Ozone of our lives; nothing outside the livable atmosphere can come inside. It’s natural: biologically, psychologically; it’s essential. Even people who pretend to “be something they’re not” end up disillusioned and bored and feeling like they can’t survive. Affinity for oneself, then, is the only affinity that really exists. Until you or I widen in viewpoint, or you or I retract it. Nothing else can be seen; it’s outside the lens of our rose-colored glasses.

Sunshine Song

Jason Mraz - Sunshine Song

I picked this rendition of Jason Mraz performing “Sunshine Song,” because, despite the fact that there are better recorded versions, I was actually at this concert (though I didn’t record this). (He’s better live than recorded, even recorded live; his voice is too thick and feathery and warm and welcoming.)
This, also, has to do with “affinity.” And I have a serious affinity for Jason Mraz.

Theme 2: Affinity

The theme of this week is going to be affinity. I would love to delve deeply, dramatically, during a dangerous draught and down-pour in Downtown Denver, dragging the dredges of my soul, damningly, down into its drowning darkness. Which, for all that alliteration—is a rather happy theme, “affinity.” Except when we talk about lack of it. I’ll get to that later.
If my few followers would flatteringly forward (meaning suggest) future theme fundamentals on which to further figure and factor and fumble with it, many said ideas would probably come to fruition. (I’ll stop, I’ll stop.) I’d appreciate it.
Any ideas?

Although of Course You End Up Becoming Yourself

Although Of Course You End Up Becoming Yourself

Is the book the man found for me.

Religion

This post probably won’t fit in this week’s theme. I just wanted to post it.
Today, a guy whose name I know who works at B&N spent half an hour looking for a book, and eventually found it, when all I knew about it was that it was non-ficition, had a lot of blue-grey hue to it, was non-fiction, by a man, and about a guy who spent [what I thought was] a summer with [a writer I thought was] Jack Kerouac. I was wrong in two accounts, “a summer” = book tour, “Kerouac” = David Foster Wallace. But he found it, even after I walked away. He walked up to me and handed it to me. I can see why some people are religious.

"I celebrate myself, and sing myself, / And what I assume you shall assume / For ever atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.” - Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself,” Leaves of Grass

Escapism-ay, there’s the rub

Now, I wasn’t planning on using this blog as a way of writing about personal things. I figure, you reading about me (whom you know little and care little about unless I sent you this link) is not very interesting. But I’ll try approach this from a broader side.

Escapism is interesting because it occurs in different layers. It can be thought of as a way of allowing a person to dull the effects of a stressor. But escapism is not, generally, considered a bad thing until it reaches extreme forms; everything in moderation is good. And escapism is completely necessary to human survival, when you think about it. I am not capable of doing any-one-thing for too long. I cannot worry about a problem forever. I cannot tackle a challenge without breaking, or taking a break. Escapism is one of the few things that is universally accepted but no one ever thinks about unless it evolves into substance- or sex-abuse.

But what happens when you need to escape from escapism, away from fantasy; forcing yourself into reality because being a glutton of fantasy loses its sin. When I can’t deal with reality, I force myself into writing or books or hanging out with friends, or doing something that gives me no time to heavily think about anything else. & sometimes none of those things appeal to me, in which case I’m stuck. So I adapt. I pick whichever poison causes the least bodily harm, the one to which I’ve developed the most resistance. Now, granted, I don’t have a constant problem in my life. When I had a problem too heavy to deal with, I slept. And slept. And slept. Until I received help, and began to cope. The same as coming off a drug.

So escapism can happen in drugs, but escapism is also a drug. And sleeping is closest to death that people can achieve without going comatose. And for some, death is the only escapism.

When is one thing worth it? When does it become destructive?

“To die, to sleep—

To sleep—perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub,

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause. There’s the respect

That makes calamity of so long life” - Hamlet

How This Blog Works

In an attempt to make this blog more like itself and less like every other one you read—or, at the very least, make it readable— I have set a rule for how this blog is going to work. And it’s simple:

Every week I pick a theme. It’s going to be an umbrella topic off of which I can branch. For example, the post a few days ago and the next post will fit into a theme. I am required to do 2 posts a week that fit under that theme. (Under normal circumstances, this theme will be announced with the first blog, and then there’ll be another later that week.) It just has to be related. I even welcome You picking a theme, or recommending one. That would be super awesome. Have a theme you want me to write on? (Theme is generally one word—not in literature but here— such as “death,” or “lying,” and while it can get weirder, I won’t do super-specific stuff. But I like a good challenge.)

If I don’t, you can make me feel bad by writing little comments. While that sounds like a bad attempt at humorous-cop-out, it isn’t. If you do, I’ll know a) I actually have readers, and b) I have a huge, obligated conscience. I will feel bad. Whether or not you believe that… but it’s as true as anything I’ll ever write in this electronic pseudo-diary.

Ok. Now, back to the important matters. I welcome you to keep reading.

I. Beginnings

I have been meaning to start a blog for a while; a real, sincere one. Now, let’s cut to the chase. DISCLAIMER: I am a writer of both fiction and fact, and as a human, those things tend to become thoroughly intertwined, so what is writing of the literary sort shall be categorized as such, but there will be embellishments of fiction in my fact, and visa versa. Here’s the first post.

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I am about to leave everything I’ve ever really known, and throw myself into a completely different environment that I’ve been familiar with in my soul, but not physically immersed in. It makes for an interesting concept. I’ve lived in one house, in one family, in one town, in one school system (for the majority of the years) my entire life. And I wanted, more than anything, to escape from all the familiar. But that meant more than I thought it did. I’m a young person. Naive, raw, and full of passion; a perfect ball of clay within which hides a sculpture that will either be a masterpiece or a disaster. I am going to be living in a place where I don’t know where anything is (I hardly know here), where I am relying on, literally, the kindness of strangers and peers with whom I’ve had no previous experience. I am unmarried, unattached to anything more than specific people who are as easily kinetic (some more than others) as I, and racing towards potential, dreams: shadows and fog. Humanity lies before me, in the mirror image of myself. People always say, when they end up in jobs they don’t love, married to people they don’t love, “Life happens.” But I don’t buy that now, when I’m full of young naivete, and I don’t think I ever will. Nothing but myself has tied me down, and nothing but myself ever really will. I’m only as obligated as I think I am. My potential, my passions, my future; my reality is malleable. I don’t know how that ever changes.

Escaping from everything, I’m searching for the version of myself I’ll find in my new life. I’m getting to deal with the psychological aspects of separation and maturation that I knew I’d be facing, with absolutely no prior experience to guide me. They say youth is wasted on the young, but I feel like I’m living.

“I exist as I am, and that is enough.” - Walt Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass

Escapism Multi-Media

Dirty Heads Song - Escapism

In the tumblr version of this blog (agvw.tumblr.com), I can directly insert videos; alas, that can't be done here, so you get a link. I occasionally post videos, book titles, etc. that have to do with the theme of the week.