Stephen Elliott of The Rumpus sends out daily emails full of random tidbits, mostly interesting, and I've started to think like him. When I journal I adopt the same sort of foggy nostalgia, as if everything is important but I've already forgotten all of it. As though every little mundane moment were significant in some universal way.
But it's true: some conversations bristle with subtext. I know exactly what I'm talking about, but I have no idea if my momentary companion has any idea. I speak every word as though it mattered the way dialogue does in a short story.
It's interesting -- the physics of every individual's world. The way they see themselves in their own lives, and how true it is for them. The specific way a friendship looks, a relationship starts, disagreements fester and resolve themselves. Why are we all repeats of ourselves? How do we manage to stumble on our own stories so often ("That would happen to you!") and not one another's?
When I despise someone, I despise the way he insists on seeing himself. I hate how predictable, how puny a life can be. It makes me feel trapped, just thinking about him inside the physics of his world. I can feel this repulsion toward anyone. This is why I will never be loyal to anything but an idea.
Five minutes ago, I saw a spider hanging out on my blinds. I considered it. Then I held out a glass for tea that I'd been refilling with water and scooped the spider into it. I stared at it while I typed, it's black-yellow legs struggling in vain to climb up the glass. I didn't know what to do with it. Then I opened my window and shook the bottle upside-down, until the spider fell out.
Showing posts with label self-reflection. Show all posts
Showing posts with label self-reflection. Show all posts
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Note to self.
Drunk me talks too much. Must learn to control nosy questions. Oh, hi. What are some really intrusive questions I could ask you, while we're sitting here buzzed?
Wednesday, August 04, 2010
Lists.
It was brought to my attention during my stay in China that I am an obsessive maker of lists. (Not to get all MBTI again, but this is probably the most J part of my otherwise extremely P propensities.) Not even just "To Do" lists either, though (to be fair) those litter my desktop, both in real life and on my computer. It's not enough for me to make lists of mundane tasks to finish, objects to buy, books to read, etc. No. I'm worse than that.
My lists extend into every aspect of my life. When I'm happy, I make lists of what's gone right, the songs I'm most into, the people I'm grateful for, etc. More often, when I'm a little put off, I make lists of exactly what characteristics of a person I can't stand, why my life is falling apart, what I need to improve, what I need to remember in the future.
In mid-June, while I was still mid-journal, I actually made a list of all the lists I'd compiled so far. I counted seventy-seven. That's seventy-seven in a little less than four months.
Oh wait. I was in the middle of making a Chicago list when I got . . . distracted . . . by . . . hm. Maybe making lists is actually P after all.
My lists extend into every aspect of my life. When I'm happy, I make lists of what's gone right, the songs I'm most into, the people I'm grateful for, etc. More often, when I'm a little put off, I make lists of exactly what characteristics of a person I can't stand, why my life is falling apart, what I need to improve, what I need to remember in the future.
In mid-June, while I was still mid-journal, I actually made a list of all the lists I'd compiled so far. I counted seventy-seven. That's seventy-seven in a little less than four months.
Oh wait. I was in the middle of making a Chicago list when I got . . . distracted . . . by . . . hm. Maybe making lists is actually P after all.
Monday, August 02, 2010
Sometimes you wake up and you feel better.
Sometimes it takes months. Years. Decades. Sometimes it takes an entire lifetime.
Sometimes it takes no time at all.
Right now Jason Mraz is making my anthology-editing a cheery experience. I've been surprisingly productive, considering. And will hopefully continue this productivity into the night.
This morning I woke up on my friend's couch and felt better. I looked around her basement. I scratched a mosquito bite on my foot. I answered a stray text message. I thought about my dying phone battery. I thought about my relation to the rest of the things that have happened to me.
I thought about the night before. About the beach, the bioluminescent algae glowing at our fingertips in the water. About sitting on the shore building sand mounds and talking while the boys had not-yet-men conversations in the water. About overhearing a discussion about whether cheating was appropriate if a girlfriend cheated with another girl ("Just because it's hot doesn't mean it's okay!"). About flying down I-40 at five in the morning at nearly one hundred miles per hour. About dozing off in the backseat with Stevie Wonder lyrics nudging the direction of my dreams.
Then I went further back, to the afternoon -- how I'd lied to get out of the house, how I'd feigned studiousness because it was easy, because it's always easy be That Girl, how comforted I am by the idea that a version of me is somewhere doing the things I should do. How naturally the image comes to me. But also how untrue it is.
Then I thought about how I'm scared, about how scared I am. About the conversation I had with one of my mother's best friends, whose house I'm staying at right now. About what she said to me: You will make mistakes. You have the space in which to make them. Not everyone is allowed that freedom.
None of this really describes what I mean. But how about this: Yesterday while we were walking along the shoreline in the darkness, my friend told me that I should look into taking advantage of the free counseling services on campus. Not because I'm crazy, but because everyone is, a little. And because it's never a bad idea to understand more. I can't yet place a name to my personal glitch yet, but I know it's there, a backseat driver to my neuroses. I'd like to find it and stare it down so we can finally part ways.
Last night was extremely surreal, but I think it allowed me a distance I needed. I talked to another friend today about her current state of spiritual constipation (crude yet apt analogy). This past week -- and especially the weekend before last -- allowed me to let go of petty grievances I was ashamed to admit I still entertained. But that's what a backlog is, right? Everything minor collects. And collects. And collects.
Until the dam breaks.
Sometimes it takes no time at all.
Right now Jason Mraz is making my anthology-editing a cheery experience. I've been surprisingly productive, considering. And will hopefully continue this productivity into the night.
This morning I woke up on my friend's couch and felt better. I looked around her basement. I scratched a mosquito bite on my foot. I answered a stray text message. I thought about my dying phone battery. I thought about my relation to the rest of the things that have happened to me.
I thought about the night before. About the beach, the bioluminescent algae glowing at our fingertips in the water. About sitting on the shore building sand mounds and talking while the boys had not-yet-men conversations in the water. About overhearing a discussion about whether cheating was appropriate if a girlfriend cheated with another girl ("Just because it's hot doesn't mean it's okay!"). About flying down I-40 at five in the morning at nearly one hundred miles per hour. About dozing off in the backseat with Stevie Wonder lyrics nudging the direction of my dreams.
Then I went further back, to the afternoon -- how I'd lied to get out of the house, how I'd feigned studiousness because it was easy, because it's always easy be That Girl, how comforted I am by the idea that a version of me is somewhere doing the things I should do. How naturally the image comes to me. But also how untrue it is.
Then I thought about how I'm scared, about how scared I am. About the conversation I had with one of my mother's best friends, whose house I'm staying at right now. About what she said to me: You will make mistakes. You have the space in which to make them. Not everyone is allowed that freedom.
None of this really describes what I mean. But how about this: Yesterday while we were walking along the shoreline in the darkness, my friend told me that I should look into taking advantage of the free counseling services on campus. Not because I'm crazy, but because everyone is, a little. And because it's never a bad idea to understand more. I can't yet place a name to my personal glitch yet, but I know it's there, a backseat driver to my neuroses. I'd like to find it and stare it down so we can finally part ways.
Last night was extremely surreal, but I think it allowed me a distance I needed. I talked to another friend today about her current state of spiritual constipation (crude yet apt analogy). This past week -- and especially the weekend before last -- allowed me to let go of petty grievances I was ashamed to admit I still entertained. But that's what a backlog is, right? Everything minor collects. And collects. And collects.
Until the dam breaks.
Monday, July 26, 2010
What makes you think I enjoy being led to the flood?
(Apologies in advance for length and lack of structure. In other words, this is a self-indulgent, three-a.m. ramble.)
Wow. Became incoherent for a while, so must backtrack. Think again. I reached the clarity of having found conclusions during my run today, so I think I’ve made at least some sense of all of this.
First of all, the title of this post is a lyric from a song by The National. It doesn’t exactly sum up what I mean, but in a way it captures the resignation I feel about much of this topic. And I just find myself playing it over and over again, the way I do with new song obsessions.
I would be lying if I said I didn’t spend the majority of this weekend with my soul curled up in a fetal position, bawling my eyes out. I’ve needed it for a while, but the imperative to stay strong has always kept my guard up. But around certain people . . .
This is complicated. I had an ex-boyfriend visit this weekend. I guess this can be viewed as unwise, but we’d talked about it for weeks, and we’re both in between relationships, so under the rules of modern social conduct, it was as allowable as anything else.
I know that I should probably choose my company more wisely – inviting exes back into one’s life is generally frowned upon. But he’s never really left my life, and I don’t want him to. Terrible, terrible things have happened between us, and at times I thought I’d never speak to him again.
But. I’ve honestly never been as vulnerable around anyone else, and I doubt I will ever be. It’s a byproduct of having spent so much time growing together. So much of us is relatable, instantly understandable. And I wanted more than anything else not to have to explain.
In any case. In any case, what I needed was to spend a weekend with someone familiar, to remember at least a little of my previous confidence. What I needed was to drink and to cry, and then to drink some more, and then to feel sick in the middle of the night, and then to wake up completely disoriented and unable to remember what was so sad the night before – call it a twenty-first-century catharsis?
When people drink, their worst fears end up manifesting themselves in garbled clichés. I’m convinced everyone at their core has one of many generic insecurities. Which makes mine boring as hell, but also completely true for the time being – I was told that while whimpering pathetically on Friday night, I asked questions to the tune of “Am I actually a good person?” and “How do I know my life is worth living?”
Such age-old anxieties, I know, but I confess that they’re painfully accurate. Other people worry about being alone, about failure, about talent. Right now, my problem with my existence is so fundamental that I can say only this: I can’t understand how I became this person that I am. I can’t comprehend or support my own decisions. I feel conflicted about every choice I make.
This weekend, while we watched countless episodes of How I Met Your Mother, I tried so hard to adopt the emotional physics of the sitcom. And when we watched Rushmore, I fell in love (as I always do) with Wes Anderson’s understanding of life: so shitty, yet so uplifting by the end of every one of his movies.
I want to see existence the way Anderson does. I want to believe what he believes.
It’s such a struggle right now for me to make my mind up about even small aspects of my day. I’ve been grappling with this since last winter and I just don’t. know. what’s. wrong. I refuse to believe it’s just another bout of teenage-like angst. I want to think that it’s my real coming-of-age, when I learn to appreciate everything about my existence after all.
Was it a mistake to have him over? At first I felt a sort of bombastic shame about the whole ordeal, but I don’t anymore. Instead, I seriously think that nostalgia can be revitalizing, that maybe Lawrence was right about sex after all, that the transition between serious and casual isn’t quite so difficult to navigate.
Plus (and maybe this is what is the most important realization to me), I’m just sick of wondering what is expected of me in these situations. I’m so good at obligation, at should and ought – such a Thinking type that I try to squash what I’m Feeling. I’ve gotten in so much trouble for that, jumping into any romantic opportunity I think should work out despite my hesitations. And then staying in because I think the sort of person I want to be would be capable of dealing with it.
God, I should just listen to my instincts. Isn’t that the entire problem in the first place!?
In high school, one of my close friends decided to write me a series of puppy love letters, even though I was already in a relationship. And instead of doing what I felt – which would have involved being creeped out, getting the fuck out, and letting this inconvenience go – I was so overwhelmed by how nice and kind and earnest this boy was that I thought I owed him something. And I couldn’t extricate myself.
Yesterday I got a late-night phone call from a close friend that was so similar in sentiment that the phrase “eternal recurrence” flashed through my mind as I sat in the parking lot of my apartment complex, flabbergasted. Same nice, earnest, completely deserving guy. Same nothingness from me.
Later, I realized the situation wasn’t as dire as I thought. But it’s still not the best. What in me invites declarations of love from my closest friends? (Especially when I'm in the middle of considering myself so irredeemably foolish?) For a few minutes I actually thought it was my duty to love him. As though anything like this could be forced.
I’ve obviously not fully learned my lesson. I can’t feel bad about this. But even now the guilt is creeping up on me. And I think I should want what I don’t.
Ugh. This weekend I learned about myself that I can handle casual encounters relatively well (minus the crying jags, which are probably not permanent). Except what I think I should do is throw myself into a relationship the way I have for the past five years. Great.
Not now. Not now. Not when I actually literally have no idea what I’m doing with myself. Not when I really feel like using this period of my life to get myself together. I'm not scared of being unsure. I'm scared of not making my own choices.
I’m going to borrow a line from Jake & Amir, which I’ve also overindulged in this weekend. Instead of stressing about what I ought to do in situations like these, I’m going to go to bed and wake up tomorrow and make myself a big, nice helping of NOT GIVIN’ A SHIT.
Wow. Became incoherent for a while, so must backtrack. Think again. I reached the clarity of having found conclusions during my run today, so I think I’ve made at least some sense of all of this.
First of all, the title of this post is a lyric from a song by The National. It doesn’t exactly sum up what I mean, but in a way it captures the resignation I feel about much of this topic. And I just find myself playing it over and over again, the way I do with new song obsessions.
I would be lying if I said I didn’t spend the majority of this weekend with my soul curled up in a fetal position, bawling my eyes out. I’ve needed it for a while, but the imperative to stay strong has always kept my guard up. But around certain people . . .
This is complicated. I had an ex-boyfriend visit this weekend. I guess this can be viewed as unwise, but we’d talked about it for weeks, and we’re both in between relationships, so under the rules of modern social conduct, it was as allowable as anything else.
I know that I should probably choose my company more wisely – inviting exes back into one’s life is generally frowned upon. But he’s never really left my life, and I don’t want him to. Terrible, terrible things have happened between us, and at times I thought I’d never speak to him again.
But. I’ve honestly never been as vulnerable around anyone else, and I doubt I will ever be. It’s a byproduct of having spent so much time growing together. So much of us is relatable, instantly understandable. And I wanted more than anything else not to have to explain.
In any case. In any case, what I needed was to spend a weekend with someone familiar, to remember at least a little of my previous confidence. What I needed was to drink and to cry, and then to drink some more, and then to feel sick in the middle of the night, and then to wake up completely disoriented and unable to remember what was so sad the night before – call it a twenty-first-century catharsis?
When people drink, their worst fears end up manifesting themselves in garbled clichés. I’m convinced everyone at their core has one of many generic insecurities. Which makes mine boring as hell, but also completely true for the time being – I was told that while whimpering pathetically on Friday night, I asked questions to the tune of “Am I actually a good person?” and “How do I know my life is worth living?”
Such age-old anxieties, I know, but I confess that they’re painfully accurate. Other people worry about being alone, about failure, about talent. Right now, my problem with my existence is so fundamental that I can say only this: I can’t understand how I became this person that I am. I can’t comprehend or support my own decisions. I feel conflicted about every choice I make.
This weekend, while we watched countless episodes of How I Met Your Mother, I tried so hard to adopt the emotional physics of the sitcom. And when we watched Rushmore, I fell in love (as I always do) with Wes Anderson’s understanding of life: so shitty, yet so uplifting by the end of every one of his movies.
I want to see existence the way Anderson does. I want to believe what he believes.
It’s such a struggle right now for me to make my mind up about even small aspects of my day. I’ve been grappling with this since last winter and I just don’t. know. what’s. wrong. I refuse to believe it’s just another bout of teenage-like angst. I want to think that it’s my real coming-of-age, when I learn to appreciate everything about my existence after all.
Was it a mistake to have him over? At first I felt a sort of bombastic shame about the whole ordeal, but I don’t anymore. Instead, I seriously think that nostalgia can be revitalizing, that maybe Lawrence was right about sex after all, that the transition between serious and casual isn’t quite so difficult to navigate.
Plus (and maybe this is what is the most important realization to me), I’m just sick of wondering what is expected of me in these situations. I’m so good at obligation, at should and ought – such a Thinking type that I try to squash what I’m Feeling. I’ve gotten in so much trouble for that, jumping into any romantic opportunity I think should work out despite my hesitations. And then staying in because I think the sort of person I want to be would be capable of dealing with it.
God, I should just listen to my instincts. Isn’t that the entire problem in the first place!?
In high school, one of my close friends decided to write me a series of puppy love letters, even though I was already in a relationship. And instead of doing what I felt – which would have involved being creeped out, getting the fuck out, and letting this inconvenience go – I was so overwhelmed by how nice and kind and earnest this boy was that I thought I owed him something. And I couldn’t extricate myself.
Yesterday I got a late-night phone call from a close friend that was so similar in sentiment that the phrase “eternal recurrence” flashed through my mind as I sat in the parking lot of my apartment complex, flabbergasted. Same nice, earnest, completely deserving guy. Same nothingness from me.
Later, I realized the situation wasn’t as dire as I thought. But it’s still not the best. What in me invites declarations of love from my closest friends? (Especially when I'm in the middle of considering myself so irredeemably foolish?) For a few minutes I actually thought it was my duty to love him. As though anything like this could be forced.
I’ve obviously not fully learned my lesson. I can’t feel bad about this. But even now the guilt is creeping up on me. And I think I should want what I don’t.
Ugh. This weekend I learned about myself that I can handle casual encounters relatively well (minus the crying jags, which are probably not permanent). Except what I think I should do is throw myself into a relationship the way I have for the past five years. Great.
Not now. Not now. Not when I actually literally have no idea what I’m doing with myself. Not when I really feel like using this period of my life to get myself together. I'm not scared of being unsure. I'm scared of not making my own choices.
I’m going to borrow a line from Jake & Amir, which I’ve also overindulged in this weekend. Instead of stressing about what I ought to do in situations like these, I’m going to go to bed and wake up tomorrow and make myself a big, nice helping of NOT GIVIN’ A SHIT.
Thursday, May 06, 2010
Autonomy.
Actively changing my lifestyle has been so good for me. Not that I've changed much, but I think I've changed the most important parts. And -- I just realized this -- maybe it hasn't even been perceptible to anyone else but myself?
But I think most of the time what I need most is to know that I have control of the situation, regardless of observable circumstances.
There are many vague sentiments that I often believe life can be boiled down to, if we could ever reduce existence:
But I think most of the time what I need most is to know that I have control of the situation, regardless of observable circumstances.
There are many vague sentiments that I often believe life can be boiled down to, if we could ever reduce existence:
- Control
- Power
- Love
- Empathy
- Beauty
- Truth
- Self-knowledge
- Security
- Fear
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
Friendship fatigue.
I grow tired of the people I know here -- so much that I find myself in the same building as they are but strategically avoiding them. Or even in the same room with headphones staunchly secured in my ears. I like not knowing what to expect from people, and I know exactly what to expect from these people.
I'm listening to an installment of This American Life about getting over the people in your life: relationships, mostly, but also just the idea of dynamics changing, the re-navigation of an emotional map. Recalibrating distance.
It's not just people here, though -- it's everyone I think I know well. I had a fight with my closest friend from high school yesterday, about something trivial, and after the fact I realized that I'd actually picked the fight so I could tell myself he no longer knew me anymore the way he used to in twelfth grade.
The perversity of this strikes me as surprising, especially given my otherwise incorrigible romanticism. After reading thirteen Shakespeare plays this semester, I now realize that I will never like comedy as long as it mocks true love or anyone who believes in true love. But the emotional involvement necessary for romantic love far exceeds that which is expected in friendship, and I can't even muster the patience for friendship.
Paradox, paradox -- I'm sure some consistency underlies this inner conflict, but I'm not sure I need to figure it out. Instead, I'll look forward to the summer: new cultures, then something like peace and quiet in Durham.
I'm listening to an installment of This American Life about getting over the people in your life: relationships, mostly, but also just the idea of dynamics changing, the re-navigation of an emotional map. Recalibrating distance.
It's not just people here, though -- it's everyone I think I know well. I had a fight with my closest friend from high school yesterday, about something trivial, and after the fact I realized that I'd actually picked the fight so I could tell myself he no longer knew me anymore the way he used to in twelfth grade.
The perversity of this strikes me as surprising, especially given my otherwise incorrigible romanticism. After reading thirteen Shakespeare plays this semester, I now realize that I will never like comedy as long as it mocks true love or anyone who believes in true love. But the emotional involvement necessary for romantic love far exceeds that which is expected in friendship, and I can't even muster the patience for friendship.
Paradox, paradox -- I'm sure some consistency underlies this inner conflict, but I'm not sure I need to figure it out. Instead, I'll look forward to the summer: new cultures, then something like peace and quiet in Durham.
Sunday, May 02, 2010
Criticism.
A comprehensive list of all my current flaws:
- Academics: I still don't know how to handle these well. In high school, the stress defined my existence. I never feel as tethered to anything as I do to my grades. This is unhealthy, but how do I undo years of conditioning?
- Fear: goes along with academics, but may be an even more deep-seated issue. I worry, doubt, existentialize -- have been this way since the age of seven (rough estimate). I overreact and very easily succumb to myopia. I become irritable and petulant, lose intellectual curiosity, constantly feel unworthy, hate the future, have the constant urge to read Nietzsche. A philosophical weakness?
- Toxicity: starts unnoticed, grows. Must keep a look-out for these cancerous tendencies, avoid resentment. Too many friendships have soured as a result of negligence to underlying annoyances.
- Caprice: I might actually have no real opinions about anything. 'Nuff said.
- Emotionality: cripples me from time to time, to my chagrin.
- Independence: obnoxious. I balk at expectations, idealize apathy. I'm not yet brave enough to risk anything substantial on anyone.
- Morality: Mine is very fluid, hardly consistent, and might even be so flimsy as to be nonexistent.
- Love: a habit developed during young impressionability and never broken, a maladaptive instinct fed by romantic ideals but which actually contradicts the rest of my impulses. In combination with my volatility, this is what I distrust the most about myself. May be aesthetically appealing, but only in the most perverse sense and at the expense of my autonomy.
- Stubbornness: momentary conviction about everything, despite long-term fickleness. In conversation, I never give ground. Unpleasant and unproductive.
- Honesty: layers that I will never figure out.
- Self-interest: thinly veiled.
- Family: I pay lip service to family, but I ran away as soon as I had the chance, and I never call. How stupidly typical.
Saturday, May 01, 2010
New: experiences.
Spoke too soon.
Always make me question my fundamental nature.
Instead, though: Shouldn't I just realize that I have no fundamental nature?
(Or no tangibly fundamental nature, that is.)
Something chameleonic about the state of things that excites/unnerves me. Lately have noticed how much I hate obligation, expectation, repetition. Wrestling with the idea that maybe I'm not so good at people -- at the real activity of people, that is: following through, patience, similar arguments couched in similar terms, "working" through issues.
Beginnings better than ends.
Ought I devote energy to fixing this about myself? Again: fundamental nature, or lack of maturation? Which, which?
Instead, though: Shouldn't I just realize that I have no fundamental nature?
(Or no tangibly fundamental nature, that is.)
Something chameleonic about the state of things that excites/unnerves me. Lately have noticed how much I hate obligation, expectation, repetition. Wrestling with the idea that maybe I'm not so good at people -- at the real activity of people, that is: following through, patience, similar arguments couched in similar terms, "working" through issues.
Beginnings better than ends.
Ought I devote energy to fixing this about myself? Again: fundamental nature, or lack of maturation? Which, which?
Sunday, April 25, 2010
ENTP.
I'm always wary of the MBTI because I wonder why it takes a test for me to understand the answers I already gave.
Nevertheless, I spent more an hour today trying to figure out why the type I presumed I was (ENFP) didn't really make any sense. And then I realized it was wrong.
So here it goes for who I suppose I "actually" am, now:
All right, enough of this nonsense.
Nevertheless, I spent more an hour today trying to figure out why the type I presumed I was (ENFP) didn't really make any sense. And then I realized it was wrong.
So here it goes for who I suppose I "actually" am, now:
ENTPs are usually verbally as well as cerebrally quick, and generally love to argue--both for its own sake, and to show off their often-impressive skills. They tend to have a perverse sense of humor as well, and enjoy playing devil's advocate. They sometimes confuse, even inadvertently hurt, those who don't understand or accept the concept of argument as a sport.Source: Typelogic
ENTPs are basically optimists, but in spite of this (perhaps because of it?), they tend to become extremely petulant about small setbacks and inconveniences. (Major setbacks they tend to regard as challenges, and tackle with determination.) ENTPs have little patience with those they consider wrongheaded or unintelligent, and show little restraint in demonstrating this. However, they do tend to be extremely genial, if not charming, when not being harassed by life in general.
In terms of their relationships with others, ENTPs are capable of bonding very closely and, initially, suddenly, with their loved ones. . . . ENTPs are also good at acquiring friends who are as clever and entertaining as they are. Aside from those two areas, ENTPs tend to be oblivious of the rest of humanity, except as an audience -- good, bad, or potential.
The ENTP personality type is sometimes referred to the "Lawyer" type. The ENTP "lawyer" quickly and accurately understands a situation, and objectively and logically acts upon the situation. Their Thinking side makes their actions and decisions based on an objective list of rules or laws.Source: Personality Page
Under stress, the ENTP may lose their ability to generate possibilities, and become obsessed with minor details. These details may seem to be extremely important to the ENTP, but in reality are usually not important to the big picture.
With their thinking tied to the myriad possibilities they see in the world, they act swiftly and decisively upon those angles, choices and combinations scarcely noticed by other types, but through which they can build whole new frameworks or completely redefine an existing external situation in such a way that it appears new, revitalized and once again full of promise. Sameness, stasis, conservatism - even daily routine - can be loathsome to fervent ENTPs, whose drive is always to be into something new, different and full of fresh possibilities.
ENTP people measure their success by their “aha” moments, by the sense of satisfaction which comes as they spread their newly written maps before them and contemplate the new adventure, design, investigation or conquest which has now become their road ahead. What has gone before, previous achievements, ways of living - even people met along the way - are often now forgotten or considered passé, mere steps along a path which has now brought a new frontier to be exploited for its gifts.
Without a solid thinking function, the ENTP can easily discount or fail to notice the essential ethics of social and interpersonal relationship, often considering themselves “above” or untouched by such limiting values and often discounting the possibility that their actions might be or hurtful or seen as unethical by others. It is not that the one sided ENTP is deliberately hurtful, but simply ignorant of the effects which can flow from their often compulsive need for change or need to show how clever or individual they are.
For ENTPs, falling out of love, which may not always occur, results when their vision of the relationship does not square with reality. Sometimes they will select someone who offers stability and comfort and ENTPs later will become bored with the stability. When scorned, ENTPs use their powerful and broadreaching analysis to explain the reasons why the relationship was not good in the first place; additionally, they may become competitive with their former partner and work hard to win. ENTPs do not like to lose at anything they undertake.Source: Some random site
All right, enough of this nonsense.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Cruelty.
I like the idea of it.
I like the idea of inflicting it before it can be inflicted on me. I think there's something beautiful about revenge, about hatred. Compassion is soft; forgiveness, weak. Part of me understands the necessity of it. Part of me knows it to be merely a tactic.
It will never end, this struggle, and I know I will write about it in different ways for a long time. I just don't know what's natural anymore: the urge to love or the urge to hate. Sometimes I think there is no difference, but then I realize I'm just being contradictory for its own sake.
I feel like Ayn Rand. I want to write characters who are stunning in pure internal strength. To write what I lack, perhaps? I'm not too fond of what I have to do to appear . . . the way I'm expected to appear. I can't separate the tactic from the necessity, don't know if there's a difference.
I like the idea of inflicting it before it can be inflicted on me. I think there's something beautiful about revenge, about hatred. Compassion is soft; forgiveness, weak. Part of me understands the necessity of it. Part of me knows it to be merely a tactic.
It will never end, this struggle, and I know I will write about it in different ways for a long time. I just don't know what's natural anymore: the urge to love or the urge to hate. Sometimes I think there is no difference, but then I realize I'm just being contradictory for its own sake.
I feel like Ayn Rand. I want to write characters who are stunning in pure internal strength. To write what I lack, perhaps? I'm not too fond of what I have to do to appear . . . the way I'm expected to appear. I can't separate the tactic from the necessity, don't know if there's a difference.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Sucks.
A problem that the Romantics noticed and a problem that I am just now becoming extremely familiar with: emotions are awesome but capricious. They don't answer to anybody. They're inconvenient, sulky messes, and they have no obligation to you.
If I could always maintain a specific mood for as long as I wanted, I would be satisfied. But as it stands I am buffeted by my own moods like nobody's business. Sometimes I don't even feel fully human anymore, because there's just so much I'm conscious of lacking. And then I'm given to writing trite and rambling pieces, and I can tell my work is not good enough, and I can tell I've been completely paralyzed by my own volatility gone wrong.
Logic, to me, has always seemed like a distraction from the underlying emotionality of the universe. It's a very useful distraction, for sure, but somehow not natural, not quite organic. It's a fundamentally unreasonable creature trying to reign in what it fears most about itself. But hiding never helps anything.
If I could always maintain a specific mood for as long as I wanted, I would be satisfied. But as it stands I am buffeted by my own moods like nobody's business. Sometimes I don't even feel fully human anymore, because there's just so much I'm conscious of lacking. And then I'm given to writing trite and rambling pieces, and I can tell my work is not good enough, and I can tell I've been completely paralyzed by my own volatility gone wrong.
Logic, to me, has always seemed like a distraction from the underlying emotionality of the universe. It's a very useful distraction, for sure, but somehow not natural, not quite organic. It's a fundamentally unreasonable creature trying to reign in what it fears most about itself. But hiding never helps anything.
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
H.D.
Another creative writing ditty. (But not technically a ditty, I guess--something's wrong with the fact that words aren't as flexible as they should be.) A complete and utter rip-off of Robert Coover's "Fall Guy's Faith." I am well-aware of this and saddened by it, but what can poor, uninspired, amateur writers do in times like these, really?
He began to prefer talking on the phone to actually getting together with someone.
This was after the accident, of course. Before the accident, he’d been social as anything, chatty to a fault and boisterous too—always flailing about somewhere, committing petty and pointless theft, egging someone else on while they did something tasteless. He’d been recklessly alive, until one day he’d misjudged and leaned too far and—
So not now, not after that. Sure, they’d fixed him up as best they could, stitched together the loose ends of his physique, bandaged him up and sent him home with a slap on the (now-heavily-taped) back. Yet he’d felt a mysterious difference upon arriving home to his sagging couch cushions and his rumpled bed sheets, something not quite right but not quite touchable either.
He looked at his beat-up reflection the mirror every day now, and honestly it could just be that, just the mere act of self-recognition, the moment of identification: hello, yes, you are yourself, an instant all too striking for comfort—and plus he had never been asked by life to be conscious of himself before.
Or maybe it was the scar now running jagged across his face that forced him into something like remembrance. It was ugly, there was no denying that: violent and miscalculated the way that his fall from grace had been miscalculated. And now there was a centimeter-wide trail of pink flesh that cut into his stubble, where facial hair would not even grow. Raised flesh, and an angry tendency for his thoughts to run into each other and—through an act of inertia or near-inertia—tumble sideways and somersaulting away from him, off a mental cliff that he’d never realized the existence of before.
His girlfriend had even taken to tracing her fingers around that part of his face, avoiding the conversation while forcing them both into acute awareness of it.
Really, he convinced himself, it was just the residual weirdness of an all-too-weird situation.
And—“It’s not that I’m broken,” he said to the shrink he visited out of quiet desperation. “It’s not that. It’s just like I cracked before I even knew what was happening, and now I can’t seem to put myself right again.”
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Sexuality.
Here we go. I've spent outrageous amounts of time talking about sexuality these past few days. People come home from college with stories about random hook-ups, or random friends with random hook-ups.
It bothers me to no end that I'm bothered by these tales, that I get squeamish when close friends give me detailed accounts of their sexual exploits, even though (or especially because?) I ask them for all the grimy specifics. It feels illicit somehow, to sit in a park where I've attended high school English class--to sit there and discuss such obviously "grown-up" things. I push myself to reveal information that I know I would have taken to my grave a year ago. The words seem strange coming out of my mouth, I feign nonchalance, I grit my teeth and tell myself it's important to shed such moral pretensions.
This is related, I guess, to D.H. Lawrence's conception of pornography and obscenity as "the attempt to insult sex, to do dirt on it" (quoted from his 1929 essay on the topic--always a good read, and very telling of Lawrence's general outlook). Anything "dirty" is only so because of the way we approach it, because we want to hate it and hide it behind closed doors. It's shameful only because we're ashamed, because we force an element of impropriety onto it, not because it's inherently disgraceful.
Definitely, of course, in high school, sexuality was a horrible, horrible desire that we avoided in discussion. Or rather, we avoided discussing it until the lights were out and we were in someone's bedroom telling secrets. In the dark, we could say things we wouldn't have said during the day -- but isn't that what Lawrence was talking about? Hiding, secrecy, not admitting to certain parts of ourselves. . . . Now it all seems so sadly tragic, the fact that we were too repressed to recognize our own dishonesty.
Anyway, we're all older now, more "liberated," staunch about our acceptance of physical desires. And yet I still find myself cringing when I realize how incredibly fast these "mature" relationships move. I can't help but have a very visceral reaction to promiscuity. Why, why, why? How could my socially-imposed morality have become such an instinct? --How do I make it go away? Ideally, I would actually be casual about all of it; realistically, part of me still wonders if maybe I wasn't better off innocent and prepubescent. It's cognitive dissonance at its best, I guess. I just wish I didn't feel so awkward about both perspectives.
It bothers me to no end that I'm bothered by these tales, that I get squeamish when close friends give me detailed accounts of their sexual exploits, even though (or especially because?) I ask them for all the grimy specifics. It feels illicit somehow, to sit in a park where I've attended high school English class--to sit there and discuss such obviously "grown-up" things. I push myself to reveal information that I know I would have taken to my grave a year ago. The words seem strange coming out of my mouth, I feign nonchalance, I grit my teeth and tell myself it's important to shed such moral pretensions.
This is related, I guess, to D.H. Lawrence's conception of pornography and obscenity as "the attempt to insult sex, to do dirt on it" (quoted from his 1929 essay on the topic--always a good read, and very telling of Lawrence's general outlook). Anything "dirty" is only so because of the way we approach it, because we want to hate it and hide it behind closed doors. It's shameful only because we're ashamed, because we force an element of impropriety onto it, not because it's inherently disgraceful.
Definitely, of course, in high school, sexuality was a horrible, horrible desire that we avoided in discussion. Or rather, we avoided discussing it until the lights were out and we were in someone's bedroom telling secrets. In the dark, we could say things we wouldn't have said during the day -- but isn't that what Lawrence was talking about? Hiding, secrecy, not admitting to certain parts of ourselves. . . . Now it all seems so sadly tragic, the fact that we were too repressed to recognize our own dishonesty.
Anyway, we're all older now, more "liberated," staunch about our acceptance of physical desires. And yet I still find myself cringing when I realize how incredibly fast these "mature" relationships move. I can't help but have a very visceral reaction to promiscuity. Why, why, why? How could my socially-imposed morality have become such an instinct? --How do I make it go away? Ideally, I would actually be casual about all of it; realistically, part of me still wonders if maybe I wasn't better off innocent and prepubescent. It's cognitive dissonance at its best, I guess. I just wish I didn't feel so awkward about both perspectives.
Thursday, August 06, 2009
Time.
I find certain parts of it to myself rather ironic, and certain other parts juvenile, and certain other parts very telling.
The realization of maturation is so old that it fails to be freshly interesting, but I'm still struck by how extreme my priorities were and how fickle I am -- also how much of a hypocrite I could possibly be. I must resist the urge to smile and play the role of the wiser, more experienced scholar. These snapshots of a mood long-forgotten are at once grounding and perturbing. I am not so myopic, not so reliant on any one aspect of existence, but I haven't exactly lived up to other more reasonable hopes either. Oh well. Such is life, is life, is time passing and things happening and being vague.Hey you,
So I'm trying this email time capsule thing out. I was originally planning to send one to C***, you know, to check up on things, but I guess I'm obligated to send one to myself as well. Time is a funny thing, isn't it? Even now I can almost feel a presence in the future, as if I'm defining destiny as I type. Someday I will read these exact words and think of myself as immature. Eerie and bizarre.
Anyway, I'm a little worried about this future thing. I've lately noticed that I'm too shy and soft-spoken around strangers, yet oddly argumentative around those I know too well. A deadly combination? How am I ever going to get into a nice corporate job and work my way up the ladder if I'm so darn NICE?! I feel like I've beaten some sort of instinct out of myself with all this philosophizing about humanity and suffering and meaning-of-life-stuff. Maybe everyone was right about the value of greed and self-pride.
I hope everything is well and that nothing tragic has occurred. Sometimes I lay awake at night thinking about all the terrible things that could happen -- floods and car accidents and tragic diseases. It all seems so likely, to the extent that happiness would almost be a miracle. Please, be happy. Remind yourself to keep in touch with your parents, and be a good influence for J***, and don't forget about examining life. And most importantly (or, at least, what seems important right now, as I'm heading into college and risking the first real relationship I've had), love C***. All those insecure diary entries...all those almost-break-ups and uncomfortable phone conversations...have led to this point in our relationship. I hate all the cynics because I'm scared that they'll be right.
Please. You could have a real life with him. You could be happy with him. I feel pathetic right now, crying over mistakes that have yet to be made, but I sincerely sincerely hope that this is the one high school relationship to work. Prove them wrong.
Stay strong,
Me.
(C*** -- then boyfriend, J*** -- younger brother.)
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Emotional fluidity.
Last night I spent a good amount of time considering the validity of sociopathy.
Others would perhaps hesitate to couch it in such terms, but here's what I mean: a layer of defense from even the closest of friends, a portion of yourself to be squirreled away for no one else to see, autonomy in any social situation, a reversibility of commitment to everyone.
Now I regret my words, because such a disregard toward humanity isn't defensive so much as it is necessary and instinctive. It means a certain impervious attitude that prevents defense from even being up for debate. It's subtle, difficult to detect--not sinister, really, but hard, in the way that gemstones are chiseled yet transparent.
I imagine myself to be a pretty emotional person at times, because I cry more than I should, because I make close friends easily, because I idealize vulnerability and deep human connection.
But.
Is it Nietzschean of me to think that at a certain level of emotional intelligence, people become flat? They become repetitive, predictable, manageable. Granted, they also become infinitely more interesting, but only after the recognition of their characteristics as just that: characteristics. Varied, intricate, captivating . . . but not affecting, in the end.
I make human interaction an intellectual exercise.
I admit this because though I know it to be socially unacceptable (or at the very least a little too telling, a little too eerie to be flippant), though I know my own ideals of spiritual openness and unconditional love, I feel an even deeper apathy toward my own apathy. Or maybe I'm even being pompous about it, because I have the horrible urge, sometimes, to laugh at tragedy, to ridicule the emotional climax of a story, to approach cruelty with curiosity instead of with fear--
It makes humanity easier to study. And it makes it easier for me to feign (feign?) something which I know I am not. Ultimately I am most interested in fluidity, in the ability to get in, get out, and move on.
I don't mean to villanize myself, only to question motives. I'm not a mercenary; I'm just a dilettante.
Others would perhaps hesitate to couch it in such terms, but here's what I mean: a layer of defense from even the closest of friends, a portion of yourself to be squirreled away for no one else to see, autonomy in any social situation, a reversibility of commitment to everyone.
Now I regret my words, because such a disregard toward humanity isn't defensive so much as it is necessary and instinctive. It means a certain impervious attitude that prevents defense from even being up for debate. It's subtle, difficult to detect--not sinister, really, but hard, in the way that gemstones are chiseled yet transparent.
I imagine myself to be a pretty emotional person at times, because I cry more than I should, because I make close friends easily, because I idealize vulnerability and deep human connection.
But.
Is it Nietzschean of me to think that at a certain level of emotional intelligence, people become flat? They become repetitive, predictable, manageable. Granted, they also become infinitely more interesting, but only after the recognition of their characteristics as just that: characteristics. Varied, intricate, captivating . . . but not affecting, in the end.
I make human interaction an intellectual exercise.
I admit this because though I know it to be socially unacceptable (or at the very least a little too telling, a little too eerie to be flippant), though I know my own ideals of spiritual openness and unconditional love, I feel an even deeper apathy toward my own apathy. Or maybe I'm even being pompous about it, because I have the horrible urge, sometimes, to laugh at tragedy, to ridicule the emotional climax of a story, to approach cruelty with curiosity instead of with fear--
It makes humanity easier to study. And it makes it easier for me to feign (feign?) something which I know I am not. Ultimately I am most interested in fluidity, in the ability to get in, get out, and move on.
I don't mean to villanize myself, only to question motives. I'm not a mercenary; I'm just a dilettante.
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