magnesiumsky

[magnesiumsky]

24 Jul 22

My hair is long now; it hangs like small, coiled snakes when wet. I sat in my shower and considered how amazing it is to be alive, to be able to grow something like hair, to be an existing thing. 

I kinda wish I wasn’t, though. I’m tired of it. I’m tired of trying to be healthy and optimistic and successful, and feeling so far from all of that. I’m tired of the dark corners of my mind, of feeling like I’ve worked through them, cleaned them out, brightened them up, only to find they remain more than I feel able to manage. 

Or is it just my mindset, my loser mentality that says “give up.” Perhaps it’s something to do with my locus of control, or self-efficacy. Whatever it is, it will keep me mediocre and self-defeating, always in my own way. 

But what does any of that matter? I was thinking about this while hiking yesterday. Life, when it comes down to it, really matters very little. The grandest accomplishments wane in time, celebrity is inevitably forgotten but for a few lines in history books; everyone and everything dies. Even the rocks and the land changes. 

So it stands that the only thing worth being in life is happy, regardless of the circumstance, regardless of how successful I ever become. Perhaps the only things worth doing are those that make this experience less miserable for others. 

I don’t know.

I remain alone, sad, and afraid of myself, my mind, and my ever-lessening days. 

[magnesiumsky]

08 Apr 21 - Hemingway

I have just watched the first episode in a series on the life of Ernest Hemingway, produced by PBS. Why is it that Hemingway has always felt more like a reflection in a mirror than an author writing in a bygone era? I know I am not alone in this sentiment. Indeed, I have to this point striven to live so like this man, as if chasing this image in the mirror, and if only for the reason that it all makes the most sense of life. The words, the travels, the women, the illness; the questions asked through the keen observation of a fully lived life.

Inspired, and in the same breath discouraged. My commitment to my own writing, my own art — or anything that feels life affirming, for that matter — are too readily pushed aside in favor of that which is expedient, easy, or distracting. It is, to this point, the great failure of my life that I have not made more of myself and my potential, have not challenged myself for fear of failure, have not pursued those things that offer a richness without promising comfort.

I admire Hemingway because he, in so many ways, feels like the kind of man, writer, and human I could very well become, or have become. The latter is what fills me with self-pity.

Perhaps there is time yet. Perhaps the chapters of my own life continue into some greater storyline whereby Hemingway’s influence may be appreciated. My hunger to create, to question, and to document, while rooted in and nurtured by the written word, are endlessly enthralled by so many forms. The only fear, for me, is never going the distance with any. That most damning fear of humanity is most prominent: one’s voice lost to the tomes of history, like a smothered wick, long before the winds of time would take it anyway.

[magnesiumsky]

27 Mar 21 - More Thoughts

A follow up on the thoughts from yesterday. I think the thing that frustrates me most about the “everything will make sense in the end,” “everything happens for a reason,” “another door opens when a door closes,” -mentalities are all the examples of people for whom it never did make sense in the end. Where is the optimism for the lives cut short, for those whose time here was relegated to suffering, disenfranchisement, or sorrow? I have been incredibly fortunate in my life, but there is no universal rule that I am entitled to that, or the continuation of such.

Yes, I will eventually find a job. Yes, it is true that many of the goals, hopes, and ambitions I have for my life will likely come to fruition, in some form or another. But to meet loss with unfounded optimism feels disingenuous.

In matters like this I am always reminded of the poignant observations of Viktor Frankl, whose work Man’s Search for Meaning speaks to the pursuit of purpose amid suffering. A quick Google search for quotes from the book returns a treasure trove of wisdom, though reading the book is highly recommended if you have the time.

“When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.”

“Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.” ― Viktor E. Frankl, Man's Search for Meaning

The cornerstone of Frankl’s argument is one’s ability to choose how one approaches and responds to a situation. I have struggled with this throughout my life: I have long fought the pervasiveness of a “victim mentality” in my own psyche. I’m not sure where or when it originated, but I notice it often in my own thinking. And I hate it. It makes me feel weak and pitiful. I wonder if it comes from a level of invalidation received in my childhood, the -isms offered in moments of loss or failure that glazed over the deeper feelings shaping my reality and my sense of self in those formative years. The truths in Frankl’s words are swallowed like sawdust, though their legitimacy is not lost.

Whether people adopt these tropes and niceties as a means of self-preservation - a sterile rationalization of pain or loss - I can’t fully say. Everyone is coming from a different place, I suppose, one formed by their own experiences with sorrow and joy, as well as their own emotions. I’ll leave this post with a quote from a dear friend, one who sat with me in the disappointment of the moment:

“Nothing happens for a fucking reason. It’s just me and how hard I work, and how much I take care of myself, and the choices I make. And sometimes I do EVERYTHING right and it doesn’t work anyway. No cosmic lesson.”

[magnesiumsky]

26 Mar 21 - My Catch 22

I didn’t get the job.

After five rounds of interviews, conversations with nine different people (including four VPs), and a month of anticipation…I didn’t get it. The reason? Short answer: lack of experience, and that for a “junior” level position.

Again, I am faced by my Catch 22: even entry-level jobs are requiring years worth of professional experience.

My initial surprise gave way to disappointment throughout the evening, which itself gave way to an angry frustration. I spent my 20s obtaining a bachelor’s degree, traveling the world as a flight attendant for an international luxury airline, and obtaining a master’s degree. No, I don’t have the hands-on, working experience in my chosen field. I have an academic, theoretical understanding, one that is hungry to get started, to begin making connections and acquiring experience. What I have is a perspective of the world few have; experience working with countless colleagues representing nearly every country on Earth; personal and professional growth forged in the fires of new situations, environments, and challenges.

But no, I don’t have 2-3 years of whatever they require for their entry-level position.

I’m frustrated. I’m tired. I’m desperate to do more.

[magnesiumsky]

28 Feb 21 - The Pain is a Balm

The pain is a balm. Somewhere between the blood and the endorphins and the bruises and the scars, we find a voice; we feel heard. And all anyone ever really wants is to feel heard, is to be known.

Borderline.

I am told that we feel things stronger than most people: our feelings run deeper, ignite quicker, sound louder. It was validating at first, to know it’s not somehow my fault. Frustrating once life moves on, forgetting the sweet relief of validation to the more pertinent demands of an unsympathetic world.

Do others not feel the weight I feel? The rage I burn with? The sorrow greater than identity, deeper than purpose, more enduring than hope? The casual nausea induced by daily thoughts, mental images, and constructed story lines? The shame that seeps from the desire to damage my self, and things I hold dear? The voice, the thoughts, and the person that feels lost - unheard and unknown - to a great, barren void?

Is it any wonder, then, that the pain is a balm?

[magnesiumsky]

19 Feb 21 - Snow

Fresh fallen snow graces the view outside my window. The world has changed, almost overnight, from a desolate, gray, damp landscape into a picturesque world of mystery and intrigue; the frozen world is certainly not the everyday world. What is it about the solidified combination of hydrogen and oxygen atoms that stirs wonder in humans? There’s more to it than that, obviously; but there also isn’t.

  There’s a poetry in science, and a science in poetry.

  It’s why the stars move us, cosmological concepts stirring something deep inside of us and shifting perspectives of identity. It’s how carbon dating can unearth history books written long before we learned how to read them. It’s why the study of plants, animals, and our own species fosters a deep empathy toward life. And it’s why solid dihydrogen monoxide, painting yards and trees white, can stir feelings of whimsy, nostalgia, and wonder.

[magnesiumsky]

15 Feb 21 - Voice

There’s something special about a journal like this: a place to reflect, to process, to vent, to find one’s voice and dare to be heard. I was thinking about that this morning, this intrinsic nature for an individual to find a voice, to be heard. Perhaps this is largely a Western mentality, though there may be an argument that Asian cultures elect to find that voice in the unity of their communities, at least more than the individual-driven sentiment of the West. Postulating here.

  For me, at least, the voice has been both a source of pain and insecurity, as well as beauty, validation, and redemption. An evolving relationship with my voice is an unavoidable consequence of being a writer. I think one of the most dynamic aspects of identifying with one’s voice is the realization that others have ears (or eyes, when reading). The point being, voice does not exist in an echo chamber. It’s the age-old question: is art created for the sake of art, or to be consumed, enjoyed, critiqued?

  Perhaps a bit of both. Perhaps there is a dialectic at work. On one hand, the voice emanates from a source secure enough in itself to say what it feels must be said, and offer that to the world. But often, birthing the voice into the world is a way to test the world, and one’s place within it. “How will I be received?”

  Any way, I originally started writing these quick blurbs in a private document. Not long after, I began to feel the familiar call to publish my work somewhere, for some audience, or for some archival purpose. I wanted to keep enough distance from my writings, separating this tome from my professional endeavors, so I settled on some old Tumblr account of mine. While my email address is still linked, I’ve tried my best to largely provide a degree of anonymity to myself.

  Thus, I have a place to project my voice into the world, if only for an audience of one (myself), and posterity.

[magnesiumsky]

Farewell (Amtrac Remix)

[magnesiumsky]

14 Feb 21

I think a lot about the past 6 years, about my time abroad, my time “in-between.” I think about it, trying to forget it before the thought has passed. I think I may be succeeding. The weight of these thoughts, while still significant, lessen. Memories become abstractions become histories of another time, belonging to another’s mind. Increasingly, they no longer feel like mine.

Imagine time as a train. I think the tendency is to feel like a passenger on this train, traveling in one direction on one path. The past recedes as we try to determine whether our efforts are best spent watching it disappear over the horizon, or looking ahead. I think there’s another way to think about this. Increasingly, I feel like time - like the train - continues to pass by as I watch it from my stationary place on the platform. I don’t move; time moves. I have no choice but to watch while things are carried away and thrust upon.

  I wonder at our relationship to time, how it differs from animals and plants, from the Earth and the cosmos. If, as scientists posit, there are multiple dimensions, what might time look like to these dimensions? Would a being’s relationship with a temporal dimension be as inconsequential as our relationship with a vertical dimension, time travel as cavalier as a crouch or a jump?

  I’m approaching 30 years old. Is this the half-way point? The third? Or am I 9/10s through? Impossible to know. The older I get, the more unnerved I am by time’s passage. Rather, I’m unnerved by my relationship with time, how I feel whisked away from myself only to rediscover myself older, with more scars, having learned more about existence and understanding less of it.

For now, I stand on the platform, watching my past recede along a track, watching as names and places and moments become obscured in the atmospheric haze of time. Whatever is left of this train, whatever is to come, I hope it brings a sense of peace, even if it continues to be difficult.

[magnesiumsky]

11 Feb 21

Today, I’d like to lay out the more meta views I have on life, or the patterns that seem to guide our lives. I have long been a fan of writing and the written word: fiction, non-fiction, poetry, essays, etc. If the Biblical books of Genesis and John are anything to go by, the concept of “Word” is foundational in our understandings of self. In Genesis, the phrase, “And God said…” opens the most revered, contentious collection of writings. The book of John opens with this:

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it…. The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth." (John 1)

My days within Christianity have long past, but the symbolism continues to resonate. Creation and the fostering of life through the written, spoken, and even unspoken word, feels substantially redemptive. The deep weight it carries within me, less a burden than a beckoning, has led me to pursue writing and poetry myself. Acts of creation reminiscent of redemption.

  This inevitably led me to further study of narrative, namely the “Hero’s Journey,” popularized by Joseph Campbell in his many books. While I have, admittedly, not read any of these books (yet), I have read many books based on these concepts. Basically, the Hero’s Journey is an archetypal pattern characteristic of nearly every story ever told. The main character, the “Hero,” begins in the normal, and through a series of events, encounters, and choices, is led away from the normal, usually on a quest or journey with a various goal or objective. Along the way, the Hero faces many trials, eventually confronting Death (symbolic or not), overcoming, and returning to the normal, but changed as a result of the experience.

  Not only is Hollywood guided by this understanding, but I would say we all are at a very personal level. I think most people fancy themselves as the “main character” of some grand narrative or, at the very least, their own lives. By contextualizing difficult, hard-to-understand, and painful experiences as parts of our own “Hero’s Journey,” we find a reason to continue where otherwise we might give up. (This is a similar idea to Frankl’s “Man’s Search for Meaning.”)

Why do I decide to write about this today? I have growingly become interested in what may generally be categorized as “paranormal,” or “high strangeness.” The lineage of this interest may briefly be traced to my interest in space, then to UFOs and Fermi’s Paradox, then to quantum mechanics, then to psychical phenomena, and further on to general “high strangeness.” I consider myself a fairly rational person, and remain skeptical of much. However, as a rational person I also fully entertain the idea that our current understanding of science and nature may be so limited as to exclude whole realities themselves. Think of our understandings of the elements before the atom, or of planets before orbits, or of any of the technological developments that have graced the 20th and 21st centuries. Anyway, more on that at another time.

I bring up the paranormal because I have been binge watching a series on Amazon Prime called “Hellier,” which explores cases of high strangeness in and around Kentucky. In an interview, an influential author in these circles, Allen Greenfield, says the following while discussing the concept of “magical” or mystical initiations:

“And an initiation is the following: it is the creation of a crisis, and the resolution of a crisis, and the assimilation of that crisis resolution dialectic.” - Allen Greenfield

The work of Campbell was not lost on the group. On a personal note, I found this words comforting, inspiring, and challenging. Myself feeling like I am nearer the resolution of a recent crisis experienced over the past year and a half, the parallels between this concept of initiation and the Hero’s Journey make me wonder what I may be returning to the “normal” having learned or attained. Also, I find the concept of a dialectic deeply relevant. In my struggle with Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), a major therapeutic tool is Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT). This is because the dialectic is so difficult for the Borderline to assimilate into his/her life, the idea that two things can both be true and not contradictory. (Which, I’m just realizing, has striking commonalities with quantum physics.)

Anyway, enough for today.

[magnesiumsky]

10 Feb 21

And so it begins. Again. The act of writing, the pursuit of intentionality, the goal - as ever - of a life well lived.

The idea to once again keep a daily journal arose last night when I was quite high, higher than I wanted to be. We had smoked a bit over the weekend, and I had managed to moderate enough to prevent myself from falling into the usual near-catatonic state I tend to find myself in while smoking. Encouraged with this seemingly new understanding of how to properly smoke, I joined in on a birthday bowl for a friend last night.

I messed up. I got way higher than I intended or wanted, something that has historically been a very uncomfortable situation for me. I did not enjoy much of the experience, although it wasn’t as bad as previous times; however, I did have a few observations which I jotted in my phone’s notepad:

Consider intentionally journaling daily. Make it a priority. Life a full life by living an aware life. Explore the good and the bad; be intentional. Ultimately, this is the life well lived.

In addition, you will be writing, your felt purpose in life.

With this, I had the idea to spend an hour a day with myself. While this may sound like a bit of an odd request, I realized how pulled I’ve felt lately, pulled in every direction by every voice (including my own self-critical voice). What if I made the intention to spend time with myself? Would an hour be too much to ask? What would this time look like?

For one, the journaling would be a key part of this time, though perhaps not the whole time. What else would fill this hour? Meditating, sure. Art in its many medium, yet. Stretching perhaps. Reading? Music? There seemed to me to be a divide between that which is created, and that which is consumed. But is every instance of consumption disingenuous to an intentional effort of spending time with self? For example, passively watching a Netflix series seems counter the intended experience. On the other hand, mindfully listening to Debussy, a personal favorite, feels in line with this goal.

As ever, the area is grayer than initially thought. The key may be in that word mindful. Is this an experience that feels intentional? Reflective? Invites (or challenges) a deeper understanding and appreciation for self?

It’s impossible to say whether every piece of media would fall in any one category. Perhaps trial and error is called for, with a keen observation on how the experience feels, and whether it invites that exploration of self.

All this to say, I’m excited about this experiment. I am also hesitant. How many times have I started something similar, only for it to fade into memory alongside other well-intentioned initiatives? Regardless, I’m happy to be writing. I’m happy to be questioning.

One thing I had been wanting to do lately is to catalogue my current worldview. My views on life and reality have changed so much over the years, and have been developing even further over the past several months. Below, I will “brain dump” a slew of subjects and concepts I’d like to explore further in future journal entries.

Life, Death

Consciousness, Collective Consciousness

Quantum States

Psychical Phenomena

Religion

Paranormal Phenomena

UFOs, ETs, Fermi’s Paradox (theories, beliefs, implications)

Mental Health (therapy, insecurities, suicide)

Mindfulness, Meditation

The Universe (Simulation Theory, Multiverse Theory)

…

Perhaps I can add to the list in time, and update the list with entry dates as I address each subject.

OK, enough for now. A good start. It feels valid, it feels worth doing. In this age of over-stimulation, it feels good to do something that feels worth doing. So many things do not.