Six Feet Under?

Any bloodline is a carving river and parents are its nearest shores.
--Ivan Doig

I had occasion to be in my father's neighborhood recently. The land of my old man. That happens to be a graveyard, to which I stopped in, as opposed to whistling past. Townes Van Zandt rumbled "Flying Shoes" on the car stereo, the musical backdrop to my quest for his grave. I didn't plan it that way. Just a mystical moment before I stepped out into the residue of a rainstorm that left wet grass and still, roadside puddles.
My father rests in a corner in the far reaches of this particular cemetery, adjacent to a rusted chain-link fence that sequesters a residential yard featuring sparse grass, an aboveground pool, an empty aquarium, a disheveled blue tarp and a nonbarking dog who has at least some German shepherd in him. Sun-worn shingles. Relatively small planes from the nearby airport pass overhead, propeller sounds slicing through the space that divides us.
My father expired, like old milk, in 1979 at age 50 and would have been approaching 82 had he not drunk himself to death. The worker who led me to the grave told me they were "multiple graves," more than one person in a hole.
"He's in the same one as Fannie," he said. The dearly departed Fannie Payne. She entered the world in 1909 and left in '79, same as Dad. I wondered about her lot in life. Their grave markers measure about 2 feet by 8 inches and bear the names and birth and death years. Fairly straightforward.
"Are they separated with something...just dirt?" I asked.
"They each have their own cement crypt. One on top of the other. Some welfare people from Trenton."
"So this would have been the budget plan?"
"Yeah. Sometimes people want to move the person who's underneath, but the family of the person on top says 'You're not moving my relative.' "
Maggie Collins' marker abuts my father's on top. If someone had told me more than one person occupied each grave and asked me to guess who lay where, I would have said Maggie reposed with my father, based on grave-marker position. But he said it was Fannie.
Nearby, three people appear to be entombed together, their markers aligned like rungs on an abbreviated ladder. Wet dirt, not quite having graduated to mud, partially obscures one engraving, and a severely trimmed arborvitae casts its shadow over the gravesite like a slumping sentinel. I push aside some of the dirt with my thumb and it leaves a slug trail on the granite. A woman, age 40, and two boys, 22 and 10. Same last name. A mother and her progeny? A sister with her brothers? Seems unlikely, given the ages. Did they go in a car accident? Did someone gun them down? Did they drown swimming together? I'm gathering they didn't get smothered by an avalanche while back-country skiing, given the pauper's grave. Do the mom and 10-year-old lie in a single, cold, cement embrace?
Nobody appears to tend to these graves, other than the landscapers, who must weed-whack the encroaching grass lest it envelop each stone. A partial bouquet has blown over into this potter's field from the area in which those who were at least somewhat more well-heeled reside.
I don't pray at the graveyard. I don't talk to my father. I wonder who paid for this. His siblings? They couldn't have come up with a more-well-appointed final resting place? Didn't they hold him in high-enough esteem? I suppose it doesn't matter. It's good money after bad.
More questions arise, few answers. Does anyone else visit you, Dad? Would I even have called you Dad, or would it have been Pop? Would we have fished? I wonder whether we would have drunk together and contemplate an after-dark graveside drink. Did you love your kids? How could you not? What did you lack that enabled you to walk away? Were you that weak, or just that selfish? Did disease render you incapable of any other course of action? Were you such a shit-heel that I ended up better off because you died? Is it better not to have known a man such as you, of whose DNA I am half-composed? Were I to have known you, I might have been better able to channel my rage. Instead, those unanswered questions linger like briers on a shoelace. I'd prefer to take my sorrow straight, like Iris Dement.
My own two boys seem to have a particular affinity for me. They're not quite old enough to recognize that they know much more than I do, but the little one, especially, is unabashedly affectionate. He wants to wake up to say goodbye on days when I have to leave for work early. He mauls me when I arrive home. And I'm a better man for it. My father denied himself that opportunity and, so, denied me. He could have been a drinker and a good man and a flawed but present father. Instead, he was just a drinker.
A life, for me distilled into a stone slab, like the distillation of spirits that course through me.

A Gay Old Time

This is not an indictment of gay people; in fact, I think I'm half-gay. A jury of my peers this past New Year's Eve came to the conclusion that I do decidedly gay things, like take care of all the plants in the house. I also think "The Sound of Music" is a great movie, and I occasionally listen to Mary Chapin Carpenter. So this is like when Jews say things about Jews (they're allowed because they're Jews).
But the recent Supreme Court decision allowing a fringe church group to conduct antigay demonstrations near funerals of dead servicemen got me thinking about what is gay. (By the way, the church people say the soldiers deserved to die because the U.S. tolerates gays.)
--A dick in the mouth is gay, unless you're a woman.
--A clit in the mouth is gay, unless you're a man.
--A dick in the ass is gay, unless you're a woman.
--Putting your dick in another guy's ass is gay, no matter what.
--Sweaters are gay, and sweater vests are uber-gay.
--A man wearing earmuffs is totally gay.
--Clogs are fucking gay.
--Not eating meat is gay.
--Driving a Prius--gay.
--Smart cars are gay.
--BMWs aren't gay, necessarily, but they are dickish.
--Wearing my childhood Superman cape as an apron, which my gay cousin did when were about 6 years old, is gay.
--Spandex, with nothing over top, is gay, unless you're a chick (and not a fat one).

A New Reality

I may pitch a new reality TV show on which I, and maybe some friends, sit around and watch reality TV shows and critique them.
I admit, I'm not up on all of these shows, but there's time, especially if I can make a living out of it. The obvious one to start with would be "Jersey Shore," but I haven't seen it enough to deliver much of a commentary. I'm sure it wouldn't take me long to adjust, though, once I started watching an episode. These people seem to have become part of the popular culture. I'm sure Snooki's book rivals Hemingway. The guys I've seen look like they're on steroids. What I really wonder about this one is who the fuck came up with the idea to have this show? Did people audition for it? To pass the audition, do you have to be an obnoxious asshole? So many questions.
I guess part of the problem is that we have so many channels and so much time to fill. Eventually you run out of "paid programming." That phenomenon likely gives rise to such shows as "Swamp Men," which is not to be confused with "Swamp Loggers," "Swamp People" or "Ax Men." Swamp is so in. In "Swamp Men," they basically move alligators around in a swamp run by the Seminole Indian tribe in Florida. "Nuisance" alligators, the ones that become acclimated to people and therefore pose a threat. Sometimes they drive around on ATVs dragging fencing or whatever over a field to disperse the water-buffalo shit. And the main guy, Ed, always has a dip in his mouth. And by dip, I mean Copenhagen or whatever, though you don't see him spit. At least I'm guessing it's Copenhagen, and not some pussy shit like Skoal pouches.
"Swamp People" shines a revelatory light on people making their livings off of the Atchafalaya River Basin swamp in Louisiana. Now, far be it from me to question people snagging alligators with a giant hook attached to a rope and then shooting them. If I had more leisure time, I might pursue that myself for shits and giggles. And they ain't discussing Shakespeare's sonnets out there. Or maybe they are but don't show it on TV. Don't want to ruin the image.
The guys on "Swamp Loggers," on the other had, basically retrieve underwater logs. I don't know shit about logging, but aren't there enough fucking trees aboveground to use for harvesting timber? The "Ax Men" do it. Does water-logged wood have more value for some reason? A quick Web search failed to provide a satisfactory answer. And these guys apparently have to watch out for alligators when they dive to attach a chain or whatever to a submerged log. Maybe they should have a joint episode of "Swamp Loggers" and "Swamp Men" in which the gator guys hook the alligators when they try to eat the loggers. Even more entertaining would be the gator guys hooking the logger guys. Or maybe the "Jersey Shore" people could go swimming, and the gator guys could hook them. I would DVR that.
I like "Billy the Exterminator." This guy Billy, also in Louisiana, seems decent enough. He dresses like a cross between a Goth and a metalhead or something. Sometimes he shows up at these houses in rural Louisiana or whatever, and the people look like, "What the fuck?" Of course, the reaction was the same when he hunted an alligator at a preppy-looking golf course. Sometimes his brother, Ricky, goes along with him. When it comes to snakes, Steve Irwin and Jeff Corwin they ain't. Ricky apparently has an allergy to bees. That must explain why he goes into a bee-infested shed in an effort to, well, exterminate the fuckers. Oh, the drama. As interesting as these guys are, even more interesting are the shit piles in which some of these people live. You didn't know your family-room ceiling was about to cave in because of the knee-deep expanse of bat shit in the attic? You really wonder why that brigade of rats is hanging around? Then Billy says something like, "Gee, I'm just really glad I could help old Mrs. Jones out." Yes, well, at least she won't have bat-guano-laced drywall falling on her head anytime soon. She'll just wallow in her own shit.
My kid likes "Pawn Stars." That show can be entertaining sometimes. Can Chumlee really be that retarded? Those two fat asses don't look they want to work too hard. That's part of the charm, I suppose. The crusty old man, the personable-but-fed-up-with-the-young-people father and the two lazy fat asses. Yes, shows are edited. Maybe those guys aren't big slackers and just play the roles. "Pawn Stars" spawned a spinoff, "American Restoration," in which this guy Rick fixes up old gas pumps and the like. Maybe someone will film me refinishing a piece of furniture. "Shut that damn dog up," I could yell when my German shepherd squeals at the garage door. Wouldn't that be a scream?
The guys on "American Pickers" go around buying old shit from mostly old people who wear overalls and sport less than a full complement of teeth. These people must have gotten rejected by "Hoarders," so the guys get in their van and snap up old Coke signs. Fascinating. If I were trapped in a van with either one of them, I'd try to buy a gun at the first stop and blow my fucking head off.
Probably my favorite reality show is "Celebrity Rehab With Dr. Drew." Even though it takes liberties with the word "celebrity," I can't turn away from the impending train wrecks. Can you tell me who Frankie Lons is? How about Jason Davis, Janice Dickinson or Rachel Uchitel? Everybody knows Leif Garrett, of course, and Jeremy London. Nobody tops Eric Roberts, though. It's a long way from "The Pope of Greenwich Village" to "Celebrity Rehab." I'm not mocking anyone with an addiction, especially someone trying to get it under control, but why play it out in front of the camera? For some of these "celebrities, I guess it's their 15 minutes.
I've provided a less-than-exhaustive rundown of reality shows. I know "real" housewives exist. Alaska alone has "Gold Rush Alaska" and "Alaska Wing Men" and "Alaska State Troopers." That bounty-hunting dog is tracking down bail skippers, some girl is 16 and pregnant, rednecks are getting married and Fitty Cent is doing something. I just don't have time to watch them all. Not when the gators await snagging.

Safety First

When a friend told me he wanted his kids to feel safe, like he had always felt when he was growing up, I thought, wouldn't that be nice, what a novel concept, for a child to feel safe. The last word I would use to describe how I felt as a child would be "safe."
It wasn't the first thing I thought when I had a child, either. I thought, "What the fuck?" I felt, and still feel, like I don't know shit. Like I was out of my depth and about to drown. Like someone made a terrible mistake, allowing me to go down that road. But sometimes I look at those people who torture toddlers and bury them in the woods, and I feel somewhat more qualified. Somewhat.
So I try to make my kids feel safe. I mean, they have enough to worry about: spelling tests, crocodiles under the bed, ghosts, all manner of strange noises and monsters in the closet. No need for them to worry prematurely about the monsters out in the world, or within their own father.
Safety remains illusory for me. I once knew someone who said she felt safe with me, and I wondered how she could, when I didn't feel safe from myself. Like now. Pockets of safety exist, the kind you want to bottle, but they slip away like a train. Safety and comfort retain appeal, perhaps because they remain elusive. The chase holds the thrill, not actually obtaining the object of pursuit?
Perhaps comfort and the perception of safety breed complacency and, because of that, one should strive to avoid them. I'd like to try it. Mostly I remain resigned to never knowing the comforts of safety. But the hunt keeps me occupied. Maybe I should enjoy the rare moments of peace when they arrive and not wonder about their duration.

Fanatic

As the weekend approaches, so too does that most American of rituals: football. I like football okay, mainly because I'm in a few low-stakes betting pools, but I don't absolutely have to watch games. I nominally root for a particular team, though I don't beat my wife if the team loses.
No team flag hangs from the front of my house, nor does a 10-foot tall inflatable football player adorn my front lawn. I don't attend games, so it goes without saying that I don't arrive in the parking lot in the morning and start drinking. News reports this week said police in Foxborough, Mass., home to the Patriots, put 102 people in protective custody because they were intoxicated during Monday's game against the Jets. I bet many of those people had Pats jerseys on, which begs a question: Presumably these people are adults, so why would they wear, say, a Tom Brady jersey? When I hit the convenience store Sunday morning, depending upon which local team plays at home, I'm apt to encounter a throng of people proudly sporting their team's insignia.
All right, so what? Not a big deal. They're not hurting anybody. At least not until they get shit-faced and loudly profane in the presence of minors. I've witnessed near-physical altercations in drinking establishments because, well, somebody liked the Cowboys and somebody else didn't.
So I'm left to puzzle over such strong identification with people who, for the most part, live radically different lives from the majority of the population. These fans who so identify with their teams talk about them as if the fan is actually a member of the team, saying "we," for example, in reference to the team. an Eagles fan might say, "We're going to beat the shit out of the Giants." Make that "fucking shit," since it's an Eagles fan. Sometimes a fan's attire makes it seem as if he or she actually will play that day. Are their lives otherwise so bereft of significance that they have to fashion themselves near-athletes? This phenomenon isn't limited to football or even professional sports. Some youth soccer coaches dress like they're playing in the World Cup.
Sports offer an escape. It's just the extent to which some people are escaping.

Matters

A man named Andy Andrews appeared on my TV screen a few Sunday mornings ago on one of the multiple praise-God channels. A late-middle-age couple who appeared to be husband and wife hosted this program, and they spoke of redemption and rescue from the edge of the abyss. The first thought that occurred to me, though, was whether this fucking guy's name really is Andy Andrews. Is his full name Andrew Andrews, but that was too weird, so he made it Andy Andrews? Apparently that is his name, and he has a website that bills him as an inspirational author and speaker.
On this particular show, or at least the part I watched (sometimes I just can't change the channel, so mesmerizing a spell having been cast by such peculiarities on my screen), these people discussed a book by Mr. Andrews called "The Butterfly Effect: How Your Life Matters." From what I gathered, Andy Andrews asserts in this book that everything everyone does matters. He says on his website that "every single thing you do matters...."
As an example, Andy Andrews cites Joshua Chamberlain, whom he describes as "a school teacher from Maine who made one move 150 years ago that positively impacted an entire nation. By charging the enemy without ammunition–and defeating them–he set off a butterfly effect that lasts to this day." Andy on this TV show said Joshua Chamberlain's actions at Gettysburg during the Civil War altered the course of history to such an extent that otherwise the world would not exist as we now know it. While Joshua Chamberlain indeed appears to have exhibited gallantry at Gettysburg, Andy may have been reaching. How the fuck does he know what would have happened had Joshua Chamberlain not ordered his men to charge? The North might have won, anyway. Or maybe the South. Andy contended that had Mr. Chamberlain not singularly preserved the Union, nobody would have stopped Hitler. Andy can't know this, but he used it as the foundation of his argument that everything we do matters.
Let's not even take him literally, like that piss I just took matters to anybody but me. Let's say a ripple effect exists. My mother has told me a story roughly seven thousand times about how she once buried herself as a child in a pile of leaves in the gutter of the street and her father dashed to her rescue and fished her out just before a car about to park would have run over her. For the sake of argument, let's also say this isn't apocryphal. It logically follows that if the car had compacted her along with the leaves, conception of my siblings and I never would have transpired.
So, how would that have changed the world? Much as I considered the majority of my youthful indulgences significant, in retrospect I'd have to say they didn't much matter. Okay, I got good grades, went to college on a scholarship and got decent jobs. As a result, I own a house and my kids have a relatively cushy situation. That doesn't matter to too many people, aside from my immediate family. But as far as I can tell, I haven't changed history's course. Wait. Maybe if I hadn't bought that house, a group of terrorists would have moved in and hatched a nefarious plot in which they would have blown up the local elementary school and killed the future doctor who was going to come up with the cure for cancer. Maybe that will be one of my kids. Maybe one of my kids will become president and keep us out of a war that otherwise would have cost the lives of thousands. Probably the older kid. The younger one would get us into a war. But I can't hang my hat on either of those. I'd like to have Clarence the angel visit me and show me the world as if I had never existed. Alas, it won't happen.
And I can't help but think that so much of what I do and have done makes a difference to a relative few. That's enough, especially as it relates to the children. But the premise that we all matter remains unconvincing.
What about all the stuff that matters in negative fashion? The father throws his toddler off a bridge in Baltimore. The mother drowns her babies. Or drives her car into the canal with the kids still alive and strapped in the back seat. Those kids won't cure cancer.
Beyond the obvious and the immediate, we just can't know what matters. If I punch you in the fucking head, it will hurt. I get that. Putting my dick in a vise, likewise. On the other hand, surely winning the lottery would please me, at least for a while. Only pretenders claim to know anything beyond. The Pollyannaish fucks who try to persuade you that they know. They believe it, though, and that makes them dangerous.

Happiness

Here's a New York Times headline from Nov. 16, 2010:

When the Mind Wanders, Happiness Also Strays

The article goes on to say, basically, that people who focus on the task at hand are more likely to be happy. That when the mind strays, unhappiness can follow. Even people who think about pleasant activities when their minds wander are vulnerable to, if not unhappiness, then being less happy than those whose minds weren't wandering at all.
Furthermore, even enjoyable activities don't necessarily stop the mind from wandering, and the evidence indicates that a wandering mind causes unhappiness, as opposed to unhappiness causing a wandering mind.
When the researchers contacted people to determine their states of mind, people engaged in sex were happy, at least until the phone rang. Personal grooming, commuting and working ranked low on the list of happiness-producing activities. I can see that. I hate brushing my fucking teeth. I also commute too much, which can really suck.
But back to the matter at hand. The article contains a quote: “Life is not long,” Samuel Johnson said, “and too much of it must not pass in idle deliberation how it shall be spent.” It contains a few other quotations, similar in nature. Reminds me of John Lennon's observation that life is what happens when you're busy making other plans.
I've conversed with therapists on the mind-wandering subject and self-talk. They both possess destructive capabilities. Positive self-talk requires so much effort after conditioning has instilled in one a proclivity to skew toward the negative. Like John Hiatt says, "It takes every drop of energy just to run my brain." So, then, the challenge lies in preventing the mind from wandering. I'm relatively ignorant when it comes to meditation, but it seems as if that's one of the objectives, to not think about anything. How do we do it, stop the mind from wandering? The more you think about keeping the mind from wandering, the more it wanders. The more it wanders, the more unhappy you potentially become. I don't know if people can learn to keep their minds from wandering. I think you can learn to cope more effectively when your mind does wander, but I have a natural predisposition to mind wandering. If I didn't, I guess I couldn't write any of this shit. I've long since resigned to being fucked when it comes to that.

Condolences

I just finished this book, in which a New York Times reporter writes about his experiences in Iraq and Afghanistan. The book provided more insight than the many news articles I've read, and, near the end, got me to thinking about someone with whom I used to be friendly.
The writer, Dexter Filkins, gives the reader a look at some of the people exposed to, and behind, the mayhem. So maybe when we see that two more soldiers have died in Afghanistan or Iraq, we can move beyond the desensitization and consider that they were someone's son, brother, father, husband. They had interests. They had feelings. They lived. They're dead.
For what? Afghanistan, ok. The people ultimately behind 9/11 took sanctuary there. But Iraq? The weapons of mass destruction never materialized. I guess you do what you have to, but when I've been irresponsible, people haven't died as a result. Regardless of what I think about the war, people have died. People with names. People in the book.
Which brings me back to the person with whom I used to be friendly. She had a son who joined the Army and went to Iraq. He came home from Iraq and went back. Then he came home and shot himself. And she seems to be on a mission to ensure that other service members get the help they need before they kill themselves. She bought my son a nice book for his birth, though she always wished girls upon me. When my second son arrived, I sent her an announcement, gloating a bit, that I had foiled her by having another boy.
I suppose as a mother you have to channel your grief somehow, lest you fall into a despair similar to that which claimed your son. Maybe she can get a small measure of consolation by effecting something positive from this personal tragedy. You carry this child and change his diapers and nourish and love and endure the hurt and the angst. Then he shoots himself, tormented by a bus full of burning Iraqis, mostly women and children.
I can't say I though about her much until I read "The Forever War." Life intervenes, after all, and each of us contends with idiosyncratic demons. I sent a card but recently wondered whether I expressed my sympathy adequately. I don't think so, but I remain skeptical that an adequate expression exists.

Growing Pains

Kirk Cameron appeared on my television a few days ago, not in a "Growing Pains" rerun, but as someone who knows what God wants me to do. So I got to thinking: What are Kirk's credentials for knowing what God wants or that God even exists?
Did his acting experience inform his religious perspective? Did Alan Thicke, who, after all, played a psychologist, help lead Kirk down this highway of discovery? Was it Tracey Gold, and her experience with anorexia, or did that kid who played Ben have a role? Maybe it was the burgeoning Leonardo DiCaprio who pushed Kirk down the highway of enlightenment.
Perhaps the more important question concerns why God chose Kirk, as opposed to, say, any one of his cast mates. His website, which, incidentally, plays the "Growing Pains" theme song, says Kirk was an atheist but then became a follower of Christ. The site also says he often receives invitations to share his story of faith at churches and schools, and a link invites you to hear that story. Clicking that link leads one to a site called wayofthemaster.com, where you can listen to and/or purchase ostensibly inspirational messages.
Now, Kirk and his wife are involved with a camp that provides a respite for terminally ill children and their families, a laudable endeavor. I don't know if they try to proselytize at Camp Firefly, but I did read an excerpt from Kirk's autobiography in which he engages the parent of one of the children in a conversation that sounds religiously judgmental.
I don't know Kirk Cameron. He may be a great guy. But he's on TV coming into my house telling me he knows what God wants me to do. And I know I can change the channel, but that's not the point. The point is that I don't believe that he knows. He, and those of his ilk, think they know. And were I to discuss it with him or any of the others face to face, they likely would say that I just haven't made the discovery yet. Again, faith isn't rational, so trying to counter a faith-based argument remains difficult, if not impossible.
Sometimes I have this fear that they're right and I have it all wrong. That I'm fucked in this life for my skepticism and failure to take comfort in religion and I'll be fucked in the next life because God will be there saying, "You should have believed, you stupid shit. I had all these people down there spreading the word and still you were skeptical. I gave you Kirk Cameron, dumb-ass, and still you failed to heed the call." And then he will banish me to Hell or whatever because God doesn't tolerate intellectual curiosity, let alone dissent. And in Hell I'll have to watch "Growing Pains" reruns for all eternity.
Kirk is telegenic, but does God really need to wrap his message in that kind of package? Why couldn't he have given the late Gary Coleman a chance? "What you talkin' 'bout, sinner?" Or Urkel? Or that girl who played Natalie on "Facts of Life"? I suppose Kirk appeals more to a certain demographic than your average religious zealot, so maybe a method does lie behind this madness. Maybe someday the joke will be on me, and all manner of religious faithful will revel in turning me away from that sought-after spot in the afterlife. No matter if I'm a good person.

Who Are You?

Who among us is as he or she appears to be?
As a younger person, I thought older people, ostensible adults, had it together. That's why I believed my mother. I thought at some point you crossed a line and maturity lay on the other side. My notion of maturity meant that the insecurities and pettiness and general lack of knowledge about life dissipated once a person crossed that line. But it ain't so.
Maybe I was at fault when I perceived my elders as being different from who they were. But I wasn't completely at fault. Because how people behave doesn't necessarily reflect who they are. Sometimes flashes of the real person break through. But certain societal norms or perceived political correctness can bring pressure to bear, and the person forsakes core beliefs.
Sometimes people want to look good to someone else. At least they think what they do makes them look good. In so doing they draw conclusions about what the other person finds appealing. Better to be oneself and attract people who find that appealing, rather than draw someone to you by acting differently from who you are. Does outside acceptance outweigh being genuine? Do people lose sight of who they are or want to be because they're caught up in putting up a front for others? We can tend not to let other people make their own decisions with respect to whether they want to be around us. We want to hoodwink them because we're too insecure to believe they might like us.
Sometimes, however, people can't even own up to who they are. They can't admit it to themselves. They don't like themselves, so they fashion another persona.
Expectations also can influence self-acceptance. Parents have expectations. Kids can try to live up to those expectations and run the risk of losing sight of who they are. I guess the rebellion stage of life comes into play when children begin to realize that they have tried to live up to parental expectations for too long and need to plot their own course. But the specter of those expectations never completely disappears, and those expectations become imprinted on the child, who now has imposing expectations for himself.
I have heard it said that people gravitate toward partners who reflect their parents. Boys marry their moms, and girls marry their dads. In some cases, I suppose. But what else draws people together? Have you ever seen two people walking down the street and wondered about the circumstances that rendered them a pair? And so many couplings go awry. Is it just the human condition that predisposes us to involvement in such relationships? Does an inherent vulnerability make us helpless to avoid them? The facades people construct early in relationships likely influence longer-term compatibility. Maybe, though, nobody would find a significant other if everyone put their true selves on display. Perpetrating a ruse provides a way to hook someone else, then, when that person knows who you really are, it's too late. They've either come to love you despite the deviation from what you first put forward or they fear being alone or financial dependence has arisen or whatever.
Sometimes I look in the mirror and almost don't recognize myself. I have to take another look, a closer look, to make sure it's me. Antidepressants can muddy the water. I find it hard to distinguish who I am when I've stopped taking them. Do I recognize this person? Has medication turned me into someone I'm not supposed to be, even if the person who doesn't take drugs tends to have a grimmer perspective? I can still be dour while taking medication, but it feels less authentic. Pessimism tempered. But is that bad? I don't see how it can be, but then I have to come to terms with this fundamental alteration of my psychology/biology. On the other hand, how I am without medication fails to promote longevity and can inhibit beneficial human interaction.
I feel like a child, trapped in the past and trapped in the present. As that cantankerous TV doctor House said recently, "Everybody lies."