Anti-Social Media

I’m very easily influenced.

In high school a friend called me a chameleon. He said I took on the traits of whomever I was most interested in at the time. He meant it as an insult. I thought it sounded pretty good.

What better than to be able to meet new people and absorb the best of what they have to offer.

I’m a pisces. (Go ahead, laugh, I realize that talking about astrology is ridiculous). Even worse, I’ll even go so far as to say that I identify as a pisces.

Pisces is a mutable sign.

Huh?

Mutable is changeable. As a water sign and the last sign of the zodiac, Pisces is the most chameleon-like of them all. Pises absorbs and takes on different traits. Pisces adapts and understands change, feels at home in chaos. Pisces appears to be a kaleidoscope, but don’t be fooled, there is a core sense of self within, even if you (or she) can’t always see it.

So yeah, I identify with that. And while others might see it as a fault, I’m learning to revel in it.

Weak-willed, fence-sitter, spineless, accepting, submissive, indecisive, unmotivated, impersonator, follower, lacking initiative, fickle.

Disparaging words. I’ve heard them from others, but sadly, I’ve probably used them on myself more often.

Open-minded, intuitive, empathetic, impressionable, generous, compassionate, adaptable, easy-going, perceptive, instinctual, imaginative, good at taking direction (an actor thing).

It occurs to me that not everyone considers these compliments, but I do. And I would prefer to focus on the positive influences my malleable traits offer.

Today is not the first time these thoughts (practical as well as astrological) have occurred to me, although they seem to be more common lately as I examine my life and try to understand myself (also a very Piscean-trait, as it turns out, and I probably shouldn’t bother getting my hopes up about “figuring it out”).

But today I did happen to have a very real, obvious reaction that I couldn’t help but notice. It was on my mind all day, and if that’s not a signifier that it’s time to get some words out of your head (and into, say, a blog post), I don’t know what is.

I’ve been wearing a bike helmet all summer. Every single trip since I started biking this season.

It hasn’t always been this way. Last year I wore a helmet when expecting to travel on busy streets (the drivers in this city frighten me), but didn’t usually bother for the trip to work and back (mainly on bike paths) every day. A helmet was an occasional thing.

But this year a few things contributed to my incredibly consistent helmet wearing:

I’m down home for my annual visit. On a whim I drive over to visit with an old friend, but she isn’t around. I don’t want to head straight home again, so I decide to take a little trip into town.

Maybe I can pick up a souvenir or two.

I bought a big pewter starfish on a leather choker from a local store a few years back and I love it. It goes with everything and I still get compliments when I wear it. I stop into the store and spend a while poking around the jewellery and other interesting items they carry. There are some earrings made out of buttons that I like, and the thought crosses my mind that I could make them myself (I’ve been toying around with the idea of making jewellery forever). But nothing else catches my eye. To be honest, the inventory doesn’t seem to change much from year to year.

I head further into town and park down by the boardwalk. It’s quiet. I sit by the water for a while.

It’s a small town. Really small. But they have a few shops, so I walk up the street and pop in and out, smiling at the proprietors and thanking them as I leave empty handed. “Just looking, thanks!”

There’s a gallery across the street. I’ve never been inside. I don’t really know much (anything) about art, and I’ve always let it intimidate me, but I realize how silly that is. It can’t hurt to look. Besides, the sign says they have photography and jewellery as well.

The gallery is in an old Victorian house, which is pretty common for small businesses around here. I open the screen door and enter the porch. I don’t see any other shoppers, just the man working there, and I smile and say “hello.” He’s friendly, but seems to understand that I just want to look around and leaves me to it.

I’m a self-conscious shopper. I don’t really like shopping all that much, and I have some deep-seeded guilt (from who knows where or when) about spending time in a local shop without buying anything. It’s like I’m afraid I’m wasting their time by if all I’m going to do is look. I know it’s silly, and it’s not like I let the guilt actually make me buy something I don’t want (my frugality is much stronger than my guilt), but I still feel it whenever I’m browsing. I don’t feel the same way in a mall or a chain store, only in little independent shops.

I quite like the photography here. It has a maritime feel, mostly scenery. The prints are duplicated many times over in a variety of formats and sizes, but they’re good. As I pick up a matted print I notice that the photographer’s bio is on the back. I recognize the man tending the store as the photographer himself.

There are a number of photos taken in and around dilapidated old houses. Not too unusual, as there are quite a few of these around the province, but my favourites are the ones containing personal effects. There is one of a chest of drawers reflected in the mirror of a vanity that I find interesting, and another of two dresses hanging on the wall, complete with tattered wallpaper and peeling paint.

As I’m admiring the dresses the photographer speaks up, “I was really startled to walk into that room and find those dresses hanging there.”

I imagine. I nod. “It’s strange what people will leave behind. I also really like the one with the vanity and chest of drawers.”

“That was a house out on the Bay of Fundy. I wanted to go back to take more pictures, but some local kids burned the place down.”

I shake my head. Damn teenagers.

“Did you notice the one with the doll?” he asks.

“No.” I hadn’t. He leads me over to another print. It’s incredibly creepy. An ugly clownish doll sitting on a chair in a hallway that seems as it’s about to fall down around him.

“This family built another house closer to the highway and just carried all of their belongings down to the new place, leaving behind anything they didn’t want. I asked them why they left those things, and they told me they didn’t need the chairs and their daughter never liked the doll.”

“It’s kind of creepy” I decide.

“That’s what I thought” and we laugh.

I nod to thank him for sharing his story with me. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but sometimes a few words can provide you with a story that leads to a thousand other images.

I continue to wander around the gallery, checking out everything and decide on a 5X7 print of the vanity reflection photo plus three magnets (including one with the two dresses) that I think will make lovely gifts. I bring them up to the cash register.

“I guess you like the abandoned and decrepit ones?” he asks, grinning.

“I guess I do. I’m feeling particularly abandoned and decrepit myself these days.” I smile, and try to look as cheerful as possible, but I wonder if he notices the sadness in my eyes as he rings up my purchase and asks me where I’m from.

I’m overjoyed to be in this great city of sights and sounds and smells. History and culture come alive in the hot, sticky, muggy air. I can (and do) walk the streets for hours taking it all in.

But there’s another purpose for my visit. And at night, together in our dark hotel room, nothing else matters. It’s just us. Here. Now.

Hidden away in our climate-controlled haven the rest of the city, the rest of the world, is insignificant. There is a strange and powerful force I feel when we look into each other’s eyes, when we touch. I breathe him in and feel alive, complete, filled with joy. I feel at home.

Closing ourselves off from the rest of the world we create our own secret, sacred space. No light. Shut the curtains and place a pillow at the base, holding them tightly together so light can’t sneak in through the crack. Unplug the phone with it’s eerie glow. Place pillows over the crack in the base of the door to block out the hall lights.

The fan provides the perfect, steady drone of white noise that we both desire, but the damn toilet won’t stop running. I try to fix it (I’m proud of my practical plumbing skills), but nothing seems to work. The solution is simply to keep the bathroom door closed at all times. An added benefit is that the tile floor seems to retain some warmth for those sleepy middle-of-the-night visits.

The room must be cold if we’re going to get any sleep. As cold as possible. He tells me he always runs hot, and in our post-coital cuddle our bodies threaten to ignite. I move away to cool down. First lying luxuriously naked, then covering myself with the sheet as my fever subsides, next I crawl beneath the duvet, and finally, shivering, I snuggle up to his side and use his flesh to return my body to a comfortable temperature.

I turn over in his arms and take my favoured small-spoon position. We fall asleep.

But I can’t sleep when I’m too hot. It doesn’t take long before I wake up feeling icky. I hate to pry my limbs and peel my body away from his, but we have built up a pool of sweat between us and my back is slick. I turn over again and move to leave a space between our bodies, but stay as close as I can. Not wanting to lose contact, I reach out my hand to touch him, and counter-balance by sticking my leg outside of the covers. The air conditioning attacks my exposed skin and brings relief. I sleep again.

I am in so much trouble. Or maybe just a bit of a bind. I shouldn’t be complaining at all, except it’s the only thing I know how to do at this point.

I don’t know what I want. I can’t figure out what to do with my life. I’m dissatisfied, but I don’t know how or what to change.

Yes, that’s how ridiculous this blog post is going to be. You might as well shut it down right now.

Oh, that poor woman. She’s got a job that doesn’t suck, that pays well. She’s got an education, and on top of that, she’s actually pretty smart. She’s attractive too, especially now that she’s taking better care of herself. And she has a nice place to live, a car, no debt, good friends, enough extra money and spare time to do the things she enjoys. She’s cultured and creative and talented. Oddly enough, she’s got a great smile and a sense of humour to go with it. She’s not stingy with her laugh and is a lot of fun to be around.

Yes, I actually believe all of those things. And the fact that I can believe all of that about myself and still be complaining about my life makes me throw up in my mouth a little. On top of being so awesome, I also make myself sick.

The problem, I think, is that my life has no meaning. I don’t really have any reason to be here. How fucking sad is that? My life is empty, and gee it sure would be nice to be able to fix that, but I DON’T KNOW HOW.

What gives meaning to a person’s life? Where does one find purpose? Am I screwed because I don’t believe in God? Because I don’t want to have kids? Could it be as simple as benefiting others? Of course I want to help people. I mean, in a way, I’ve been helping people my whole life, all of that time spent in the service industry. And I’m not even being sarcastic. I always did (and still do) take customer service pretty seriously. But obviously that’s not enough. So how can I make a difference?

Maybe I just need to find a way to fully be myself. To share my passions with the world. (Did you see that eye roll? I’m pretty good at that too, right?) OH IS THAT ALL?! Well, there’s my problem then. I don’t even really know myself most of the time. It’s like I’m living with a stranger who speaks a foreign language. A roommate that you get along with, but try to stay out of each other’s way. I can’t figure myself out! I don’t know what I want! Do you have any idea how hard that is? I’m not sure what’s worse, knowing what you want and not being able to achieve it, or knowing you could probably achieve what you want, if only you knew WHAT THE FUCK it was. Can you sense my frustration? And it’s all just poor privileged girl whining and I hate that I’m doing it.

Passion. There’s another problem all together. I’m a passionate person. I get excited about a lot of things. But there isn’t anything that really drives me, that I’m drawn towards, and I haven’t found anything that I think I could sustain for the rest of my life (assuming I get to keep working at this for a few more years). And that makes me very sad. Because I want that. I see it in others and I am envious. I want that feeling. And I don’t know where to look and I don’t know how to cultivate it and I don’t even know if I’d recognize it if it bit me in the ass.

You know what would be great? It would be great if I could eventually figure this all out, and then maybe I could help people like me get out of their stuck places. I would do that. Because I’m stuck here now and it really, really sucks, and I’d really appreciate it if someone would help me out. I’m just worried that I’m the only one who can. Because I’ve been trying (albeit only on and off) for a long time. I’m pretty sure I’ve been stuck here for almost 20 years. Ever since I stopped being able to honestly answer the question, “what do you want to be when you grow up?” In fact, it’s been so long, I’m not sure I EVER had an honest answer to that question. Well, other than “I don’t want to grow up!” but that’s a story for another day.

I really need to stop posting bad poetry. Sometimes I’m 15 again. I don’t even know where the urge comes from – I’ve never been terribly interested in writing poems. I do appreciate poetry, and I enjoy poetic language, but this teen-angsty crap has got to stop! It’s just sitting there, mocking my from the top of the page. I really just needed to post something to move it out of the way. Hmm… do I need embarrassing incentives to keep me writing?

Plus, things are looking up. There is something about this time of year that makes me happy: the extra daylight, the warmer (but not too hot) temperatures, the mosquitoes are non-existent, BBQs, campfires, festivals… Seriously, I have no reason to be whining.

I tweeted this last week:

Friends are awesome, but life is too short to stay home when you don’t have a date. My new philosophy: if you want to do something, do it.

marsha (@amanova) June 01, 2012

I was referring to how I’ve started flying solo at more events, even if I don’t know anyone who’s going to be there. This is new for me, and it’s going well so far. Plus, after putting this out there I got a reply that included a link to an amazing blog post on How to Have the Best Summer Ever.

Yes.

In fact, I’m going to eat my lunch outside right now.