Sometimes the Only Way Forward is to Step Back into Who You Were

There is a tricky thing to being an itinerant magpie. On the one hand you fall in love with people quickly. You have to; you won't see them for very long. On the other hand, you have to keep this distance. You know from the moment you meet that you'll be saying goodbye. Your past and your future are constantly at war with your present, which has to be the most it can be always because its existence is so fleeting.

I started my undergrad under the worst possible circumstances, or maybe just the worst possible mindset. My life as I knew it had been eradicated, not for the first time and undoubtedly not for the last, but it had been a face I'd gotten very comfortable in. So. New place. New people. New name (it helps, in a way).

Once, for someone I used to know, I wrote out all the names I've had. Quite a few were nicknames, some are only used by a select few, some no one uses anymore. There's something very sad about a name you know no one will ever use for you again.

That first year or so of building a new face, I went through several looking for the one that fit best. There's a lot of importance in names, but we never think about that. But words, and especially names, have a power all their own. They shape the thing they're put on without that thing(person) realising it's even happening.

When I came back to the States, god, ages ago now, Zane very quickly got replaced with Aleks. Zane was too soft, pliable, unprotected. Zane was for safe places, and given that, I suppose it's no surprise that now he only exists in family arenas.

Aleks I got very comfortable in. He knew who he was, knew what he wanted. He could be fearless. But starting the undergrad, Aleks had gotten far too battered to be useful. I needed a face that could bite, and hard. I found that with Aksel (see how clever that is?) but he was a little too much. Maybe I needed that then. For a moment, anyway. Somehow, through this three year evolution of names and nicknames, Saschk came into being. And that's alright. It's comfortable in a way, but there is equally something not real about Saschk. Wearing him always feels a little like walking around with a Venetian mask.

Maybe because no one knows how to say it.

This past week, though, I've got a few glimpses of that Aleks-creature peeking out from behind the Sash-mask. And it's strange, looking at this person I used to be with the (sort of) person I am now, because that's the thing about putting the two of them side by side. Aleks evolved naturally into his existence; Saschk is a construct devised solely as a means of defence. The purpose of Saschk is to keep that little bit of distance always present. On its own, without anything for comparison, I can convince myself it is a full identity. I can say with full certainty: Yes! I am Saschk! I am totally and completely authentic!

Because, being an itinerant magpie, you fall in love with your various selves as easily as you fall in love with the people around you. You have to; you never know how long you'll have to wear them.

'We are bound by the secrets we share.'

I've been doing some mental pacing lately, that sort of restless, twitchy sense you get when you're about to start something, but aren't quite sure what that something is yet because the little machines are still whirring away in your subconscious mind piecing it all together. You just know, soon. So you flip through mindless TV channels, and ponder the fluctuating number of followers on your Twitter feed, and try to keep up with the discordant, ambiguous excitement about that thing you can't quite place your finger on while tossing what if ideas at friends and family who very tolerantly pat you on the head and say very good, little magpie.

Recently my magpie tendencies have turned from merely collecting insignificant nuggets of information to the shiniest of the shines: stories. In truth, it was inevitable, and likely the true aim, given a background fostered in occupying various spaces while accounts were told of particular events that in reality lasted only perhaps minutes, but took three or four times longer to tell with diversions into this history or that, indulgences to side-stories and explanations, interrelated and not. What little magpie nurtured on such detailed personal accounts could possibly resist the allure of finding more? 

Not this one, which is, perhaps, the only answer that matters, because this is the magpie in question. Fascinated with collecting stories, and slightly amazed that it took this long and travelling so much distance to realise that. The subject of my loosely-defined future Ph.D. will revolve around this, there is a collaborative art project in the works for potentially (hopefully) next year, but none of that is quite immediate enough for the restless, pacing mental creature anxious to get his twitchy little hands on something tangible. 

I intend to make a mobile of secrets. 

But I need help. I need your secrets. 

The idea is to get as many people as possible to send me their secrets - good, bad, things you hope for, things you're afraid of, things you're ashamed of, those little thoughts you have but never say, wish you'd said, wish you hadn't said - by post, because I'm a big believer that we leave little pieces of ourselves with everything we touch, and I like the idea of (literally) tying strangers together in something real and solid, outside the detached sterility of this internet world. And I like getting mail. (Who doesn't?)

Then all those pieces of paper with things written on them will be folded into various things, probably related to themes or tones, because I like patterns and symmetry like that, and hung on a dreamcatcher-esque styled mobile. I have more vague concepts about doing something with the actual words themselves, but if the secrets are shared, they'll be shared anonymously so no one will know it's yours except you, and me. 

I'm not one to ask for something for nothing, though, so if you share with me, I'll send you a story back. By post. Because you know you like getting mail, too. 

To join in, drop me an email at sashdrak@gmail.com and I'll give you more specifics on what to do. And share. There's no limit to the number of people who can join in. Besides, what better way to meet new people than passing a few secrets back and forth? 

PS You have to be brave.

"One has to have a complicated kind of optimism. You can't refuse to look at how horrible things are."

Many, many things have happened since last we spoke, but I'm not going to talk about them. Enough has been said and said and said about them that adding anything more at this point would just be rehashing things already done and sometimes, sometimes we all need a little space to breathe.

"Sometimes it's like watching a delicate flower surrounded in snow, and it tries to stand up, but the snow just keeps crushing it."

There is a certain weariness that attaches itself to life. We're taught and told that adversity breeds strength, that the injuries we suffer build character and enable us to move forward. Persevere. There's a lot of importance attached to that. The ability to persevere. It's noble. It's honorable. Whatever happens, we shall hold our heads up and comport ourselves with dignity. We will conceal all wounds and smile blithely even while blood soaks through layers and layers...

"Don't be afraid; people are so afraid; don't be afraid to live in the raw wind, naked, alone... Learn at least this: What you are capable of. Let nothing stand in your way."

I wonder about that. Is our strength founded in the pain we feel, or do we only discover it at the bottom of the box when everything has already been taken out? Is it just that thing we are left holding in the end, pushing us to move breathe sleep eat because ultimately, whatever we would like to say or believe about ourselves, we are programmed to survive and even when our cognitive identity crumbles, that innate, unignorable programming kicks in and demands you will carry on. Is that noble?

"I'm just tired of it. I'm tired of feeling like shit when I didn't do anything wrong, and being angry when there isn't anything I can do to fix it, having to be the one responsible for knowing how to fix it - like I have any idea - and just. All of it. I wish it would just stop and go away."

There are those who don't, I suppose. Those who get so much piled around them that all they can do is collapse beneath it. Are they less noble for their inability to persevere? Are they damaged, flawed, unsaveable, deserving of pity because obviously they must not be imbued with this strength that is so vital, so admirable, so indicative of someone worthy of respect?

"Respect the ecology of your delusions."

There is a comfort and a danger in spending too much time in a nonexistent world. In the things we create, the stories and lives and events we manufacture, there is an order and logic to the messiest of situations. Every line of speech has significance. Every action is meaningful. Nothing is arbitrary, and you can be assured of that. But if you linger too long on that side of the glass, you start interpreting life itself with the same codebook, when the truth is there are no layers of metaphor to unwind. A mess is a mess and nothing more. The virtues - the ideals, the beliefs - you try to hold on to break down, wear down, are stolen from you. Sometimes without you even realising. You think you still have them and one day you find yourself in need of one, so you reach into the box and pull out something that looks vaguely like honesty or integrity or whatever else it is you might be seeking, but it's not quite what you expected. It's not quite what you remember it being.

"I'm not suited for this. I'm not designed for it. I don't like it. I can't even remember to breathe regularly without thinking about it, and that's supposed to be automatic. I'm trapped in the teeniest of cages without even any door that I might try for an escape. And maybe I could bear it if there were more room to move around, but I am pressed and squeezed into this limited space until so often I feel like I'm just going to burst out of it but it never yields. I don't think I am a creature that was ever meant to be forced into corporeal form. I find it awkward and unwieldy. And maybe that's why I have such difficulty trying to place myself amongst tangible things - I don't spend much time in the physical realm, and the things that exist there don't hold any importance to me." 

And maybe it's better that what you pull out isn't quite that thing you thought it was, because the world has no use for them. They're a little like fairy stories; things we tell ourselves at night to make the dreams easier to catch. Take honesty. We are, generally speaking, expected to be honest, but not too honest. If you are too honest, you're mean. You're heartless. So we develop a practice of speaking in half-truths, reading between the lines, accepting the little lies we give each other to spare someone's feelings. This is more acceptable than true honesty, but no one knows why. I've asked.

"You have a good heart and you think the good thing is to be guilty an kind but it's not always kind to be gentle and soft, there's a genuine violence softness and kindness visit on people. Sometimes self-interested is the most generous thing you can be."

Inevitably, because we're trying so hard to be careful and respectful, to follow these proscribed standards of behaviour that allow us acceptance as members of the whole, there are misunderstandings, complications, confrontations, those injuries that foster that much-sought-after attribute of strength. It's part of life, they say. Everyone experiences it. Just keep your chin up, kid, and remember that smile. Maybe, even if we weren't expected to perform two contradictory actions simultaneously, these things would happen anyway. Maybe they wouldn't.

"But failing in love isn't the same as not loving. It doesn't let you off the hook, it doesn't mean... you're free to not love."

So we misunderstand each other. We hurt each other. We hide from each other and we scream at each other. We allow moments of great silence to fill the cracks that had been made. We try to replace those silences with words that mean nothing in the hopes that over time they'll start to mean something again. We tell ourselves to be strong. That the strength we've discovered or developed or however we came by it will see us through every moment of shaky ground. We try to put our faith back together. Perhaps that is the most difficult thing of all. Once the yelling is done. Once the silence has lasted too long. Once all parties sit humbled and hurt, there is still the matter of faith, and whether or not it has been truly lost. If there is still even a hint of faith left, or maybe even just the desire for faith... Maybe, in the end, that is all strength really is.

"It isn't easy, it doesn't count if it's easy, it's the hardest thing. Forgiveness. Which is maybe where love and justice finally meet." 

A Few Brief Lines

Originally posted on deviantART.


So everyone's talking about Spirit Day... I might as well do it, too.

I wrote something on it a few days ago. Not specifically Spirit Day, but the concept behind the month in general.

Here's the deal:

I think it's nothing but good that time and energy is devoted to making the masses aware of a problem. I really do. All the people who offer support and crawl out of the woodwork to wave their flags, absolutely fantastic. Pat yourselves on the back. But this isn't a one day thing. It's not a one month thing. This is an all the time thing.

Wearing a button or a colour or reposting memes to your Facebook page doesn't do anything but give you a warm, fuzzy feeling because you've performed some socially appropriate action.

I know, I know. I should be grateful that the social norm is deigning to recognise that I deserve to be treated like a real, live human being. I should be extolling the virtues of every one of you who shouts to the world: my best friend is gay and s/he is such a good person. I should get all choked up about all the people who wear the buttons and repost and squeeze onto the wagon. Otherwise I'm just bitter, right?

Well, no. And this is why I don't do those things: because - and, yes, I'm aware, this doesn't apply to all of you, but it applies to enough to merit being said - how many people will repost anti-bullying slogans or attend some rally and then turn around - and without even thinking about it - sneer at something for being "gay" (as in the apparently accepted definition synonymous with "stupid", "lame", etc.)? Or shun that girl at work because she's a little weird? Roll your eyes at the overweight guy in the restaurant?

There are a million little things that people do and say all the time without bothering to consider the impact it has on the people experiencing it (and this applies to a lot of different areas; not just this). There are a lot of ways to bully someone besides the obvious.

Which leads me to my next point.

There is a massive focus on the gay and lesbian portion of the community. Fair enough. A majority of my friends are part of that community. They don't have it particularly easy. That said. They're just the ones that show above the water (iceberg reference out of nowhere; I'm aware. Moving on...).

The queer community is vast and diverse, and encompasses a lot of things that each have their own unique issues and difficulties. I, for one, don't fit into any particular category. I prefer that; I shy away from labels whenever possible. I can take on various ones in certain situations, and I do, because I have to function in a world where I am anything but the norm and I get tired of explaining the intricacies of my identity and personal life to every random person that happens along. I don't fit into the binary gender system. My concept of sexuality is riddled with shades of grey. I'm involved in a relationship that defies all sorts of convention and description to the point that we'll both readily admit we have no idea what we're doing or how it's all going to play out.

From that standpoint, trying to find my footing within the queer community, let alone society as a whole, has been precarious at best. I've come up against a lot of hostility, a lot of ignorance, and a whole lot of pre-judgement. And some of the most hurtful, dehumanising and derogatory things that have been said to me have come right out of that same community. The straight people I've encountered (and this is just my experience; I'm aware that others have very different ones) tend to be a little too curious and occasionally thoughtless and uninformed, but generally not malicious. The queer community - particularly the gay/lesbian portion - has not been so nice.

This, I think, is even worse than whatever ridicule is thrown at me from the heterosexual vantage point. These people, after all, claim to be safe and understanding. They claim to include my interests with their own (and time and again the advocacy groups have flat out refused to argue for protection for the BTQ portion in order to secure something the GL segment wants). But these things get overlooked and unspoken for various reasons. The community needs to show solidarity, or whatever. A lot of times, though, the end result is the feeling that no one is actually on your side because you're not [adjective of your choice] enough, or maybe just because you're a little too [adjective of your choice].

The point that I have taken a very long time to get to is this: straight people are not the only ones who can be bullies. Gay people are not the only ones who get picked on. And this is not something that should only be thought about once a year.

Related
A Comment about LGBT Rights and Spirit Day by AzizrianDaoXrak
Spirit Day is Coming by NicSwaner
LGBT Spirit Day by GrimFace242