I Find No Absolution

Time to make use out of the true purpose of this weblog: to get stuff out.

There was a day during my freshman year of college that really stood out to me, a defining moment that I remember more than the person who began it. I had a whole gaggle of friends then, male and female, and amidst them were all manner of relationships, platonic, romantic, or whatever. Everyone generally got along, but there were spats, resentments, arguments, and the like.

This one day, while we were walking down College Avenue, my friend and roommate Darren said to me something like, “You know, Jeff, no one ever has problems with you.” I never thought about it before then, but I realized he was right. With all my friends, I was friendly but aloof. I cared about them all, but quietly. Generally soft-spoken, but always willing to talk. I had no troubles with any of them. If someone were fighting with someone else, any of them could still talk to me.

Before this, the only strife I'd ever known was limited to constant arguments I had with my mother back in high school due to my audacity to grow my hair long. Turbulent fights, but in the grand scheme of things, pretty paltry indeed.

But when Darren told me that, I felt really good about myself. He probably doesn’t even remember it. Who knows? But it really struck me, and I knew he was right.

What I didn’t know then was that the following semester I’d get involved with a person and very real emotional pain would eventually occur. Neither instigated by myself nor her, it was just the inevitable conflict that comes when romance is not meant to be. And so began my long campaign of no longer being quietly caring. From thereon, if I cared about someone, I’d get involved in their life one way or another. I’d ask questions, I’d pry, I offer advice, I’d speak up. No more being aloof.

And so I’ve learned, with many people since, that to truly care is to get hurt. If you speak up, there will be consequences. Retaliation. I know a handful of peacemakers now, people who never strongly offer their opinions, seldom if ever give personal advice, and just generally remain consistently pleasant. Like my old self. Quiet friendship. They’re well-liked, and no one usually gets mad at them. But no one usually confides deeply in them either. They're not a threat to your heart, they don't invest a great deal of affection, so they're not worth attacking. I envy them, but I know I can probably never be them anymore. Would I want to be? I miss that old persona, I miss the innocence I enjoyed, but it's not really in me to be that way again.

If you speak up, dare to intervene, dare to speculate, about the lives of other people, people you like, people whose future you give a damn about, you officially declare yourself a target. Sometimes it’s because people don’t want to hear the truth. Sometimes they just want the company of people who agree with them, tell them the things they want to hear. I’ve come to know a lot of people like that.

Should anyone be reading this with suspicion, take no offense. This isn’t about you. I’m talking about ten years worth of friendships, relationships, and acquaintances. Be angry at me. I’ll go on caring. I’ll do it quietly if you like. There is still one who I entreat who can do more with our lives than I can.

The things that we’re concealing
Will never let us grow
Time will do its healing
You’ve got to let it go

Closed for my protection
Open to your scorn
Between these two directions
My heart is sometimes torn

The Lesser Knowns

I have this phantom list in my head, books I unrealistically intend to read someday. After all, I have never read some of the bigger names in fantasy: Brooks, Eddings, Goodkind. People whose last names alone suffice for basic identification and who, if in some circles I mention not having read the works of, will prompt a raised eyebrow on someone's face.

And though fantasy is the genre of choice, there are science fiction classics I just feel I should be getting to before long as well: Orson Scott Card (Ender’s Game), William Gibson, perhaps some Asimov or the like. Can you believe I haven’t read any of these? As a would-be writer, shouldn’t I be paying homage to the greats? The nerve!

Well. Sometimes I want to just disassociate myself from that persona that feels he’s got to read those greats, slip away and commit the crime of picking up a no-name author’s book.

I did that today, on my lunch break. I went for a walk just for the exercise, then got that craving for something new, something forbidden, something not on my Big List—that I know nothing about. Raw fantasy without hype or esteem. Well, sure, the one I picked is book 1 in a trilogy, so it’s got to have some credit to it…but the name is still unknown to me. Good enough.

And why? Because I want to be one of those lesser known people. If I can get even one book someday in circulation, crammed amidst the hundreds of books on the shelves all over the place, I’ll be happy. It can go out of print, eventually. I’ve known many good books that did. As long as it was out there for a little while, there’s that off-chance that someone like me would have picked it up. That's something to strive for.

So I carried this new book back with me to my building, stepped into the elevator amidst the usual suits going to their respective floors, came back to work, and logged back onto my phone to continue the daily grind. But I’ve got a book to start for my train ride home.

Shhhhh, don’t tell anyone.