Mentalechoes

Wikipedia's opening line about addictions is this: An addiction is a recurring compulsion by an individual to engage in some specific activity.

It's that part that makes me believe that addiction isn't just about physical scenarios, but emotional ones as well. Usually we use the word for the case of a particular type of drug abuse, but it can be anything, and this is my point; people can be addicted to anything, and usually are. Some are addicted to drugs, and others can be addicted to an emotional situation; something we just don't want to let go, or feel like we can't let go of. It's not so far off from this mark to see that love also can be an addiction; there are those people who simply can't be out of a relationship because they need to be with someone who makes them feel wanted and gives their lives meaning in a way they are not able to find on their own. This scenario is common amongst my closest friends, and I dare say, exists in nearly all groups of friends, because everyone reading this knows someone in their circle who can't be without a partner in their lives.

It's this desperately holding on to a recurring situation that is the problem. What we can't let go off, will invariably become something negative in our lives, and cause us pain and suffering until such time as we can let it go, or it brings about our ultimate end.

But letting go in itself can be so hard. I guess this is why they call it addictive beviour; because if it wasn't addictive you wouldn't have a problem giving it up and moving on.

And hence we come to the choice; let go and break free, or hold on and be consumed. Neither hurt any less than the other, it's in the consequences where the real difference lies.

Padwanna!

There seems to be a lot of angst in the world when it comes to male-female relationships. Since the time of the first homosapiens – those monkeys who actually could think enough to get confused about what their fuckbuddy was complaining about – it seems both sides have been trying to work each other out. In one of my long term relationships my girlfriend at the time bought us a copy of "Mars and Venus, Together Forever", by the (in)famous Dr John Gray; a self proclaimed expert in the field of human relations. He's so good at helping people understand their partners, he's even invented the Marsvenus Super Shake for Men and Women, available on the internet of course at exhorbitant prices. My girlfriend thought it would help us understand each other, but after I did some reading on the same internet where I could buy the shakes, I found out ole Johnny's Ph.D is about as legitmate as my claiming to be the next heir to the English throne. Needless to say, this didn't help us resolve any of our mars and venus issues but instead created a few more. I am still waiting for Mr Gray Ph.D to reply back to my strongly worded letter and request for our money back, concerning this.

It seems to me, after many years in and out of relationships that most of them can be categorised in the relationship box labelled – Suicidal Murderous Co-dependency. If you're like me and you live in a foreign country, then the box will be additionally labelled – Cross Cultural Suicidal Murderous Co-dependency. Sure relationships are not always like this, after all there are lots of happy times as well where you feel really happy, but how many times have you ever felt like you could throw yourself out a window, or throw them out the window because they were driving you absolutely fucking nuts? I'd bet anyone who's been in a serious relationship wouldn't have enough fingers and toes to count with.

I was curious to know if anyone famous, like the good Doctor Johnny had written any articles about this sort of relationship type. However, to my complete surprise the only hits that came back on a google search of "suicidal murderous codependent relationships" was a bunch of disparate links that had nothing to do with relationships, except for something to do with lesbians, but that turned out to be a movie review I think. Strange! There wasn't even a band named that, which I thought odd because that would be a wicked band name. I'd pay to see them just because of that. Sadly it seems that there isn't any real advice on relationships out there for the masses apart from Dr John Gray, which seems a bit dubious at best.

So I'm thinking now that I might go into the relationship counselling book publishing market. After all, if someone like John Gray can make more money than God writing books that don't address real relationships, maybe I can fill in the gap, save some relationships and make a fuck ton of money at the same time. I've had plenty of experience at relationships, and so all I need to do is buy a Ph.D online from some reputable university, and write fifty thousand words about how to avoid killing yourself or each other in your loving and nurturing relationship.

I'm taking preorders if anyone wants a signed copy!

Padwanna!

In November last year my high school had its 20 year reunion, a big party was organized in Jupiters Casino on the Gold Coast – just south of Bris-vegas – which funnily enough was only 5 minutes bike ride away from the school itself. I didn’t get a chance to go, even though I really wanted to because I couldn’t pay for the trip back home. I was disappointed not to have made it because for me, high school was a lot of fun, and I had some defining moments of my life with those people I shared that time with. I’m lucky I am still close friends with someone from those days, a dear sweet girl who goes by the name Mercedes, who in her typical generous manner sent me a copy of the Reunion Book that included a lot of old pics, and ‘Where are they now’ profiles on the people who went, and some from those who didn’t. It made for quite an interesting read; 20 years on my memory of most of the people has all but faded to a very dim light in the back of my mind, and while I sure couldn’t remember most of the faces, I did recognise a lot of the names.

As I spent time looking through the book I was became absorbed in the history of the people that I had known back in the last years of teen life. We were all so young, and so was the world in 1986 to us, and we knew nothing of life except for the dreams that we proudly held in our hearts and displayed on our faces. The world was innocent, just like we were. 20 years later our high school class has become a microcosm of the possibilities that life can give. Some individuals have achieved great material success; others have travelled far and wide; some have suffered great personal tragedies and overcome things like cancer, divorce, and horrendous accidents; and a few haven’t really done anything noteworthy at all (but seem relatively happy nonetheless). The one thing that did impress me with a couple of individuals was how once or twice during their lives, they completely changed their careers and personal road they were travelling, and put themselves into an entirely new life, with an entirely new way of supporting themselves financially. I think it takes remarkable strength of character, resourcefulness, and determination to do such a thing, and in my eyes, makes that person someone worthy of admiration.

It’s been 20 years since those days of being a kid back at school. I’m still waiting for the maturity bomb to drop on my head. I’m not married, and I don’t have any kids; this still seems to be the benchmark society still uses to determine how “successful” you are. There was only one other girl from the class of ‘86 that has gone the same way – well done Melanie if you ever read this – and I really liked reading how she says she doesn’t regret it, and has a lot of great stories to tell. I can definitely relate to that; mildly twisted on acid in the middle of the African savanna land witnessing a full solar eclipse with the sound of elephants trumpeting in chorus, would be one of mine. For all that though, there does come a time when you want for something more. It’s not enough to live without a purpose, because our life is only meaningful when it is defined by a purpose; something that gives meaning to waking up in the morning. There is nothing that more emotionally debilitating than the slow erosion of our self esteem and personal worth through a pointless existence. I’ve been there a few times in my life, when it seemed all things had turned against me, and there was no point to being awake, and no end in sight. These are lowest times I have experienced, and they are my yardstick for which I measure good times and bad times.

Yet again my thoughts have come around to wondering, what is the point to being here in this place, in this job, at this time. I can’t answer that now. I used to be able to, the fight and the struggle, and daily life all seemed to have purpose a while ago, but not anymore. Home, a place I haven’t known in nearly 10 years now, seems once more to offer me something I’ve lost here in Europe; purpose! What does ‘purpose’ mean, I’m not entirely sure, maybe it’s a wife and kids, I know it’s definitely a career change, to do what I don’t know but it won’t be what I’m doing right now. However what’s there is the promise that what I’m looking for, will be there waiting.

Like the taste of the salt air before you see the beach, you know there is something just over the sand dunes that you can’t see yet, but is very different from what you can see in front of you.

Padwanna!

I've got a friend who always gives money to beggars on the street and at supermarket entrances. He says it's because they're people in need and that he doesn't like to see people down on their luck. I keep telling him that he's a sucker because people do take advantage of his generous nature, especially when they tell him any kind of hard luck story because the regulars know it'll result in him giving them more money.

There was a time I used to give away money to street people, but I don't anymore, because the way I see it, it's a choice in life they've made to let other people support them, and I choose to not give them that support. Maybe it's a cynical point of view, but life is all about choices. I could also choose to not work but instead stand on the street corners and ask for money. However I've made a choice to work as a wage slave so I can support a lifestyle that I want to have. It's not my dream job, it's not even something that I really enjoy doing all that much, but I do it so that I can live a certain way in the society I've chosen to live in.

I don't believe there is any such thing as being stuck in one place; there is only, not wanting to do what's required to get out a place that you see yourself stuck in. Choices are always there, but sometimes we just don't like the choices we're faced with, or how much work is required to see a choice through. Either way, no individual is ever forced to remain a beggar, or a wage slave, or anything else.

It's just about making a choice!

Padwanna!

show me a man who lives alone and has a perpetually dirty kitchen, and 5 times out of 9 I’ll show you an exceptional man, Charles Bukowski.

show me a man who lives alone and has a perpetually clean kitchen, and 8 times out of 9 I’ll show you a man with detestable spiritual qualities, Charles Bukowski.

I’m procrastinating right now. I’ve got this guilty feeling about it too. My kitchen is a fucking mess! And I do mean a serious mess. Not just a couple of dirty plates on the sink, but a serious mess that means no food can possibly be cooked in there until it’s cleaned and disinfected. My bedroom and living room aren’t as bad, but that’s only because I don’t cook food in there. If I did, then they would be.

I think as single guy living on your own, you go through these phases where your personal space is clean and tidy one month, and a fucking mess the next. In some respects it mirrors your own emotional state. The internal feeds the external, which feeds the internal. I’m not quite sure how laziness fits in, but it’s definitely a factor.

So I know that after I get up from here, I’ve got at least 4 – 6 hours intense cleaning ahead of me. It’s got to be done because I’ve reached a point where I can’t fucking live like this anymore. I want my kitchen back, because I’m hungry and I’ve got good food I can cook into something if I only had some bench space, and cutlery… and plates, and maybe some glasses and other stuff like that.

Procrastinating must be a peronality trait too, because I know I’ve written old posts that go exactly the same way; me sitting down writing about how I’m not doing something else, generally cleaning. I wonder if my doctor can prescribe me something for it? Some amphetamines would be good, at least they speed up the procrastination and make it more likely I’ll get off my arse and do something.

One day, I’m getting a maid… or a wife, whichever is cheaper!

Padwanna!

It was Tuesday night this week when I found myself in town with an hour to kill before a friend turned up who I was going to have dinner with. It was a warm late afternoon, and so I thought I would stroll to the bookstore and get myself something to read to pass the time. I bought two Bukowski novels; Tales of Ordinary Madness, and Hollywood. I was in the mood for something raw, which is why I bought Bukowski.

I went to Dam Square and took a seat outside at the uber touristic EuroPub bar. I ordered myself a large coca cola before realising that it was going to cost 5 euro 50, and took out Tales to read. It wasn’t a novel as I had first thought but a collection of short stories and essays collected over a period of time by Bukowski which illustrate the meaner, seedier side of his and his aquantancies lives.

I love reading Bukowski, he has the ability to make me hate him when I read his books, and yet at the same time, sympathise with how society moulded him to be who he was. The man was such a prick in life, but he was treated like a prick too, and he had a genius for conveying it in his literature that nobody else could. I read the first 8 stories or so; some about criminals who do crime because they have no choice; others about low life scumbags trying to deal with normal society; and a few self loathing peices about his time in prision, and his self destructive abuse of his own body.

Looking up from the book, I thought to myself how little world of madness in those pages had in common with the world I lived in. It seemed very sanatised here in Dam Square, as I sat drinking the worlds most expensive large coke, with nice looking people around me all enjoying the sun. There wasn’t any craziness at all, and for some reason, that made me feel cheated that I had missed out on something. But as you can read between the lines of a page of writing and find a double meaning, you can do the same thing with the world around you.

I started watching the crowd more carefully. A skinhead walked past with a beer in his hand and sneer on his face, he looked high by the red glaze of his eyes and the swagger of his walk; he looked like he was going out to commit a crime. A couple to my left who at first appeared to be in conversation on closer inspection were having a muffled argument. She wouldn’t look him the eye and he kept pulling her face towards him, forcing her to face him as he spoke. I wondered if they were breaking up, or if he had found out she had done something that had hurt him. An older man of about 50 was walking hand in hand with a Thai woman in her early 20’s. He had obviously paid for her hand in marriage – or company – because I had seen couples exactly like this by the hundreds when I was in Bangkok city. Two kids got in a fight by the stone monument, punches started getting thrown, and other people shouted at them that if they didn’t stop it the police were going to get called. They laughed and said bring them on, they would take them too, though they did say this while walking away up the street to the Red Light District.

The ordinary world and the world of madness don’t exist seperately with only a small point of intersection. Instead they are layers of the same space that just have varying degrees of density in different places; some more, some less, but they are always present together everywhere you go. People like Bukowski sought out those places of heavy density where the air sizzled with chaos, madness and corruption. Most people couldn’t exist there on their own for very long, these places chew people up and taint them with a stink that makes them unable to go back to an ordinary world again. That’s why we have seperate social classes inside a single community; the environment moulds you as surely as exposure to the sun will change your skin colour.

Maybe that’s why I just write about experiences I read about someone else in a book; I’m too scared to get burned!

Padwanna!