and so it came to pass...

...that they were right. Things always do have a way of working out. Everything did come out okay. They kept telling me, and I listened but it seemed impossible for things to get on track. It's almost as if I didn't want things in my life to fall into place...as if I embraced the chaos and uncertainty. Maybe I did. Maybe it's because it was more familiar. 


Josh told me recently that I was the most optimistic person he knows. That no matter what I always seemed to stay positive and upbeat. It didn't feel like that, but his words made me happy with the fact that I would at least outwardly project that things are okay. I would hate to have my attitude bring those around me down. I'm trying to never do that again.

The Olympics are in London right now. Here is a picture I took in London of Westminster Abbey. Suck it.

Tú eres mi otro yo

“Tú eres mi otro yo” By Maria Brazil

Tú eres mi otro yo. Si te hago daño a ti, Me

hago daño a mí mismo. Sí te amo y respeto,

Me amo y respeto yo.

I feel like this should be a dynamic of the relationship I have with God. Maybe I do. I don't love her in the way that a male and female do, not yet anyway. But I feel this with her. But I'm afraid to tell her something like this, not yet anyway. She means a lot to me.

Punch! Punch!

I raised an eyebrow to find "I hit myself..." being finished by Google with "...when I'm angry". The reason beingggggggggggggggggg I do this. Probably since I was 8 or 9 I think I can remember starting to do this. I'd punch myself in the head, thighs, or abdomen at certain times when I became angry. I slammed a door into my head yesterday and realized..."wow I still do this?" 

When I hit myself I don't want to hurt myself or damage anything, which is why I do it out of sight and not with anything that would have brash results. I have come to the conclusion that it is a crude way of dealing with anger. I'm not sure if I want it to stop. It's not that I like hitting myself, it's just that I don't care. I like my other mediums of mitigating being upset by running, reading, blogging, or trying to be around friends or family, but those are not always available, nor do they always seem like appealing solutions. 

But I will say that when it happens it eases the stress slightly. I don't think anyone has ever seen me do this, and I have not ever had an awkward conversation about where a bruise came from. I never thought all of this time that it was harmful. I probably still won't. I guess what sucks is the fact that I still get so enraged at myself. Sometimes the cause is bad luck, but in the end I will find a way to blame myself for not being able to avoid something or make a better decision somewhere along the line. More often than not the reason I hit myself is because I can't stand the fact that I made a bad choice. I have never hit myself because of anger at someone else, which is good I think. 

I feel stupid, embarrassed, and even childish about this behavior. It's strange, or maybe not after reading some of the comments, questions, and diagnosis about this on the web. But either way I have never been able to let this go over the years...but at least it's not an event every time I get upset. 

I've read extremes; that some people take this habit as far as cutting themselves or coming close to suicide. I've never considered doing anything like that...for me it has always involved quick, furious blows to a part of my body. It usually lasts only a few seconds. I'm not quite sure if it's a way for me to punish myself, or just to feel something. I've read that some psychologists relate it to depression and/or to distract from the present emotion of being disappointed in oneself. It beats me. (haha)

Anima

We focus on where the soul will end up. Those that believe in the soul anyway. But for those that do, maybe we care so much for where the soul will end up because that is where it dwells for the longest amount of time. "We" are in our bodies for only so long, a flicker of time compared to the amount of time it is nonexistent or beyond in some other plane. 

Then again, maybe we care so much about where the soul ends up because that is the continuation for those that die and leave their bodies. We want the solace and peace of mind that the individual we knew is still existing somewhere. We like to tell ourselves that the deceased person, their soul, is in a better place if they were good. Some like to imagine that those who were evil are in torment. That even though their bodies are dead, their soul is somewhere suffering and paying for what they did in that flicker of time here among the living. 

I wonder if the soul can do good or evil after it has left the body...it's hard for me to imagine not. The choices and actions of good only seem to be as such because there is an experience of evil and bad. I have no answers though. I'm not sure what to think about the soul. I believe in its existence, but I don't know when it is born. When it enters the body is a mystery, and it may not even matter. Some say it is once the egg is fertilized. Some say the heartbeat. Some say when the body opens its eyes. I've even read in some places it is not present until the individual has a name or can speak. 

If the soul is associated with the afterlife so much, I wonder what its role is here and now. Again, we focus on where the soul will end up. What about now? Are our bodies more than vessels that carry the soul to the next place? Do our bodies mean anything at all? Should I focus more now on my soul while I'm here? Heavens! How do I focus on it? I don't even know how to reach it! I could be reaching it now and not know.

things will work out for me things will work out for me things will work out for me things will work out for me things will work out for me things will work out for me things will work out for me things will work out for me things will work out for me things will work out for me things will work out for me things will work out for me things will work out for me things will work out for me things will work out for me things will work out for me things will work out for me things will work out for me things will work out for me things will work out for me things will work out for me thigns will work out fo rme things will work out for me things will work out for e thisgn will work out for me things will work out fo rme thing will work out fo rme

Mirror

I hadn't stared into my eyes in the mirror in quite some time. I've practiced this in the past before some significant even or change, or maybe during some great obstacle in my life. I haven't done this in a while not because I haven't had my struggles...and not because I haven't made some big shifts in my life and philosophy...rather I just simply hadn't given myself a moment to stop and reflect.

I have always seen myself as two. My heart and conscience, and my mind and body...I think that's how I separate them. When I look into my eyes in the mirror, it is as if I am looking into this familiar being that I love like no one else. While the entity that is doing the loving, has no body at all.

A couple of days ago I confronted myself. I looked into my eyes. I watched my pupils waver...growing and shrinking in size despite my steady disposition as I held my face a couple of inches from the mirror. While staring at those familiar eyes, I drifted into the sense that I was standing nearly nose to nose with another being. I became conscious that I was not looking inward but outward. For a brief moment I felt as though I was not looking simply at my reflection, but Ryan.

I let my head fall against the mirror, and it seemed like I was leaning my head against Ryan...and we were understanding our joys, pains, and worries. It was as if Ryan was sympathetic to me because I was sympathetic to him. I reached my hand up and pressed it against the mirror. In the same way, it was as if Ryan and I were reaching out and putting our hands together...feeling moved by that basic human touch that seems so powerful at times.

I stopped looking into my eyes and looked down...and it still felt like I was leaning my forehead and pressing my palm against someone. I began to cry, slow at first. My abdomen and chest tightened and I gasped, holding my breath lightly until I could shiver out shaky, drawn-out breaths. Tears welled up in my eyes, and in my peripheral sight I could see that reflection dealing with the same emotions. Noticing this made me break. I tried to suppress my tears and gasping. My choked breaths broke through though...and I could see the tears falling off of my own face and into the sink. It felt comforting. I felt like I was grieving with someone and supporting them at the same time.

It wasn't until I was writing this that I realized I hadn't cried with someone in a very long time.

Where I come from

My parents are very keen on genealogy and they love to spend countless hours finding links in their families trees...often competing with one another to see who is closer linked to a famous person in history or who can trace their lineage back further.

More recently as I have been interested though, I have come to discover that they have to use distant links even to start somewhere. They use their grandparents siblings or cousins, great aunts or uncles, 2nd or 3rd generation cousins--all as jumping points to start working back. 

In such a way I have realized that all of their, and ultimately my family lineages in a direct descent are unknown. We have definitely been on the losing side of history on both my mother and father's side.

My mother's father was an Scottish-Irish immigrant who came over with his half-dozen brothers and sisters, and they grew up in Texas during the great depression. They left their clan of McGarrah's behind in the UK in order to find a way out of their poverty, only to find an uglier face of it here in the US.

My mother's mother was an alcoholic Osage Indian, and so was her mother and mother before her of Pettit's. I don't need to mention how well the records and treatment were kept of Native Americans...

My father's father was one of 12 Catholic Bennett children that moved from Missouri, Arkansas, to Texas during the depression. Their father was an orphan and nothing is known about his family...well he was an orphan...dead end there.

My father's mother was a Russian/Polish Jew. Her family of Schmidts and Feinbergs came over from Vilnius in modern day Lithuania around the time of the Russian pograms and moved to Brooklyn. Not much of a direction there, it's definitely not as if I can trace any Jews living in Poland, Russia, or anywhere in eastern Europe for that matter.

At least I know who my mother and father are, and who their parents were. That's something! I wish I could go back further though.

Here is an ode from the Greek Pindaros:

Even high deeds of prowess

Have a great darkness if they lack song;

We can hold up a mirror to fine doings

In one way only:

If with the help of Memory in her glittering crown

Recompense is found for labour

In words' echoing melodies.