Sometimes, when I have difficult concepts to explain, I like to think I can just dump them on here and the people who really matter in my life will choose to see them, and then divine my meaning from whatever broad analogies and vague imagery I choose to employ at the precise moment of writing.

It occurred to me last night that a general condition I should be placing on all of my actions (or inactions, as may more than likely be the perceived case) is that I have no idea what the fuck is going on.

This is less an inevitable concession to the necessity of something resembling Socratic ignorance, and more a reluctant acceptance of confusion surrounding simple things like where a blue undershirt might be hiding or why someone is acting differently toward me. If they are, in fact, acting differently toward me at all.

It is the present condition of my existence. Logically and hopefully, a temporary one. But I can’t be certain about that.

July has been a hectic month. And it certainly won’t let up before it’s over.

My goal has simply been not to fuck it up too bad.

But I have a history of unrealistic and unachieved goals.

Nothing like the classics.

I’ve noticed lately that some of my prose is trying really hard to be poetry. This is problematic, because I’ve never considered myself a serious poet.

I rock at rhyming couplets and can probably throw down a sweet limerick.

But the fact remains that I have been employing a lot of sentence fragments to communicate not even necessarily ideas, but elements of ideas, and then juxtaposing them together when I feel like they fit.

This is not so much a master plan that I’ve been concocting, but rather just the way I feel I should be writing at the moment.

That being said, I have written a couple poems in my time, and they’ve mostly been lighthearted. The ones that weren’t were pretty terrible.

In English 101 I was called flippant while I was eating a pretty bad sandwich from 7/11. I had a vision of myself hurling the sandwich in disgust. So, like most writers who find themselves in that situation, I decided to write a poem about it. A sonnet with a completely static rhyme scheme.

Basically, I wanted to see if I could do it.

And this is what I came up with:

Last night I threw a sandwich through the air
People all took notice and chance to stare
It sailed from my hand to who knows where
Spiralling around with grace and flare
Past wide eyes, open mouths, and blowing hair
O’er dark castles, men of power, ladies fair
Ocean depths, mountain peaks, and dragon’s lair
On a roll, ham and cheese I did prepare
But tasted that for which I did not care
The cheese could have been bad, or the meat too rare
So horrid it was that I could not share
And continue to eat, I did not dare
Yet o’er the sandwich I would not despair
And so, I threw that sandwich through the air

The poem did little to reduce my flippant reputation. But that’s OK, because I always considered it’s main theme to be the triumph of the human spirit through defiance.

Seriously.

Fuck that sandwich.

Man, fuck a dress code.

If you really want to attract a mature clientèle, try a headliner that plays at ten o’clock.

At some point, you have been encouraged to abandon your dreams.

If you’re like me, you will take this advice to heart.

You’ll trudge farther and farther into concrete nothingness.

Then you will look back.

See your dreams.

Still waiting for you.

We’re back to the classic jams. This is a car review I wrote on spec a couple years back. As I’m becoming increasingly disgusted with the rampant consumerism in which we constantly fester, I was happy to read that I at least attempted to tackle some of the psychology behind that in this piece. Although that could also be why I never heard back about it. I’ll discuss it further in the comments.

Since its launch in 2007, I’ve been taken with Suzuki’s SX4.

My attraction to the car was that it offered a new entry-level price for an All-Wheel Drive vehicle at just under $20,000. Its most similarly priced AWD competitor at that time was the Subaru Impreza, which sold for just under $23,000. However, as I’ve learned on the 2009 Suzuki SX4 JX AWD, these vehicles are not really very similar.

The Impreza is simply a car, while the SX4 clearly wants to be more than a car. It’s a crossover, which in this instance means it’s a car that takes design cues from SUVs. It sports a slightly jacked-up ride height, some black plastic cladding around bottom of the car, and a roof rack.

I’ve never liked this about the SX4. I don’t care for SUVs, and I care even less for cars pretending to be SUVs. Anything that tries to be all things to all people rarely succeeds. However, I was on a mission to find a vehicle that sent a reasonable amount of power through a manual gearbox to all four wheels.

At the cheapest possible price.

Beggars can’t be choosers.

The SX4’s weakest ingredient in my magic formula is definitely its engine. It’s an efficient 2.0L inline-4 that produces 143hp. It’s by no means gutless, but probably not going to win many drag races.

Of course, most people won’t need it to.

The most unique thing about the SX4 is definitely Suzuki’sIntelligent All-Wheel Drive. The system can change on the fly from front-wheel drive to a front-biased all-wheel drive to a full-time four-wheel drive. The only other similarly-priced vehicle with anything like this is the aforementioned Subaru Impreza 2.5i, which features a full-time AWD system that’s very different from iAWD.

One standout feature on the SX4 is its five-speed manual transmission. It’s surprisingly smooth, while still feeling satisfyingly mechanical. The pressure demanded by the clutch is negligible, which makes it an ideal manual for taxing city traffic.

It probably needs to be, because despite the SX4’s potential rough-terrain capability, the vast majority of these vehicles will undoubtedly be driven in the city.

It’s pretty hard to deny that the Suzuki SX4 is a small car originally designed for city use, but it’s equally difficult to deny that it has some legitimate claim to off-road usability. I have no doubt that many people will find the implication that, if absolutely necessary, this car could be driven off-road very reassuring. This makes the SX4 a true crossover.

I suspect what defines a crossover is not its actual capabilities, but rather its perceived capabilities.

Ultimately, it’s these perceived capabilities that ruin the car for me. It’s trying to make me think it’s tougher than it is. By extension, if I owned one, I would be trying to make people think I was tougher than I actually am. The many intrinsic merits of this car are made irrelevant by the fact that it wants to be something I don’t.

The SX4’s best feature is still its price. Since 2007, its asking price has crept from $19,995 to $21,195, but even at this inflated price it has no direct competition. For people looking for a capable and affordable crossover, there’s no conceivable reason not to look at the SX4.

However, the SX4 also offers great news for those of us who would rather have a car than a crossover. Since 2007, the Subaru Impreza has come down from $22,695 to $20,995. If the SX4 is even slightly responsible for this, then it really is all things to all people.

As I am sure you have learned, dear readers, I have something of an inferiority complex. Sometimes, this motivates me. Other times, not so much.

Over the last couple years, I have discovered the rapture of (mostly outdoor) electronic music festivals. Like most supremely beautiful things, they have some flaws. But it is those flaws that make them perfect. They awoke in me a lust for life that I have rarely experienced since my early childhood.

It’s difficult for me, this summer, to be anything but gutted by the reality that I’ll miss most of them. I am almost paralyzed by disconnection and isolation from a community where I don’t constantly feel the need to present myself as anything other than just that.

I am alone in the midst of entrenched policies, maintaining carefully defined relationships that only enable and empower a festering sense of normalcy for all those who depend on them. And, as near as I can figure, not for any sensible reason beyond the fact that I’m trying to prove my worth in our established social enterprise.

The truth that I am working up the courage to face is that it doesn’t give a shit about me.

While I very desperately want it to care about me, I am faced with the reality that I have absolutely zero control over how outside entities feel about me. I do, however, hold influence over how I feel about them. If you’re cool with me dropping some casual Buddhism on you, the most I can do is engender kindness, love and acceptance in all aspects of my life. Ultimately, that’s all that makes this universe a liveable environment, regardless of how liveable our own environments may feel.

The single most critical thing we can learn from the festival experience is to live it wherever we find ourselves.

Oh, you.

I’d been thinking about you for most of the first week of July, and then, as I inexplicably suspected might happen, I saw you at that show I paid forty bucks to catch. Now I don’t even remember who was playing, because I was mostly paying attention to you.

At one point, while waiting for the headliner to take the stage, I could have reached out and touched you. Then, you leaned back, looking for someone who clearly wasn’t me. Your face was so close to mine I probably could have kissed you by barely moving my neck. You still didn’t notice me.

What can I say? I’m a ninja by nature.

Why didn’t I actively grab your attention? Well, that’s complicated.

On the one hand, I’m sorry I didn’t. On the other hand, I think I made the right decision. Indeed, one of my motivating factors was the classic nervousness that I have had around attractive women since I first became attracted to women. But that’s far from the chief reason.

I suppose I am also scared that you will become just like the girl I mentioned in my last post. You’ll have little use for me, either as a romantic interest, a friend, or even just as a person in general. And I will have little recourse.

I would have a hard time convincing myself that I am not inferior to you. It would be impossible for me not to feel outclassed by you. But the fact that you’re better than me does not bother me so much in and of itself. However, the prospect that you could somehow lord that over me, even inadvertently, and cast me aside so simply is a difficult one to face. Though ultimately, even the worst-case scenario is one that I could (eventually) deal with, maybe even learn something from, and no doubt use to fabricate some self-deprecating confession in the second person, as though I were writing it with the intention of using it to address you directly.

I could benefit from a worst-case scenario.

The best-case scenario, however, is that you don’t find me awkward, and maybe even come to like me. That would be awful.

I see in you the potential to make me happy. And I can’t have that. The potential for me to succeed as a writer, specifically a creative writer, is dependent on a delicate balance of uneasiness and unhappiness. I am, for reasons numerous and complex, an unhappy person and, subsequently, an unhappy writer.

My unhappiness is my ethos, and I need it.

Although some people seem to like my writing, I am painfully aware of the fact that it’s very one-dimensional. I constantly rely on similar characters and themes and the only voice I ever employ is my own.

It’s easy. And I’m pretty damn lazy.

I’m doing my best to perfect this style, and I’m hoping to ride it into publication somewhere—anywhere, really. But I’m not yet confident enough that I can make it happen. In the words of DMX, “I’ve got a lot of dreams, but I’m not really chasing mine.”

Although “a lot of dreams” is a bit of an overstatement.

I, like most people, really just have the one dream. One day, I hope to be happy. I have no idea how that’s going to happen. I’m open to all sorts of possibilities: God, charity work, velvet pants, drugs, inner peace, cybernetic limbs, music, a great dragon adventure, some sort of pantheistic technological cult, or eventually realizing I’m gay and boldly bursting out of the closet like a great big flamboyant star! Although none of that seems terribly plausible, I will admit to desiring a great deal of it.

The whole gay thing is a bit of an anomaly, though. I assume I’ve given that aspect of my personality a lot more thought than most men do. I’m sure it crosses every guy’s mind at least once, but I would hazard to guess that most men are worried about being gay. I’m really just curious to know one way or the other. Sure, there are men that I can admit to finding attractive. Although if I follow that attraction through to its logical conclusion, I’m a bit repulsed. But that’s just my personal feeling on the matter.

I just find the liberation of coming out very appealing. Cutting, crying, and countless hours in darkness separate me from the rest of the world, and I would very much like an easy way of embracing that.

But, no.

I have to like breasts.

And I like them a lot.

Which leads me to believe that a woman, a very specific woman, could make me happy. I don’t know if that’s you, but I suspect it could be. And why shouldn’t I? After all, I have no reason not to hope for the best with you.

That’s a large part of the reason I didn’t approach you that night. It’s too hard for me to continually suffer through the complete and utter decimation of my hope. The only thing I ever learn about any woman is why we’re incompatible, and when that happens the percentage of the three billion (or so) women on earth that I could potentially love decreases ever so slightly. The possibility that I am completely alone increases proportionally. True, it’s minimal, but it’s excruciating.

Furthermore, I know that it’s wrong to place my expectations for happiness entirely on you. Or anyone, for that matter. I’m not worried that you could never make me completely happy. I’m worried you would.

I hope I can be responsible for at least some of my own happiness.

And writing does offer me occasional cause for mirth. I think I could be happy writing all the time.

Preferably making gobs of money doing it.

Of course, I know: money can’t buy happiness. But it can bankroll the pursuit of happiness. And money is my passport to eccentricity.

I am, as soft-spoken advertisements from the pharmaceutical industry would say, mentally ill. And neither I nor they can’t really do anything about that.

The most I can hope for is to be my own archetypal architect.

If I’ve gotta pick, I’m gonna choose eccentric billionaire over raving derelict. Although I’m quite certain that later on in life I’ll be too far-gone to really care either way. But for now, I’m counting on my unhappiness to facilitate the purchase of the most ominous abandoned castle I can find. To serve not only as a residence for my corporeal body, but also as an extended metaphor for my soul. A ruined fortress on a cold, desolate landscape impervious to attack would suit my ethos nicely. But my body would prefer that it be somewhere warm and sunny. Although a more temperate or arctic climate would excuse the presence of giant, roaring fires.

And that’s pretty cool.

Nevertheless, I regret not grabbing your attention. But as you can see, there were mitigating circumstances. Maybe later, when I have a drawbridge, I can open it up.

I thought I saw some signs pointing toward your singularity. That is to say, both your individuality and your availability. Little things told me what I wanted to hear, and led me to a desirable conclusion.

Then I had to face Valentine’s Day.

You weren’t in our night class, along with most everyone else. Maybe you were sick. But I knew that wasn’t true.

You were back the following week, and you looked fine. As always. We talked about the song I was listening to, even though you had no idea what it was.

High Energy Protons by Juno Reactor, because I needed all the positive reinforcement I could get.

To that end, I used to take over-the-counter pseudoephedrine half an hour before class. It’d give me enough time to drive to school unaffected and then hit me sometime between the parking lot and the elevator. It took your edge off rather nicely. By spring session I had switched to codeine. I still enjoy either on occasion, but I don’t have the same problem with them that I do with you.

Even though I haven’t seen you in almost a year, I still can’t forget you.

I remember when you confirmed my Valentine’s Day suspicions with only the words “boyfriend” and “Xbox.” You said you needed “girl games” to play. I always hoped you were better than that. I mentioned playing Metal Gear Solid 3 with the stealth camouflage, which would make me completely invisible to my opponents.

You didn’t think that sounded very fair.

And I agree. It’s not.

But then again, what would you know about being invisible?

I don’t expect this simile to resonate with most people, but listening to Whistle Tips is like being haunted by the ghost of Notorious B.I.G.

Point.Blank feat. Helicopter Showdown – Whistle Tips

It’s not brand-spankin’ new, but it’s been one of my favourites over the past while.

Speaking of which, I’ve decided I should post some of my classic jams from writing school. These have never really seen the light of day. But I always intended to set them free, and I’ve decided here and now is a good time to let them go.

I may or may not re-edit them. If I do, I’ll pretty much play around with the paragraph (and possibly sentence) structure in the way that I have been doing with my newer work. They’re pretty solid as is, though maybe a bit lengthy.

The simple fact of the matter is that I’ll have a lot on my plate over the next couple of weeks. I think I’ve done a good job of establishing that when that happens, I simply won’t write anything.

So greatest hits it is.

I am hurt and upset to a degree that I cannot rightly assess. I am also certain that I deserve it.

Regardless of whether or not that’s true, I’ll deal with it.

Most critically, I’m not cool with some of what I said when I was high on MDA the other night. It makes me honest and genuine to a degree that I can’t usually achieve on my own. But I have since realized that, even wrapped in an unnatural blanket of well-being, I am still more than comfortable lying to myself.

In the case of friends versus lovers, I tend to agree with you, there shouldn’t necessarily be any particular reason that a future romance trumps a current friendship. But I absolutely cannot guarantee this will not happen with us.

I know this from having guaranteed such things before, only to get bitchslapped into that exact situation by the very person I guaranteed. I had sort of assumed a reciprocity clause was implied, and that was my mistake. But let’s face it, I was never going to enforce it anyway. Even if at some point I was actually naive enough to believe I could.

But I survived. Maybe even grew a little.

And you know what? I get it. I’ve had plenty of friends get involved in relationships where, as a direct consequence of said relationships, I interacted with them less. I might see them less, but we’re not lesser friends for it. This, I suspect, is likely a result of us not placing arbitrary parameters around our friendships with regard to how the other relationships in our lives are permitted to affect our friendships.

People drift apart.

Sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively. Most often, it’s a mixture of both.

They go home. They leave home. They get jobs with NASA. They find God. They get curbstomped in the McDonald’s drive-thru. They acquire dementia. Or an all-consuming passion for back country kayaking.

It really doesn’t matter how it happens. It’s just likely to happen.

Cohesive attractions. Covalent bonds. Strong interactions.

We are all a series of relationships drifting through space. And, at times, we’re fortunate enough to drift together.