Ode to Cameron Graff: A Tale of "David"

David pressed his back roughly into the back of the seat, attempting to straighten up, in the process making himself look, or so he assumed, more muscular, but every attempt at pressing himself further into the seat served only to bring his vanity and self-loathing into focus. Fuck-off dude nobodies looking at you for christ sake, your speeding along the interstate at 1 o'clock in the morning. He could never understand the reason he pressed the peddle so hard, motivating the tank that his mother had bought him for a first car to move even faster in the direction of the last place he desired to be. In the end home-is-home, the ultimate arbiter, that serene song that soothes the journeyman's soul, the envy of half-of the destitute masses of this hell-ish earth. He could still smell her perfume on his clothes. The subtle scent of Abercrombie perfume sprayed in ernest by a self-concious teenage girl. She is an absolute babe dude, probably one of the best you have ever gotten. He glanced into the back of the car and chuckled as he noticed her pan-tees tucked underneath the reclining seats. Dude!? Do not forget to trash the condom before tossing your shorts in the laundry basket!?

He paused in his thought process, the soothing melodies of The National began to pervade the atmosphere, as he realized that he could not stop contemplating that face, that beautiful face. Bro!? Are you in love? David had never felt love. In fact, he had often dumped gals if a relationship reached the point that love became a "problem", but this felt different. It felt right, Ada felt right, everything felt right.

David loves Ada, but life is not fair. David does not love life.

Masochism

"Crack!" The agony rippled through my stomach and chest. As my arm violently convulsed, the barbell smashed against my stomach. I rolled off-of the bench onto the ground clutching my chest. I attempted to move, but every moment of the struggle tore at my brain, begging me to stop, to remain complacent. I lay their curled into the fetal position, pathetic and vulnerable, as the lamentations of a sixteen year old gal cascaded along the contours of my conscious psyche. "Please stop!!!" A lamentation that deserved a proper response, yet I elected to make an ill conceived joke about synonyms bred-from the mind of some half-ass director, of a half-ass move, composed of half-ass stereotypical performances. Half-ass perhaps this phrase reveals something about my general approach to the human experience. I am half-assed and I have constantly been told that my efforts are half-assed, perhaps this is the reason that I have embraced this masochism, this complete deconstruction of the self. It must be an attempt to better myself, or perhaps at its root, its an attempt to destroy myself. Am I attempting to better myself, or destroy myself?

They are not mutually exclusive, in attempting to "better myself" I am destroying myself. I subject myself to self-imposed torture in an attempt to deconstruct my former self and create a superior me. The act of training is an act of self-depreciation. A hatred of the self. My pain is a manifestation of my internal struggle for self-determination. A struggle that I am obviously losing.

A Conversation

I cannot conceive something interesting to put in this blog at the moment, so I have decided to compose to stories bred-from moments of depression in the lives of those people I loath. I hope that in presenting these stories to you, I may gain some perspective in regards to the universal suffering of the human condition. I hope that I may develop compassion for those that have harmed me, more than I thought possible...

Dad-

There have been rather scant consistencies throughout my life, but one of those things that seems to hold true no matter my location or state of mind, is the stoic expression and attitude of my father. I have recently began to suffer a crippling depression as a result of my move to Hong Kong; this depression came to a head at the American Club last Thursday. I suddenly became so consumed by the hopelessness that pervaded my spirit that I had to quit the squash rally and cry on the bleachers outside of the court. After defeating my brother Peter in another match, my dad exited the court and sat beside me.

He asked, “What’s the matter son? I have never seen you flustered enough to quit a sport in the middle of the match.” I explained the internal turmoil that ravaged me and he responded by relaying his personal experience. His eyes fluttered as he prepared to divulge some monumental secret. I perceived a tear, as it steadily trickled along the contours of his nose. He opened his mouth and his voice seemed to erratically quiver as it replaced the oppressive silence. “Every man experiences a period of great loss in his life Jack, and sometimes these losses manifest themselves in the loss of one person or the loss of something much more significant.” He paused. “Have you ever seen me cry boy?”

I thought long-and-hard, pondering this question, attempting to remember even one moment that I had seen my dad cry, either in happiness or in sadness. I could not remember having ever seen my father cry; this realization astonished me, it seemed inconceivable that through my 16 years of life, I had never seen my father cry. I responded, “no”. He smiled and chuckled, apparently pleased by his external non-emotiveness. “I have only cried three times in my adult life Jack. I cried once the day that your mother agreed to marry me.” He smiled as the memory of that day filled his mind. “ I cried once on the day that I eulogized at your grandfather’s funeral” The mood seemed to devolve into its former oppressive self. “And I cried the first day that I left home to attend college” This last admission surprised me, dad obviously picked up on the subtle jump in my features. “ Yup, I absolutely balled. BALLED!!! I’d been sitting on my bunk alone in my dorm room, I had just met the 2 blokes that I’d be spending the next year sleeping alongside, and suddenly this feeling of hopelessness came over me. In that moment I realized that life, as I had perceived it, was over. Nothing could ever be the same, I could never return to those football fields beneath the Glenn and kick around with my pals, I’d never be able to stroll over to Gavin’s place and pull him off to the Pub for a pint and some attractive female company. I had lost everything that I believed to define me.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Those tears Jack, the tears still running along your cheeks, they mean that you had something special, something worth holding on to and cherishing for the rest of your life. Your friends shall never leave you as long as you put out the effort to stay close. That home, that place you feel you belong can never truly be gone, as long as you invest yourself in them and in your actions.” He stood up and yanked me to my feet, the match resumed as if nothing out of the ordinary had just transpired.

Mom-

The tide lapped against the shore creating a strange sense of serenity. It seemed to pervade my soul and massage the tension out of my aching muscles. The quite lapping of the South China Sea suddenly became corrupted by the shrill voice of my mother, but her voice seemed different, as if some monumental truth tittered on the tip-of her tongue. I sat expecting to hear a long deserved apology, but instead came a profound understanding and sense of mutual suffering. My mother’s voice seemed to emanate in unsteady spurts as if she struggled to force every phrase out of her mouth. A metaphorical damn about to burst, releasing a deluge of compassion. I noticed that her hands shook and I began to understand that for some inconceivable reason my mother was nervous. “Jack I cannot imagine the pain that you are experiencing at the moment, but I can relate to the feeling of loss and bitterness that you constantly express. I have told you about Tommy Thomas before haven’t I?” I perceived a brief glimmer pass through her eyes, as she remembered those precious moments in the arms of a High School lover. “Yea” I responded tersely. After my first “real” kiss in 6^th grade my mom could not stop talking about Tommy, the cute little things that Tommy had done often inspired me. “I thought him to be the love of my life, I had never felt such strong feelings for another person before Tommy, and I convinced myself that no matter the circumstances, love could keep us together” She laughed as the innocence of youth seemed to amuse her, “but it could not” a tear rolled along the side-of her face seeming to punctuate the suffering in her voice. “Tommy had to leave for college after my sophomore year of High School, I thought that our love could handle the distance.” Unexpectedly her expression changed to a bitter scowl. “I thought that the 2 of us could be sustained by ‘love’. I assumed that he’d remain loyal after he left, but often our expectations exceed those that could be considered reasonable”. The voice that for moments had sounds emotive and melancholy, devolved into a monotone, expressionless, shell of its former self. “He had sex with 2 different girls in his first couple-of days at University of North Carolina and I faded into a distant memory ‘just another girl’”. She paused and attempted to collect herself. She dried her tears, and attempted to re-establish some semblance of stability, although I could see her eyes quiver as if the damn, carefully constructed by 30 years of bitterness, could shatter at any moment. “This destroyed my confidence, and I descended into a crippling depression. I could no longer accept the concept of love. It had become a fairy-tale, a fallacy meant to manufacture physical desire. I had other boyfriends, but I could never connect to any of them, I could never truly return their feelings.” She abruptly stopped her monotone recitation as my father strolled into the restaurant, his distinctive Scottish grin spread across his fading visage. The years had been tough on both of them, but in that moment I knew that he had saved her.

Grades

What are "grades"? The conventional response is "grades are an objective means of evaluating a students abilities based-on a series of scores", but can this conventional definition of "grades" truly explain the role or purpose of grades in life? Can a dictionary isolate the true meaning of a grade? What does an F mean? The average teenager is so consumed by the pursuit of grades that he/she is bound to sacrifice social opportunities to ensure that he can receive exemplary marks on his Functions and Trigonometry Test. Grades have become more than a means of evaluate academic proficiency. They have become an essential element in determining our identity. Its astonishing the degree of importance that teenagers tend to vest in these inevitably trivial letters. The Grade has become no longer a solely academic reference point, it has become a social reference point meant to suggest a certain set of underlying values and aspirations that may or may not meet those of the individual in question. An A student is assumed to be of exemplary character. A B student is assumed to harbor typical teenage apathy and is often codified as "average". A C student although "average" in regards to the academic scale is assumed to be of unimpressive intelligence, but their are no assumptions as to his character. He is assumed "tabula rasa". D and F students are not only assumed to be unintelligent, but are often labeled as being deviant. These classifications have served to ossify social groups and prevent human interaction based-on the true merits of each person. A person may be ostracized from a social circle for having grades that do not meet the standards, positive or negative, of the group that he/she aspires to be a part of.

Can grades effectively predict success? It is a commonly accepted belief that those that obtain the highest grades are ensured a comparatively larger amount-of success, than those that have received lesser grades, but in a modern complex capitalist system, the dynamics of success are not dictated solely by intelligence. The tenants of success exist in three parts. First, it holds true that throughout human history success presents itself to those most capable of channeling the passions of the generality. In Machiavelli's The Prince he suggests that successful leadership is determined by the sovereigns capacity t0 amiably manipulate the passions of those above and beneath him. In terms of personality traits, this tends to manifest itself in charisma. The modern corporal hierarchy is not founded-on the omnipotence of intelligence. The modern corporal hierarchy is comprised of a series of complex interpersonal interactions, the capacity to manipulate these reactions through charismatic behavior and interpersonal politick is essential to self-futherance. Second, specialization has developed as the primary means of self-furtherance in liberal economies since the genesis of the bourgeoisie in mid-evil europe. The theory of the case is that an individual can exploit the aforementioned specialization to manipulate the market. The robber barons of the 19th century used this concept of specialization, manifested in the production of a specific "essential" good, to corner every major market in the United States. It is the cross-application of one's talents, not the nature or intrinsic efficaciousness of the talent that enables self furtherance. Third, it is an overspoken cliche that capitalism offers opportunity to anyone driven enough to harness it. This cliche holds true as the modern economic landscape provides equal, plentiful, opportunity to those that have the drive and clairvoyance to struggle through.

I feel it is time to re-establish the former relevance of the grade as a, solely, academic frame of reference and reject its current role as a means of determining our identity.

Babysitting

I have never understood the term "babysit". It seems counterintuitive to name something that demands compassion and empathy, after an act most commonly attributed to post-partum syndrome. Its not so much that I have never understood the importance of care-taking, but moreover, I have never understood why I must be the one to do it. I cannot even claim to be compassionate and caring in regards to my youngest brother. He seems to exemplify everything that I hate most about myself, thus I am cursed, forced to a night of "external self-depreciation" as the city comes to life. As the strobe lights begin to flash, I turn on the Lion King, forced to admire another man's dementia instead of basking in my self-imposed inebriation. As shots are poured, I pour a glass of hot milk. As the music blares, I close my ears to block out the incessant shrieking. As the dance floor begins to shake as if in rapture, the stairs begin to shake as I pull him kicking-and-screaming to his bedroom. As he escapes into the solace of his dreams, I sit and brood over every moment that has been taken from me, moments lost all for the sake of family. The night passes and another day arrives, I cannot help but regret the loss.

Stolen Clothes and Nostalgia

This is the 3rd move that I have experienced in my adult life, and it holds true that there comes a point proceeding each-and-every one of these moves that I am forced to rummage through my dresser and "chuck" clothes that do not fit anymore or that have fallen out of style. As I dug through the mountain of clothing that my ama (maid) had dropped at my feet several moment prior I realized that I have stolen a shit ton of clothing from people. I tugged at each and every piece of clothing, extended my arms, and stared at it from a far as if a gorgeous painting covered every inch of the material. My memories laid bare...in a pile of stolen clothing. I decided to make a list of the clothes and the memories that go alongside.

Garret Field's Boxers

The Marquette "broskies" that may end up subscribing to this blog have probably heard legends of young master fields, but that of course is a completely different tale, a tale that, honestly deserves a separate blog to do it justice. These boxers do more than conjure images of fun times spent along the bro that helped me through a tough freshman year at Marquette; these boxers conjure up images of sexual escapades, byproducts of my raging teenage libido, perhaps the reason that my mind immediately travels to these risque moments is the presence of four massive holes in the boxers. In fact, the "flap" and entire groin have been completely torn off. As are the memories they conjure, these holes are the byproduct of my raging teenage libido and other's over excitement *chuckle*. I suppose that the majority of you are eagerly anticipating further explanation, but the role of this blog is self-expression, not self-pleasure.

Alex Beck's Boxers

These boxers are covered in artistic depictions of tropical beverages and flora, perhaps they had been given to me as a gift, but my memory cannot seem to recall and in the end that distinction is completely irrelevant. These boxers conjure up memories of times spent alongside my bestfriend, my brother, the person that has been most instrumental in pulling me through these first couple-of months in Hong Kong. I am sure that there have been far more interesting memories in these boxers. In fact, I am almost positive that I lost my virginity in these boxers, but I cannot help but remember moments spent on long strolls through Foxpoint chatting about problems that, in retrospective, seem so trivial, yet so significant. I remember one particular stroll late at night, my 2 best friends on either side of me, I imagine the three of looked a strange sight. What reason do 2 teenage boys and a 6'2 man have strolling about the neighborhood at 2 o'clock in the fucking morning?! Turn off the damn flashlight!! I assume the three of us had been chatting about our girlfriends or lack there of, yet all I can remember is an all engulfing happiness as the cold pressed against us. A happiness bred of the belief that nothing could go aery, that life couldn't be more perfect. I suppose its strange that a pair of boxers could create such nostalgia.

Daniel McConeghy's Favorite T-Shirt

I do have memories in this T-Shirt, but not the strength to put them on paper. In the end, I suppose its more intelligent to thank this boy for attempting to pull me, kicking-and-screaming, through these first couple-of months and apologize for not only stealing his favorite t-shirt, but moreover, for scorning his attempts at helping me and demonizing him for his honesty. I am sorry, I truly am.

Cameron Graff's Volcom Athletic Shorts

I stole these shorts approximately 5 months ago as I attempted to scrape together an outfit for my 4th straight day in Cedarburg. I could barely think because of the crippling exhaustion and my stomach ached as I heard Mrs.Graff screaming "Pancakes!" I couldn't take another moment of anticipation. She made the best pancakes. I'd been 2 seconds from dropping the towel and running through the house. Not my house, but the house of one of my dearest friends, butt naked just to get my hands on a couple-of pancakes. Suddenly I snapped back to reality and realized that to be an atrocious idea. I grabbed the shorts out of the closet, tossed on a shirt and careened down the stairs. I don't remember the rest of the day, but it probably progressed along the lines-of most days in Cedarburg. Thats not to say that days in Cedarburg remained the same every moment of every day, but each day seemed to move along in a certain blissful pattern. The 2 of us sat around for a couple-of hours as Cameron begged for me to leave because he had an "insanely busy day" but more often than not, he'd spend the day around me. Then, someone tended to come and pick me up, and thus be forced to entertain me for a couple-of hours, but I'd like to believe that that one special person that picked me up EVERYTIME loved to be around me, as I loved to be around her. The day passed and as the sun fell beneath the tree-line I'd struggle to find a place to stay. Heaven. Home. The one-place I can be me.

There are more stolen articles of clothing and many more memories to tell and perhaps another installment may come along, but at the moment I feel sleep closing in, as I remember those days of happiness, those days I miss so dearly.

Introduction

This series of "essays" probably isn't gonna be as creative or entertaining as the essays of other bloggers, I mean the compositions of CGraff and Alex I3eck are a tough act, but I feel as if this blog could offer an interesting means of sharing experiences in this strange place that I find myself in and conveying the emotions that I feel as a result. I have also found that putting phrases and sentences on paper offers a positive means of relaxation for me, as I attempt to control the stress and frustration I feel as the days go by, so I suppose that at the moment this blog is an open-ended means of self-expression, as is all writing.