“…bereft of me, long and weary my road has been”, sings Chris Cornell in the 2003 Audioslave tune I am the Highway. Now, before you start thinking I’ve sunk low enough to steal someone else’s words because I’ve been suitably bereft of the ability to think of any of my own… this is just where I’m at today. Left to my own devices, my thoughts have gathered at these words forever tattooed onto the walls of my inner workings, as they so often do when I refuse to acknowledge it’s time do admit defeat.
Why do we let ourselves entertain the hopeful thoughts so far-fetched even the most oblivious can spot it a mile away? Well, it’s better than never daring to hope for anything at all, I guess. And, as we all know, hope becomes the motivation we need to get closer to our goals. Although, I’m beginning to think that it’s time I started to figure out what my goals really are. Daydreaming doesn’t really cut it when you have to deal with the outside world.
Alas, I am not about to start moaning about my hopes and dreams. And, for those of you hoping that I’d become much wiser just because the number of days I’ve spent on this earth has increased by all of seven since last time you were on this site, I’m afraid you’re in for some disappointing news – the person writing this is no sage just yet.
BUT. There’s a lot to be said for having experienced the least disappointing birthday in all my days. If you were a part of it, whether physically or in spirit, know that there’s not enough gold stars in the world to decorate your page in my book.
There’s some sort of storm brewing, I can feel it. But I will leave any deeper reflections on that for another day and instead bring your attention back to the unicorn on the donut in the blog photo. Someone made sure I got a donut with Scotland’s national animal on it on my birthday and it was excellent. Even brought a smile to my face. And it got me thinking that this outside world might be ready for my return. Although, I can already promise you, that the previous week can attest to the fact that I’m nowhere near finished making ‘mistakes’. But, hey, I hear experience can make you wise… as long as you’re willing to learn from it and/or own up to the fact that the only person you need to honour and look in the eye (in my case, at least) is yourself.
See y’all next Tuesday. Until then, have a listen or two to the song mentioned earlier:
… But perhaps we can interest you in some noise producing humanoids instead?
As promised, all will be revealed today. After all, it’s the week of our birth and if no one seems to give two shits about the actual day, the least one can do is indulge in some more or less shameless self-promotion.
First things first, apologies for the odd Star Wars reference. Although, we’re hoping to ultimately ‘Jedi mind trick’ you one way or another.
If you’ve been following the blog, you may already have noticed some mentions of endings and chapters closing. Boy, this year has been littered with them. Luckily, they’ve been mostly of the good kind. Interestingly, all of them (bar one) have opened more doors than they have shut in their own unique ways.
I know I said “all” will be revealed, but this ain’t TheSun thirteen years ago. Thus, I will save some details for myself and dive straight into things before you give up on me.
Regardless. The name Kenodromia means ‘running in the void’. Although the name seemed apt at the time of its conception, perhaps the moniker was in fact the beginning of the end. Maybe it’s time this sense of running without getting anywhere goes back to being a metaphor. Perhaps now’s the time to let lessons learned make way for other, perhaps more fruitful, ventures with a little less of the sour grapes thrown in for texture (or whatever).
Who’s got time for those anyway? (Sour grapes, that is) I woke up this morning from a sneeze that would make Morla feel young and fresh – I’ve no time for dwelling on futile fuckery.
Today I leave you with a request. It is out birth week, after all, so who are you to deny us? The request is quite simple: do something for yourself that you’ve perhaps put off for too long, or will allow you to let go of some fucking stress.
In the words of Fiona Apple, “so, tell that girl you don’t love her and if you do, tell her two times”. Or, in my own, slightly less poetic, ramblings: tell the girl to fuck off so she’ll get the hint she hasn’t taken yet.
Life’s too short.
See you next Tuesday! I’ll be a whole year older by then (or a week, if we’re being technical about it), so perhaps I’ll have outgrown some of my less than charming antics. Or, perhaps not, maybe I will have embraced them wholeheartedly, knowing I am the only person that will have to share its existence with me. Here’s to at least one more year of digestive tract talk!
Below’s the only bithday song I like. Enjoy. Yay, me. Or us or whatever.
Also, there’s talk of the second coming of PIEMAGEDDON.
Someone commented on the not entirely spectacular fact that I haven’t posted anything on a social media account in over a year. Well, that’s due to a number of factors, but two of them are a) whenever I am out doing something with people whose company I enjoy, I tend to keep my phone tucked away and/or I’ve not got the Mark II on me, or b) what I consider a typical Kodak moment these days is something akin to the header photo. Now you know.
The above has very little to do with what I am about to write, though, other than that I found something that is revealed in the carving of the statue of which we can see the backside as particularly post-worthy. Why on earth would you spend time on including the cloaca of an inanimate object? It’s not like it’s going to need it? See, its mere existence beckons an array or questions.
On another note, you can do a deep-dive into cloacae (tee-hee) and/or other “digestive tract talk” by checking out the Three Bean Salad podcast. Perhaps start with the Adverts episode. Right, that’s enough of the anus for one day.
My recent posts may or may not have revealed that I’ve been on my second book, but somehow let procrastination get the better of me. So, in an attempt to force myself into holding myself accountable, I’ve decided to unveil the title, as well as the prologue to see what you guys think about it. Feel free to weigh in however you like, either by clicking on the icon you prefer below
or, you can comment on this post or use the contact form. If you’ve yet to read my book, the Kindle version is cheap as chips.
Next week’s post will also be a reveal of sorts, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.
Right… are you ready? Am I ready? Here goes:
Life in Reverse – Killing Myself to Live
Prologue / Suicide Note, Pt. 1
A year has gone by since we left Hannah on that bus, finally strong enough to take a step in the right direction and standing up for herself to a person that had caused her nothing but harm over her formative years. You would think she’d be thriving right about now, right? That she’s finally all settled in her lovely new flat, aching to get back to work with the support of her therapist, a healthy romantic relationship brewing somewhere on the horizon. It turns out, though, just because you’ve decided to start making things work for yourself, doesn’t mean the universe is going to get on board. Funny, isn’t it? We’ve all heard the words; It’s going to get worse before it gets better.
The problem is, we can tackle ‘worse’ just fine. It’s what we do! It’s the ‘better’ that might just be the end of us.
I was sat outside contemplating my own existence when a particularly nosy squirrel very rudely interrupted my introspective endeavours. For some reason, squirrels seem to pop up everywhere like tiny brown embodiments of red flags whenever I find myself in a situation, but that’s neither here nor there. Or, is it precisely both here and there? Regardless, his incessant stare made me realise I was due a budget revision. Of the mind, that is. Here’s a few thoughts on something about a little thing called personal accountability.
You’d think that, with the amount of sheer introspection I shamelessly indulge in every week, I’d be pretty much up to speed on which areas to focus on in order to improve my existence. Perhaps even to such a degree that the need for any ‘home improvements’ would be reduced to barely noticeable ad hoc upkeep tasks. Turns out, you’d be wrong. In fact, you might say this particular humanoid construction is permeated by the mental equivalent of black mould, water damage, termites and poorly and/or insufficiently laid foundations.
On the personal plain only, of course. The professional part has been meticulously built for endurance and longevity, protected by impermeable scaffolding at all times. Surely, though, as the two are connected, no one could fault you for questioning whether the collapse of one would affect the other?
You might wonder how I let my personal life fall into a state of such disrepair. Well, without going into too much detail, my theory is this:
From a very young age, it was instilled into me by my caregivers that fear was the best – if not only – motivator. Meaning, of course, that any flaws or failures were to be subject to castigation of the utmost severity (i.e., you’d be terminated from the household and stripped of your privilege of any further ‘caregiving’). Success equalled strengthening the brand of the commissioner(s) – previously known as the caregivers – whereas failure to comply would lead to the ruin of the same.
The positive outcome of this for me, personally, was that I learned how to make myself do things that didn’t come naturally to me (like, say, fucking maths, meticulously budgeting and sticking to it, always paying a higher than required tax percentage and calculating the energy prices in case of inflation – all things any child should know how to do, right?) by always expecting the worst. This makes me the perfect employee, as I will always strive for perfection out of the sheer fear of being furloughed, or worse.
Alas, for someone letting fear define what’s important, the balance between work and life would be more or less non-existent. Furthermore, striving to do anything that might spark any kind of joy outside of the workplace would be deemed unworthy of the same focus, as they don’t have that same fear attached to it. Or any. So, if fear is motivation and there’s no aspect of fear in what you are doing, you’ve no real way to convince yourself that it is valuable enough for you to work towards. This should be regarded as one of the negative outcomes, of which there are plenty. For instance, you can read a little something I wrote about “love” and emotional wounds by clicking on this sentence.
Conclusion: With this fear-based approach to success, one would fail to prioritise self-care when needed – or at all. Ultimately, this could lead to forgoing any social interaction, personal hygiene efforts or indeed after-work activities that only benefits the self, meaning you’d only really feel like a ‘real’ person when called upon by the commissioner. Which, in turn, would lead to a sense of increasing worthlessness that might lead to prioritising self-harm over selfcare.
So, how does one go about changing the script, so to speak? Do you really have to go reinventing the wheel, or un-learning everything with years and years of cognitive behavioural therapy? How do you know how to spot the bullshit – or, more importantly, the bullshitters?
Well, I may not have the answers you seek, but my money’s on this: It depends on the fucking person. The one guarantee is that there’s no cure-all. But, if there’s one thing you need, I’d say it’s accountability to yourself and to your goals. And your motivation cannot be founded in fear or regulated by negative self-talk. This includes the fear of not reaching your goals!
Perhaps the key to motivation lies in letting go of a fear-based driving force. Or, maybe it’s about learning how to accept and embrace that good things are in fact real and good, and not just some mirage or dirty trick. It could be physical too, of course. Maybe you just need to allow yourself to breath in order to let your shoulders down. Whatever it might be, I think it requires the self to let go of the assumption that society expects certain things or collectively looks down their nose at you for not being good enough. In reality, it is the self that has adopted this view and made it its mantra. And that just might be the key to change.
After all, if the person holding the whip that caused those scars across your back no longer bothers to crack it; why should you?
See you next Tuesday. Until then, enjoy the fine tune below:
Recently, a dear friend and I were talking about how autumn had suddenly descended upon us, and she mentioned how her partner had referred to the transition as not the end of summer, but “the beginning of their year”. I really liked that. So, as a few chapters in my life are closing, I aim to view the coming time as a new beginning – rather than grieve what could have been.
According to Wikipedia (and almost every dictionary), the phrase swan song “refers to a final gesture, effort or performance given just before death or retirement“. Not only does it sound better than saying something along the lines of ‘going out with a bang’ or similar, but I find it helps highlight the gravity of purposely exiting whilst leaving behind something of value to commemorate your efforts. In other words, you’re not just burning the bridge, you’re blowing it up in ways Guy Fawkes could only dream about.
Incidentally, the above phrase is also the title of one of my favourite Down songs (YouTube vid embedded at the end of this post).
As I mentioned, there are a few things coming to an end this summer. Some have plagued my mind for what seems like an eternity, while others simply seized to make sense over the past wee while. The cost had started to exceed the benefits to such an extent that it started eating away at my sanity and everything I’d worked so hard for started to come tumbling down. Only this time, I was able to see that I was going to have to make a choice if I wanted to get my head back over the water’s edge again. I might still be treading water, but at least I’m breathing.
Some endings are inevitable, other ventures meet their demise by design. Then, there are those that come to an end due to sheer self-sabotage. Here’s hoping that sort of thing has run its course forever this time.
Short and bittersweet, like most things one may be feverishly indifferent to, this post, too, has entered its final paragraph. I’ll see you next Tuesday. Until then, make sure your new beginnings fit in with your main goal, go read this post about hope – or, better yet (for me), buy my book – or just do something that makes you happy.
This week, I’ve been thinking a lot about choices. Or rather, the fact that the choices I dared not make are the ones I’ve come to regret the most. To quote my dear friend Bob (misquoting Wayne Gretzky):
“You miss all the shots you don’t take”.
You could say our lives are shaped by the choices we make. Sometimes, the choices we don’t make shape them in ways we cannot control. In fact, refusing to make a choice is a choice in and of itself – it’s choosing to avoid taking responsibility for your own life and/or actions.
Right, a bit bombastic, perhaps. But you catch my drift.
The most annoying thing, though, about the choices I didn’t make, is that I went against my instincts by not making them. Every time, without fail. More often than not, I refrained from making a choice simply because I was waiting for someone else to do so – as if I was unable to make the right choice for myself when I knew very well that their choice would be detrimental to myself, if not the both of us (or worse).
Now, I’m not the type of person who wallows in bitterness. I’ve no time for that. What’s in the past is in the past and I don’t like wasting my time on making myself feel terrible because I’ve acted out of bitterness or resentment. Alas, when one is seemingly unable to learn from one’s mistakes – i.e. the pattern seems to re-emerge over and over again – one simply has to stop and try to shake some sense into oneself. Wouldn’t you agree?
Another thing that worries me is this; what signals am I sending my subconscious by ignoring my gut feeling?
I found several pieces of writing on exactly this, but only one of them seemed to be rooted in scientific research and based on The Arbinger Institute’s Leadership and Self Deception: Getting Out of the Box (2000) and was posted on Psych Central seven years ago. You can read the article by clicking on this link. The conclusion mirrors my beliefs/fears; self-deprecation.
So, how do we change this? I once read somewhere that it takes approximately 14 days to change a habit and I’ve regarded it as truth ever since. You cannot change my mind. But, that means actively doing something to implement the desired change over those 14 days. Surely that’s a lot of work just for the sake of some unconscious self-respect? Or is it in fact a very small price to pay for something tremendously valuable?
I think I’ll put what I learned from last week’s post about hope theory to good use and set a goal for myself for the next fortnight and find out, as an experiment. Perhaps I’ll even give you an update on my findings.
I’ll see you next Tuesday. Until then, stay true to yourself and listen to Lowrider:
Growing up, my dreams kept me going. The dream of finally one day escaping that horrible shit town, the gossip, the not fitting in, the shame, the lack safe places – you bet. But also the dream of a future filled with a few possibilities and a couple of pretty mad things I just knew were going to happen, however ridiculously far-fetched and logic-defying they may have been.
Interestingly enough, it was the particularly mad ones that took up most of my time – I suppose because they were so far from my own reality that they didn’t feel tainted, somehow – and they’ve been the ones to actually come true once I did get out of that place.
Don’t worry, today’s post will be short and sweet (?), because I’ve realised I’m meant to be on holiday this week – might as well give you lot a little time off from the usual doom spirals as well.
Regardless. I think it’s time I put the same amount of passion, overthinking and incessant manifestation I leant to those “impossible” scenarios to some hopes and dreams that would vastly improve my existence if they came to be. Not unlike last week’s post, this is a bit of a mindset change situation. But the 6am sunset I witnessed this morning lit a spark. Perhaps I’m ready now, to let the good things in.
What I did find to support my own theory, though, were a few interesting pieces on the matter. This editorial on the psychology of hope is one of them. This is a quote from said article: “[sic] hope seems to act as a catalyst in transforming negative experiences into growth opportunities“.
What I gather from what I’ve found, it’s safe to say that hope can get us through the bad stuff in life. However, you’ll need to use your hope to map out a route towards your goal(s), starting with a clear indication of what it is you’d like to achieve. Otherwise, it’d be a bit like hoping to win the lottery and not buying a ticket.
Yes, I saw that episode of My Lottery Dream Home as well, where somebody won because they found a ticket and/or a scratcher, but I don’t want to go into fate/luck/karma blah, blah, blah. Love the show, though!
I feel as if there’s some stigma attached to both hopes and dreams, but I’d like to change that for myself. The shame attached to my daydreaming is someone else’s and not my own. Like in Field of Dreams, or better yet, Wayne’s World II, or the first one (at 9:17 ish);
if I build it, it (or, I, hah) will come. Hope will be my tool.
I hope to see you next Tuesday. Until then, here’s a lyric from a song by a band of my favourite dreamers (link to full song in the YouTube video below):
I’m pretty sure you all knew that I wasn’t going to write about what I hinted at last week, because life happens. Or doesn’t, to be fair. Time is a fickle beast. So, let’s just move on, eh?
Also, this is going to be very, very short.
I have no idea how this song snuck onto my radar as a kid, but I’m going to assume the radio had something to do with it. (If you can’t remember a time where the radio and/or fanzines got you into new shit, this blog is not for you). Regardless of its origin and my disregard of the band’s popularity – and my being the ripe old age of about 12 – I found the song’s lyrics resonated with me in such a way that it’s still a go to for my brain’s playback system whenever I am about to head straight down into the welcoming arms of the great abyss:
Makes sense, doesn’t it? It also makes me think that perhaps that song was one of many reasons I fell in love with running in Edinburgh; whenever I hit one of those milestones PBs, it was on an empty stomach, a monster hangover and an all-encompassing need to knacker myself out in order to deal with everything – and if it wasn’t raining, the morning haar rolling down off the Seat would do the trick.
Also, apologies to any pedestrians along the Porty promenade that may have found themselves in the way of a greetin’ bastard singing along to one of David Hasselhoff’s greatest hits instead of breathing, punding the pavement as if they had any right to be there…
These days, I’d like to think I’ve found better ways to deal with my emotions (or, perhaps having someone teach me how to put certain things into words rather than trying to force them out in the most violent way possible had something to do with it), but very few things will feel as cathartic as a good old cry in the rain.
And it is this that I’d like to dwell on for a bit today, if you may. Because things are bound to happen. Something will remind you of something that impacted you in your youth. I came across a lyric the other day, from one of my favourite songs off of an Alanis Morisette album, that I’d never once thought about before:
And the words moved me, because my one of three reasons for still walking this earth is trying to do things that would make ‘the dreamer‘ (AKA 13yo moi) happy. Something that would make it all worthwhile. And something’s awakened this dreamer and it has left me terrified that all of my attempts to rid the world of my essence will come back to bite me on the arse. I’ve crossed off a big item on my bucket list and I find myself daring to hope it won’t be the only one.
That is all for this week. I’ll see you next Tuesday. If you made it all the way down here, here’s a special treat for you:
“So, how’s the writing going?” he says. And I had to admit that it’s not. At all. “I’ve not done anything productive since [sic]” and instantly I could hear all the excuses I’d been giving myself for the past 6 months, for how I’ve failed to do the one thing I know will give me purpose, accountability, even joy in some weird sense.
You see, when something good happens, hope starts to build. Not even that, maybe just a glimmer of hope triggers something so alien and futile as a new neural path struck in the opposite direction of all the others. So, we choose not to do the things that’ll enable such hapless and fruitless endeavours. Until the next time, of course, something unexpectedly positive in nature comes around and we’re forced to look lady luck in the eye.
After all, what’s more terrifying than going after the holy grail knowing you’ve got an actual winning chance?
If you’re taught, early on, that disappointment is inevitable due to your existence alone, you’re no doubt better off trying to shield yourself from the things that seem unequivocally and genuinely good. And your scepticism would be coming from a place of experience, that good things only happen to other people and not to you. We’re meant to contribute to the greater good by making sure others will both have and eat all of the bukkake. Or, was it cake? Who knows – not a fan of either. But the one certainty is that self-indulgence of any kind is not only wrong, but so wrong that it takes away from the so-called greater good. Which is why completing the one thing that would show others that you’re motivated by the one good thing that actually did happen, despite your lack of trying and incessant efforts to burn all bridges, becomes a reminder of how guilty you should feel for recognising even the slightest flicker of self-worth.
Why is hope such a dangerous thing, when hurt is the feeling you know best? Perhaps it’s because you already know that, when you allow yourself to feel hopeful, you set yourself up for even more chances of finding those small pockets of happiness. But not only by chance, but with actual effort. And, if that were to go away after having had the chance to get used to it, the inevitable hurt at the end of it would be such that we could not even stand to bare it. So we do our best to stop the good things from happening, just to avoid the extreme pain of potentially becoming rejected by something we actually wanted for once.
Hope and epistemology are, to me, interlinked by the fact that they both relate to expectation. The latter may be more science-based than the former, but it’s all about being able to envision realistic outcomes based on your experience. I may not be the biggest fan of Socrates’ biggest fluffer, but I do think he ‘d know exactly what I’m getting at here. Arguably, without Plato we wouldn’t even know about Socrates. Famously, Plato never spoke in his own voice in his dialogues, yet he seemed to understand the importance of his own role in bringing forth the messages of them. Double-edged swords and all that.
I’m not sure what’s brought this philosophical babble on, it might have been a discussion I had earlier today about the theory of the Id and the Ego being excuses for horrible personality traits that you don’t want to acknowledge, and I may or may not write a word or two on that soon. But not tonight. It is far too late and I seem to have decided that I’m going to try to not sabotage tomorrow for myself just yet.
I’ll see you next Tuesday. Until then, let’s all just remind ourselves that good things can happen and that it’s okay to hope – maybe not fully expect, but certainly dare to hope – for some things to work out in our favour too. And not only despite our best efforts to stop them from doing just that.
I’m not quite sure how, but we’re at the end of another month. I’ve been waiting for Summer and now it’s almost gone before I’ve fully realised we’re in it. (Shockingly, I can be more preoccupied with analysing past mistakes than living in the moment).
Last week, however, I got the chance to go to a festival I’d otherwise be reading about in the papers. Not only did I get to see a bunch of brilliant bands (Alice Cooper, Anthrax, Accept, Death to All, to name a few), but I got to leave my laptop behind and experience the outside world – turns out I’d forgotten about all of the good eggs breathing the same air as me. Now, don’t try to picture an egg breathing.
It’s funny how anything meaningful tends to turn to shit when you’re busy staring into the abyss.
Regardless, the whole experience sort of opened my eyes to how this mystical festival realm/alternate reality became a platform for reconstructing a few bridges that I’d feared were long burned beyond repair. Turns out, an apology really does go a long way. You can read more about friendship stuff in a few of my other posts, but I think this one needs to stay a little philosophical, somewhat hopeful (yet, still, consistently anxious). The lack of any rants or verbal incontinence in this post might serve as keys to its incredible shortness, but the same can be said for my return to the living (however brief it may be).
Turns out, with the likelihood of unlikely friendships, even a thistle in all its spiky glory can experience being part of the universe’s many symbioses.
See you next Tuesday. Until then, go see a gig this weekend. Do something for you and fuck everyone else (maybe not in the carnal sense, but if you do; use protection) – I find it’s when you prioritise yourself that the good stuff happens. Also, if you find yourself in the south-eastern part of Norway, you should take yourself to Rockstream festivalnear Tønsberg. It’s gonna be a good’un. And you just might see a familiar face on stage Saturday night.
