My reblog for this week is an interview with singer-songwriter Emily Kopp – haven’t heard of her? Neither had I before today, but she’s definitely worth a wider audience, so let’s spread the word!
Recommendation
So Many Lives To Live
“To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.”
—Oscar Wilde
So many lives inside of me, competing for attention, wanting to be the one at the forefront.
I’m not talking about the ones that nearly came to be, those roads almost taken at the various crossroads of my life – I’m talking about the yearnings and desires that were never realized; I’m talking about the ideas and dreams formed in childhood. Over the years there have been so many things I’ve wanted to do and be that have no hope of coexisting.
Don’t get me wrong, I like where I am.
Sitting here with my strong morning coffee, surrounded by notebooks and sheets of paper filled with works in progress and ideas, listening to angry outlaw country (yes, you read that correctly – I’m a man of quite eclectic, eccentric taste) I’m thankful. Thankful for having the opportunity to live my life the way I do and having the luxury to so freely choose how I spend my time. But choice isn’t always easy. I’ve had a weird life, with many twists and turns, though always anchored to the same place. Several opportunities for significant change have presented themselves and then passed by, leaving me behind in the dust, wondering where to go next.
Once more, I find myself at the crossroads.
I’ve been here time and time again during my life, pausing to consider which path to take next – where to go and what to do – thinking maybe this time I’ll stick around, wait for that black man and see what he has to offer. My soul has always been here, poised before the next step and waiting for the opportune moment. My heart has always been somewhere else, yearning for what I don’t have. My body stands torn between the two, eternally at unrest, never lingering, never choosing just one path.
It’s been years since I took this long waiting.
I probably already know where I need to go now – I’ve been working toward this for my entire life, after all. There’s just so many alternatives, and so many footpaths that lead in the same general direction. In choosing one, I forsake all the others. At least for the immediate future. I could go anywhere, with anyone, and still do what I want to do. The where, how and who of it all doesn’t really matter to my dreams. My opinions are wide open and I could choose to live almost any life I can imagine. Many of them are so very tempting, would realize parts of myself that have been starving for years. It’s not easy, suppressing all those parts of yourself, leaving all those alternate lives unlived. There are so many lives for me to live, yet I can only choose one.
Maybe that’s why I need to write.
- Read – The Master and Margarita; Mikhail Bulgakov
- Watch – Faust; F. W. Murnau
- Listen – Crossroads; Calvin Russell
Coffee and Heartbreak
“Believe me when I tell you: Life will not break your heart, it’ll crush it.”
―Henry Rollins
Things end, and there is preciously little we can do to prevent it.
Once again I find myself at the end of something; in a place of transition. Changes are happening at the coffee shop I’ve frequented for the past 8-9 years. The new manager is making stupid decisions, relocating and firing some of the best, most hard working people on such tenuous grounds that it seems impossible to not see it as a personal vendetta.
One of the people who has to go happens to be one of my best friends, and her case in particular has been handled with such sloppiness that I simply cannot ignore it. Now, I have a choice to make. Do I continue to give the coffee shop my – not insignificant – business, or do I find another way to get my caffeine fix? I’m leaning toward the latter.
For one, having already lost four of my favorite baristas and now losing two more, frequenting the establishment won’t be as joyful as it once was. Also, keeping up a happy face to the manager is not going to happen – my sense of loyalty forbids me – and as a regular it really helps if you get along with the proprietor. But it’s not an easy choice to make.
Coffee shops hold a very special place in modern life.
For the creative of us, they have become nearly religion – I know many people who work out of them, balancing privacy and social life, income and expense, familiarity and change of scenery. They are so much more than a place to go buy coffee – they are a place for dates, pit stops during busy days, breaks and relaxations, study and work. They are life and romance and friendship.
Back when coffee first reached Europe, men would go to coffee shops to discuss politics and business and philosophy. In the 19th century, they increasingly became the gathering place for local artists and writers – along with pubs and cafés that served absinth, of course. Many artists and thinkers have turned to coffee as their drug of choice over the centuries – Voltaire and Balzac are reported to have imbibed over 50 cups a day, at their worst (or their best, maybe), and both Bach and Beethoven were big coffee drinkers.
This particular coffee shop has really been my home away from home for the past seven years. I’ve seen seven managers and scores of baristas come and go; I’ve made several friends and many more acquaintances; I’m known by staff and regulars alike and I have never once been mistreated. Even though the recent rebuilding took away part of it’s charm, and even though stricter policy from the main office and the new management has further dampened the atmosphere, it is still part of me. I was there first.
At a modest count, I’ve spent over 4,000 hours at that café – talking, writing, drawing, laughing, crying, meeting new people and old friends. I’ve given it more business than I care to admit, but it and its staff have given me so much in return. I know its workings in and out and I’ve even helped out with things on occasion. This current turn of events make me angry, sad, upset and even hurt.
Regardless of where I go now, it will be with a heavy heart.
I do not particularly like change – at least not when it is forced upon me. However, I do realize that it is a necessary part of life – without change there will be no growth, no progress. And we need progress, all of us. And come to think of it…
How much progress in this world has not been fueled by coffee?
- Read- The Pleasures and Pains of Coffee; Honoré de Balzac
- Watch – Coffee and Cigarettes; Jim Jarmusch
- Listen – Have a Nice Day; Mindy McCready
Stock photo by Dannie
Semicolon;
“Your mind is a dangerous neighbourhood and you shouldn’t go in there at night.”
—Christiane Northrup
;
Dear Reader, today is World Suicide Prevention Day.
Every 40 seconds, someone dies from suicide. Many more attempt it and survive. It is the second leading cause of death for people in the ages 15-29. I know all too many people who have been affected by the tragedy of suicide in some way: those who are left behind, those who have tried and survived, those who deal with the scene afterward, and even those who have been used as a means to that end. Like myself.
In my day job as a train driver, suicide is a constant unwelcome companion. Many of my friends and colleagues have had the misfortune of being involved in someone’s attempt on their own life, and I have been there myself – the involuntary instrument of a suicide. You learn to live with it; you learn to cope. It changes you. There are several reasons why there’s been so many posts on this topic here on my blog, but that is one. I live with it’s shadow hanging over me, in one form or another. I speak about it and joke about it and think about it. When I was young and depressed, I even entertained the thought of doing it myself. I probably never will, so no need to worry – that was in the past.
In my life as an artist and creative person, suicide is also present, but in another way. Artists have a higher risk of mental illnesses and with it, a higher risk of suicide – be they musicians, painters, writers, actors or whatever. I have many friends, acquaintances and role models who are artists and who struggle with depression or other difficulties. Some have tried to kill themselves in the past, some succeeded. Some will likely try in the future. You learn to cope with that as well. It, too, changes you.
We speak too little of depression and mental illness in our society. People who succumb to those kinds of problems are deemed weak or not taken seriously. They get told to shape up, that it’s all in their head, that it’s just a slump. They feel alone, outcast and not taken seriously. There’s a man in the public eye that I admire, Joe Pantoliano – you may know him from The Sopranos, The Matrix, and a whole slew of other movies and TV shows. He has struggled with depression for years, and to try and ease up on the stigma and taboo associated with mental illness he started No Kidding? Me too! – an organization aiming to open a dialogue about mental illness and remove the stigma surrounding it.
Another organization I admire is To Write Love On Her Arms – they are a non-profit organization trying to spread hope to those suffering from depression, drug abuse, mental illness and suicidal thoughts, as well as invest in treatment and recovery. They’ve been around for 8 years now, and have grown to This year, they are doing a big campaign for suicide prevention: ‘No One Else Can Play Your Part’. Their influence and renown is spreading, in part thanks to artists and others wearing their t-shirts and spreading knowledge about them.
Both of those groups are local, but spreading out internationally.
The title of this post comes from The Semicolon Project – a group that lies even closer to my heart. They have taken the semicolon ; as their symbol, signifying that a semicolon marks the place where an author chose to continue when he could have ended the sentence. Think what you will about the use and misuse of semicolons, but I think that this is a beautiful thought. This has created a growing practice of tattooing – or drawing – a semicolon on one’s body as a symbol of suicide awareness and prevention.
If I could, I would have loved to show you my own semicolon tattoo, but I haven’t got one yet. If things go according to plan I will incorporate one into the design I’m currently working on.
I know it can be difficult being friends with someone who suffers from mental illness. If you are a friend, though, make that effort. You don’t have to solve their problems or feel you are responsible for saving their lives – just be a friend. Often, just knowing that there’s someone there who won’t judge is enough. Someone who won’t abandon you, even when you feel you are worthless and only in the way. One person truly can make a difference, so if you know someone who is struggling, say something – talk to them; offer help and support to them; be there when they need you.
And if you are really thinking about committing suicide, talk to someone – to someone close to you, or to a complete stranger on the phone or online. Hell – talk to me, even;
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Suicide Prevention Hotlines
Canada & US; National Suicide Prevention Lifeline – 1-800-273-TALK (8255)
Sweden; Nationella Hjälplinjen (open 13-22) – 020-22 00 60
Sweden; Jourhavande Medmänniska (open 21-06) – 08-702 16 80
UK; HOPELine – 0800-068 41 41
Normal?
“Normality is a paved road: It’s comfortable to walk, but no flowers grow on it.”
—Vincent van Gogh
What is ‘normal’ anyway?
When I was young, one of my biggest fears was being stuck in a ‘normal’ life, being a ‘normal’ person. I’ve often been – and mostly seen myself as – an outcast and something of a loner. Despite this didn’t use to see my life as especially different or abnormal. Sure, I’ve been viewed as a bit weird and eccentric – but that was just me, not the life I lived. It was basically dull, normal, doing mostly what everyone else did. I went through school with fairly average grades, spent some time unemployed and jumping between different jobs before sticking with one in commuter traffic. My spare time was divided between nerdier activities – games, comics, literature, culture – and social activities like going to clubs and parties. I made friends, went through a series of failed relationships, went on trips. Nothing major.
The first time I really started reflecting on my life was when a colleague and I was out drinking, talking about our past. He was multilingual and had lived in several corners of the world as a child, and I thought it must’ve been exciting and different. We traded experiences, and about half-way through the evening he was sitting slack-jawed, shaking his head and told me “you should write a book about this!”. I kind of laughed it off, saying it was the life that was normal to me and it wasn’t all that. We kept talking and when we parted ways he put his hand on my shoulder, looked into my eyes and said:
“I’m serious Thomas, you should write that book.”
For a long time after that I thought about my life and my experiences, trying to see what he saw. Other people came into my life, making similar comments, and I started thinking that maybe there was actually something to their comments. Often I shook, my head, thinking that it was just because it was different from their lives, not because it was special at all. I trudged on through the ups and downs of my life, finding comfort and recognition in books and movies and television. Further encouragement from friends had me making notes about my life, making me realize that I have been living several fairly different lives simultaneously, and that not even my closest friends had the full story.’
Recently – for the past three years or so – I’ve done a lot of soul searching, trying to figure out where I want my life to go. In the midst of all this I’ve come to realize that the view I’ve had of myself might not be what other people see. Dear Reader, I’ve had three moments of epiphany during this time. One was in dating a woman, quite a colorful character at that, who told me that I was ‘so different and exciting’; one was describing a scene from Californication to a friend, where I saw characters and events I could relate to and he saw unreal and weird. The third was doing a stupid internet test where I had to say what role I filled in the circle of my closest friends, and finding that the only role I could realistically choose was ‘the party animal’. Me! That is pretty much the opposite of what I’ve seen myself as. I thought I was a loner and book-worm. I’m not.
Normal is only that which we are used to.
My life seems dull and normal compared the more extreme characters I’ve known throughout my life (and there’s been a few…), but comparing to how most people live their lives mine has been anything but. So, you may ask, will I ever write the book my friend told me to? Maybe. I’m just not sure how to do it without stepping on toes, embarrassing people, and raising all kinds of questions from those who know me.
I’m not sure I’m ready to expose myself and those I care about like that – yet…
- Read – The Kindly Ones; Jonathan Littell
- Watch – CARGO; Ben Howling & Yolanda Ramke
- Listen – Time Has Told Me; Nick Drake
The End of Summer
”If you do what you’ve always done, you’ll get what you’ve always gotten.”
—Russian Proverb
Summer is drawing to a close.
The past three months have been something of a roller coaster ride for me, Dear Reader. At the start of summer I had one of my dearest friends living with me, playing havoc with my previous lazy lack of routine and minding my own, giving me time and structure enough to become more active here on my blog and other social media. I took the opportunity to finish some short stories, create some art, humbly almost-not-promoting myself and my online presence. Despite injury, battling inner demons and failing to maintain the routine my lodger so graciously bestowed upon me, I have managed to go from two blog posts a week to a loosely upheld goal of five.
During the past month alone my readers here have doubled, my followers on twitter tripled, and I’ve made new friends, acquaintances and contacts. My list of projects and assignments have grown and I’m sending out work for consideration on a more frequent basis. I now have something resembling a viable plan – perhaps a tad too ambitious since there’s at least one goal I fail to uphold each week, but it is better to aim higher than we can reach. How else will we grow tall enough to get where we want to be?
But, Dear Reader, I must apologize: I only managed to hold on to my promised weekly routine for exactly…one week. There will be no sketch of the week this week. The truth is I have spent very little time at home, focusing on friends and social activities instead of creative work. It was sorely needed after my previous week of near-isolation. Consequently, I do not have much more to say right now, but I hope to be more entertaining next week!
Lastly, a heartfelt welcome to my new readers – and of course a big thank you to those who return week after week to follow my aimless ramblings with the hope of seeing something worthwhile…
- Read – Whitstable; Stephen Volk
- Watch – Hearts in Atlantis; Scott Hicks
- Listen – Broken Bicycles; Tom Waits
Scars
“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.”
―Khalil Gibran
We’ve all got scars – on the inside, if not on the outside.
It’s been a rough week. I thought long and hard about what I wanted to write about – decisions, depression, death – but I want to try and end this week on a more upbeat note. I know, Dear Reader – scars aren’t the most upbeat of subjects, hence the more part.
Lately, I have been spending a lot of time in self chosen isolation, pondering my life and what I have to deal with. As I wrote last week I’ve begun (or rather restarted) a difficult project that has me revisiting a lot of painful memories – wounds inside of me that have yet to heal. I’m hoping that by end of this I will have turned them into new scars instead. Scars are a good thing, really – they are proof that we have healed and recovered, stronger than what was before we were wounded. Every scar comes with it’s own story and it’s own lessons, helping to shape who we are. Many cultures have used scarring in one form or another as rites of passage; proof that the person carrying them has matured into a new role – as an adult, as a member of a certain tribe, to fulfill a certain function in society.
Scars have power.
Most of my scars have been on the inside, until recently. As part of my healing process – and as a rite of passage of sorts – I chose to display my inner scars on my skins in the form of a tattoo (a small part of which you can see above). That step has really helped me work through things and move forward, a visualized turning point in my life.
Regardless of what wounds we have suffered in our lives – physical or psychological – the important thing is that we have survived them. We’ve dealt with the pain, gone through the healing process, and we’ve moved on. We’ve changed. In some cases it has made us stronger, in other cases weaker, but in all cases it has made us wiser and more experienced.
So whether you show them or hide them, whether they are on your body or on your soul or both, be proud of your scars. They helped make you who you are.
- Read – A Grief Observed; C. S. Lewis
- Watch – Gran Torino; Clint Eastwood
- Listen – If I Ever Leave This World Alive; Flogging Molly
Into Darkness…
“The more suffering that I go through, the greater character I’ll have. “
―Mindy McCready
I crashed – big time.
After weeks of inadequate sleep – induced by heat waves, back problems, thunder storms, alcohol and exploring some of the darker tunnels of my mind – my body finally gave up. Coming home yesterday I took a nap on the couch and woke up with a headache. Figuring dehydration and sleep deprivation, I drank a fair amount of water, made some food and settled back on the couch to doze off to the first season of my favorite show. I barely managed to finish my meal before the headache escalated to migraine levels, cold sweat broke out on my brow and nausea kicked in. An hour or two and multiple rushed trips from the couch to the bathroom floor and back, I drifted off.
For the first few hours, sleep was interrupted by feverish dreams and threats of having to run to the toilet again, as well as the 30 second loop of dvd menu soundbite. I regained coherency long enough to mute the tv, move the wet towel from my face to the table and pull some blankets over my still shivering-but-sweating body, then I passed out.
Seven or so hours later the alarms in my bedroom roused me from sleep. Stumbling in there and turning them off, I passed out on the bed instead and slept heavily for another three hours.
Today I feel rested but weak – my insides too big for my body, my brain not quite wanting to cooperate.
I have managed a bit of thinking between yesterday and today though, and I found what I was looking for in the recesses of my mind: the splinter that has been poking at me for eighteen months now. I still have no place to put it down, therefore I will create that place. This will be a difficult process Dear Reader, so please bear with me – I will spend a lot of time in this darkness. I’m far from seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, but I am fairly certain I know the way back out. I have 113 days. I’ll get there.
Now, I have work to do.
- Read – What Dreams May Come; Richard Matheson
- Watch – Leaving Las Vegas; Mike Figgis
- Listen – Storm Inside of You; Veronica Ballestrini
