Lions are growing.
And here’s some Facebook-generated esoterica:
- Which Greek God am I? Zeus:
You are Zeus, the king of the gods. Zeus is a mighty and powerful ruler, who likes to be in charge. He doesn’t let anyone mess with him, or he brings out his thunderbolt.
- What is the color of my aura? Purple:
Your aura is purple. You’re eccentric with your style and do not like to conform. You seek great things and significance in life and are a natural born leader.
- A Theoretical: Is He Your Soulmate? (more on this later)
Earlier in the day, TiVo offered up an episode of SNL to satisfy Sam’s â€œFEY, TINAâ€ Wish List. All well and good, but a land mine was planted right in front of the sofa: SNLâ€™s musical guest? Keane. Keane performing â€œSomewhere Only We Knowâ€. I do not know how it affected Sam; I could not bring myself to do anything but busy myself with nonsense (enter Facebook) until the song played itself out. Still, without realizing the exact point at which I’d begun to sing the song, the land mine made itself known and knocked me out of my minimalist mental context: silent running.
Another land mine, though this one was impotent, a dud which failed its purpose: one of the banished â€˜pupsâ€™ dared attempt to contact me after repeated demands of no-contact. On my birthday. No surprise. Subject? â€œIt’s too late to apologizeâ€ Content? A tragic attempt at grand apologia, only to expose its true purpose: â€œ…Not trying or expecting to make amends or anything, I just would hate to die knowing that I never said I was sorry…â€. If you don’t recall my opinion on genuine apology, go read it again. I’m Zeus, remember? I can ordain. An apology isn’t an apology when itâ€™s self-serving. I have a purple aura, remember? I am eccentric, nonconformist. Pursuit of great things by a natural born leader leaves no time for trivialities.
It is a hallmark of each and every â€˜pupâ€™ to ignore boundaries and pee on the carpets. Attempts both simplistically obvious and inanely bumbling to turn that Someplace Only We Knew into chew toys and puppy chow for their own base self-absorption I would never permit. Still, I have just now come to realize that only Pavlovian tactics and rolled up newspapers rapping on noses would have been simple enough and would have saved me quite a lot of time.
To this end, and to end this, I’ll ignore boundaries; I’ll impolitely soil the carpetings; I’ll grab my blog, roll it up and make a final attempt at instruction. Here, in all its self-serving glory, is the entire epistle:
From: Justin Green
Subject: “it’s too late to apologize”
But you deserve an apology. I’m sorry I was such a dick to you, and for all of the ways and times I was. Not trying or expecting to make amends or anything, I just would hate to die knowing that I never said I was sorry.
I hope you’re doing well. I broke up with Nathan, I’m back in therapy, and I’m trying to be a better person.
You helped me realize I wasn’t being a very good one. I’m sorry that I hurt you in the process.
Take care of yourself…
Are you uncomfortable reading someone else’s â€œprivateâ€ email? You should be because that’s the right reaction. Am I uncomfortable posting a private email? Of course, but I’ll live because it ended it. And Justin has dispatched with a boilerplate â€˜sorryâ€™ before his life is over, so he can check that one off his Earl list.
All of this brings me back, by way of seismic contrast, to that Theoretical: the Soul Mate question from a nonsense Facebook â€œapplicationâ€. I am single now. Not blessedly so, not by choice, but by necessity, by fiat, by simple fact. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that in life sometimes one just has to feel bad for a while, that in life sometimes conflict is not only healthy, but necessary, that absolution is not earned but merely offered. But often fear and timorousness occlude these simple notions. Some people just don’t have the mettle. The rest don’t have my respect.
I am single. I have no soul mate. I have myself, blessedly incomplete, a soul acting as vessel for universal energy and as drop cloth for bled-out, emotionally poisonous leachate.
But to throw the cosmic dice and create a new opportunity for understanding through unworthy means, I chose Allen as the man to test against as soul mate material. Facebook is a weird place (and yes, I do my part to make it that way).
But that final land mine, the one whose cold purpose delivered merciless violence, was Question 4 in the â€œSoul Mateâ€ quiz:
How do you see what you two want from life? Life. For him. On the same page, indeed. Wasn’t that easy? For the record, the quiz offered this:
You are perfect soul mates. You balance each other perfectly and are on the same life track. Your personalities are fitting puzzle pieces and he fills your needs and you fill his. You are meant to be.
That’s when the crying and wishing started and wouldn’t stop. Simple answers are the most brutal. Insipid questions don’t deserve truth, but truth’s brutality often obliges anyway.
It seems the fashion, the accepted behaviorâ€”more so than everâ€”that brutal truths are best handled by blanketing them with shallow lies and plausible deniability, by body doubles and clever CGI or other tricks of light. Livable worlds require the creature comfort of being able to suppress and forget and turn away from unpalatable truths.
I was never fashionable, and in the face of Brutal Truths like death the world seems populated ever more with liars. Fashionable, shallow coverups making bad copies of themselves: the world becomes choked with liars who can plausibly deny themselves and their own cowardice.
Eyes opened by Brutal Truths can never be fully closed to them again. And not for not trying, but the inexorable conclusion comes to this: the unclouded eye is best, and courage rises to purpose in times of need.
Liars Everywhere by Toad the Wet Sprocket
here in my mind is a wall i can’t climb
don’t listen now
there are liars everywhere
deep in my heart is a stone i must cut
don’t listen now
there are liars everywhere
liars are everywhere