House About That
On the web longer than most of my peers, but the last to get a blog. When they started getting popular, I scoffed at the idea; it was an oversimplification of the personal website. Goodbye custom code, creativity, and individuality. Hello templates, me-too features, and banal blatherings. My reconciliation is not complete. But I am more and more worried about detachment from my old friends. I don’t talk to them as often as I should, though I stalk their websites diligently when taking a coffee break at work. And then there is my graphomania.
The only part left was the all-important debut post. And now it has ripened.
This morning I was on the verge of breaking shit in a stammering rage. Shit went sour. For a couple of months, I’ve been working at buying a house. Doing research, making plans, meeting with people, making financial decisions. You know, grown-up stuff. The final version of the plan had me and my co-borrowing coworker comrade buying the house, and two of my friends renting the other rooms: cohabiting. Cock-up. The renters bailed, after having led me on this entire time.
The internet is like a shitty girlfriend. You can get some amusement out of it, largely of erotic nature. You can meet people through it, who are sometimes wonderful and sometimes worthless. Finally, you can dump your emotional frustrations on it. You can also proclaim your love for it. Yay interweb.
I was, am, and will be pissed off. I’ve seen people be flaky before, but this truly took it to a professional level. I’ve had weekend plans ruined by it, but not 5-year fucking mortgage plans. Perhaps I was too trusting. I had repeated verbal affirmations that I would have renters in the house, and with those affirmations behind me, I engaged in the tedious, stressful house-buying process.
I researched, read. Got advice from friends, family, and colleagues. Hired a wonderful, hard-working real-estate agent. I took damage to my credit score to apply for several mortgages. I sold all of my stocks to have cash for the down-payment. Took time off work to go look at houses. Eliot - whom I convinced that the process would pay off - acted analogously. Sure, I had my doubts. It worried me to be tying myself down like that, to be giving up so much money all at once, to commit to something so responsible and long-term. But I convinced myself that it was worth it; I would be living with three of my friends, having parties every weekend just like in college, and hey – I could save a little money in the end as well!
Then we found The House. And we got The Loan. Braced our quivering knees, took a deep breath, adopted masculine facial expressions, and resolved ourselves. That was yesterday, this is today. The renters bailed, we can’t afford the house without their contribution, and all our work and stress have been for nothing.
How does Vladimir’s mind work? Is he a bold risk-taker? Shy or just bitter? A calculated schemer? A scatterbrained dreamer drunk with wanderlust?
In the shower this morning, I was furious. Imagine shampooing and conditioning in a rage. It’s not a pretty picture. Good thing I didn’t reach for my Soviet-made skin-scalping loofa.
It occurred to me then, as it often does, that life is a lot like climbing. Trusting people is like trusting your gear. Sometimes you place bomber gear, sometimes marginal, sometimes something that you’re not sure will hold an ant, but it’s the only thing you have. But you don’t fall on every piece of gear! Through your personal virtue as a climber, you’re able to avoid frequent falls. You train so that you can climb faster and longer. But in climbing, you also push your limits. And if you do so, you will fall. And when you fall, the gear you place undergoes the ultimate test. Some pieces will hold no matter how big the fall, no matter from which angle, no matter how many times. How many people like this will we know during our lifetime? Other pieces are marginal, and you, having placed them, dread the chance of falling on them. Yet other pieces were placed with the sole intention of holding body weight, but not a fall. Then again, you could be one of those climbers who avoid all risk, and the only weight their gear ever feels is when they’re hanging their food bag on it. I’m not really talking about climbing anymore.
My initial backlash was like that of having a woman cheat on you. You trusted, you believed, you made decisions, plans, and commitments, and then – poof – thanks for playing, better luck next time. After this stage, it’s important to play some appropriate music. Myself at a loss, I let Windows Media Player’s shuffle functionality do the deejaying. It did not disappoint. After some driven Russian rock by DDT about basically playing the hand that’s dealt to you, it chose to play a power-chorded, operatic song by Meat Loaf. Screw the corny image, that man has some serious chops.
There’s a party raging somewhere in the world
You gotta serve your country, gotta service your girl
You’re all enlisted in the army of the niiiiiiiiiiight
And I have one of the prettiest girls around. Too bad she’s hundreds of miles away.
By the time I was getting into my car to go to work, the frustration was receding. It was facing the one opposing ideology that it never had a chance against. Existential nihilism, the old reliable hound that is always ready at the call, who can lick any son of a bitch in this bar, was caressing my mind with its cool, familiar breeze.
There is no sobriety like it.
There is no intoxication like it.
Many people have trouble understanding how existentialism can lead to optimism. They understand the despair all right, but they don’t see a way out of it. I’ve attempted to explain it to people before, but I don’t think I convinced anybody. I don’t think I’ll be able to adequately explain it this time either, but it doesn’t hurt to try.
Bear with me. I assure you that I’m not goth, emo, or a great lover of Sartre.
Imagine yourself in that dark abyss that is existence. There is nothing superficial. No society, no comforting schools of thought, no way out of your mortality, nothing to corroborate aspirations. Not even Baby Jesus. You are alone, you’re not feeling that great, and it kind of stinks of shit and decay. You despair. Presumably, for quite a while. Your eyes adjust to the darkness. You feel something besides despair. Something that you know is important, something you’re too afraid to name. What you’re feeling is freedom. Animal freedom. You’re too afraid to face it, because – face it – you don’t want to admit that you’re just an animal, do you? No, you have principles, ethics, a family. A family? Sorry, not in the abyss, that’s not how the game goes. But maybe you’re on to something with that principles thing. Despite realizing your absolute freedom, you are using that freak of evolution, that unlikely mutation – your higher order brain. But it’s not laden with external restrictions, because hey, there aren’t any in the abyss! The only restrictions are your own. And here, where nothing matters, where you’ll eventually wither and the damp earth will accept you with no ceremony, like it does all its children, here, you can pick and choose your restrictions to your own liking. Which is, I should note, a dangerous thing, because some people are assholes.
And now, when you’re in this lucid state of mind, the abyss disappears and you’re back in our multicolored, bright world, full of flavors and people. There are mountains looming on the horizon, bunnies are fucking in the forests, humans are doing all sorts of curious things with their oversized brains, there are buildings full of books, there are buildings full of art, networks full of packets, there are oceans full of fish, and the colors, so many colors! And you move through it all with a new sense of wonder. You learned in the abyss that all these people and all these bunnies will rot away without a trace, and yet you’re so glad that they’re here now, for you to touch, interact with, study. You walk through the world as if it is a static exhibit presented for your amusement, and you’re careful not to disturb it too much, knowing just how fragile it is. And you’re careful not to talk about your experience in the abyss too much – partly because you covet the power that it gave to you, and partly because it seems like a lot of people are doing just fine anyway. This second illusion fades as soon as you imagine one of these people passing time with the toothed, clawed beings that live in the darkness. Or maybe you choose to flex your freedom and reshape the world with it. But right now, I’m happy just admiring.
Welcome to my blog, you beautiful butterfly you.
The only part left was the all-important debut post. And now it has ripened.
This morning I was on the verge of breaking shit in a stammering rage. Shit went sour. For a couple of months, I’ve been working at buying a house. Doing research, making plans, meeting with people, making financial decisions. You know, grown-up stuff. The final version of the plan had me and my co-borrowing coworker comrade buying the house, and two of my friends renting the other rooms: cohabiting. Cock-up. The renters bailed, after having led me on this entire time.
The internet is like a shitty girlfriend. You can get some amusement out of it, largely of erotic nature. You can meet people through it, who are sometimes wonderful and sometimes worthless. Finally, you can dump your emotional frustrations on it. You can also proclaim your love for it. Yay interweb.
I was, am, and will be pissed off. I’ve seen people be flaky before, but this truly took it to a professional level. I’ve had weekend plans ruined by it, but not 5-year fucking mortgage plans. Perhaps I was too trusting. I had repeated verbal affirmations that I would have renters in the house, and with those affirmations behind me, I engaged in the tedious, stressful house-buying process.
I researched, read. Got advice from friends, family, and colleagues. Hired a wonderful, hard-working real-estate agent. I took damage to my credit score to apply for several mortgages. I sold all of my stocks to have cash for the down-payment. Took time off work to go look at houses. Eliot - whom I convinced that the process would pay off - acted analogously. Sure, I had my doubts. It worried me to be tying myself down like that, to be giving up so much money all at once, to commit to something so responsible and long-term. But I convinced myself that it was worth it; I would be living with three of my friends, having parties every weekend just like in college, and hey – I could save a little money in the end as well!
Then we found The House. And we got The Loan. Braced our quivering knees, took a deep breath, adopted masculine facial expressions, and resolved ourselves. That was yesterday, this is today. The renters bailed, we can’t afford the house without their contribution, and all our work and stress have been for nothing.
How does Vladimir’s mind work? Is he a bold risk-taker? Shy or just bitter? A calculated schemer? A scatterbrained dreamer drunk with wanderlust?
In the shower this morning, I was furious. Imagine shampooing and conditioning in a rage. It’s not a pretty picture. Good thing I didn’t reach for my Soviet-made skin-scalping loofa.
It occurred to me then, as it often does, that life is a lot like climbing. Trusting people is like trusting your gear. Sometimes you place bomber gear, sometimes marginal, sometimes something that you’re not sure will hold an ant, but it’s the only thing you have. But you don’t fall on every piece of gear! Through your personal virtue as a climber, you’re able to avoid frequent falls. You train so that you can climb faster and longer. But in climbing, you also push your limits. And if you do so, you will fall. And when you fall, the gear you place undergoes the ultimate test. Some pieces will hold no matter how big the fall, no matter from which angle, no matter how many times. How many people like this will we know during our lifetime? Other pieces are marginal, and you, having placed them, dread the chance of falling on them. Yet other pieces were placed with the sole intention of holding body weight, but not a fall. Then again, you could be one of those climbers who avoid all risk, and the only weight their gear ever feels is when they’re hanging their food bag on it. I’m not really talking about climbing anymore.
My initial backlash was like that of having a woman cheat on you. You trusted, you believed, you made decisions, plans, and commitments, and then – poof – thanks for playing, better luck next time. After this stage, it’s important to play some appropriate music. Myself at a loss, I let Windows Media Player’s shuffle functionality do the deejaying. It did not disappoint. After some driven Russian rock by DDT about basically playing the hand that’s dealt to you, it chose to play a power-chorded, operatic song by Meat Loaf. Screw the corny image, that man has some serious chops.
There’s a party raging somewhere in the world
You gotta serve your country, gotta service your girl
You’re all enlisted in the army of the niiiiiiiiiiight
And I have one of the prettiest girls around. Too bad she’s hundreds of miles away.
By the time I was getting into my car to go to work, the frustration was receding. It was facing the one opposing ideology that it never had a chance against. Existential nihilism, the old reliable hound that is always ready at the call, who can lick any son of a bitch in this bar, was caressing my mind with its cool, familiar breeze.
There is no sobriety like it.
There is no intoxication like it.
Many people have trouble understanding how existentialism can lead to optimism. They understand the despair all right, but they don’t see a way out of it. I’ve attempted to explain it to people before, but I don’t think I convinced anybody. I don’t think I’ll be able to adequately explain it this time either, but it doesn’t hurt to try.
Bear with me. I assure you that I’m not goth, emo, or a great lover of Sartre.
Imagine yourself in that dark abyss that is existence. There is nothing superficial. No society, no comforting schools of thought, no way out of your mortality, nothing to corroborate aspirations. Not even Baby Jesus. You are alone, you’re not feeling that great, and it kind of stinks of shit and decay. You despair. Presumably, for quite a while. Your eyes adjust to the darkness. You feel something besides despair. Something that you know is important, something you’re too afraid to name. What you’re feeling is freedom. Animal freedom. You’re too afraid to face it, because – face it – you don’t want to admit that you’re just an animal, do you? No, you have principles, ethics, a family. A family? Sorry, not in the abyss, that’s not how the game goes. But maybe you’re on to something with that principles thing. Despite realizing your absolute freedom, you are using that freak of evolution, that unlikely mutation – your higher order brain. But it’s not laden with external restrictions, because hey, there aren’t any in the abyss! The only restrictions are your own. And here, where nothing matters, where you’ll eventually wither and the damp earth will accept you with no ceremony, like it does all its children, here, you can pick and choose your restrictions to your own liking. Which is, I should note, a dangerous thing, because some people are assholes.
And now, when you’re in this lucid state of mind, the abyss disappears and you’re back in our multicolored, bright world, full of flavors and people. There are mountains looming on the horizon, bunnies are fucking in the forests, humans are doing all sorts of curious things with their oversized brains, there are buildings full of books, there are buildings full of art, networks full of packets, there are oceans full of fish, and the colors, so many colors! And you move through it all with a new sense of wonder. You learned in the abyss that all these people and all these bunnies will rot away without a trace, and yet you’re so glad that they’re here now, for you to touch, interact with, study. You walk through the world as if it is a static exhibit presented for your amusement, and you’re careful not to disturb it too much, knowing just how fragile it is. And you’re careful not to talk about your experience in the abyss too much – partly because you covet the power that it gave to you, and partly because it seems like a lot of people are doing just fine anyway. This second illusion fades as soon as you imagine one of these people passing time with the toothed, clawed beings that live in the darkness. Or maybe you choose to flex your freedom and reshape the world with it. But right now, I’m happy just admiring.
Welcome to my blog, you beautiful butterfly you.
3 Comments:
welcome to the world of blogging, you beautiful poet, you.
House about that, eh?
What about the others, "Does that make sense?"
or "A clean desk is a neat desk."
Choose wisely.
So while I was posting my wedding pictures I found yer blog... (yeah, caught that little dig on Facebook ;) touche, dear friend)
Look on the slightly less dark side of things: you have a degree, a good job, and you managed to have the money in hand to get a house. That's a huge accomplishment. You're WAY ahead of me. And Dan. And like everybody else we went to school with. It might not have worked out this time, but it will again soon. And you'll be more prepared when it does.
P.S. -- Please don't loofah your scalp off. That whole phallic look doesn't really work for white guys ;)
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