making it up...

Name... o.k. we'll go with Thomas.. Williams,
why... because I got to, mister...
The sound was something like a goose choking, or wildly wielding the melody to Peter and the wolf. The kid who lived next door to Thomas Williams reminded him of himself at that age: annoying, loud, and pithy. The clarinet is not something to be practiced outdoors, nor is the trumpet, but there the two sat, like Miles Davis and Benny Goodman. The neighbors walking dogs and strolling children would cringe as their feet moved into a frenzied pace, just long enough to escape the distorted jazz. It was like John Coltrane's "Ascension," but without the brilliance. But for the child and Thomas, it wasn't about making good music. No. It was about making a noise, a collaborative noise, that would cause others to stand up and take notice, or notice enough to move faster, but, nonetheless, take notice. Each had their own deep-seeded reasons. I'm sure Freud would say it was something to do with sex, others would blame the mothers, and others would say...well, they would say something, that is what shrinks are paid to do.

Moderations

It is apparent, having a sober glimpse at my previous two entries, that there may be a serious malfunction with my edit button while drinking. But what has been said has been said, and regret or remorse can be expressed to any parties that may have taken offense (I am sorry, whether you believe it or not- not for what was said, as no one should ever apologize for such expressions, but rather the manner in which they were expressed and the harm they may have caused.)

I have been told I have a tendency to recoil. This is true. I would love to not be this way, but when you see as I see, and logic the way I logic, this is how it comes about: I may have something to offer, but to those I would like to offer I would appreciate (and nearly demand) a certain level of social protocol be maintained. Violation of such protocols are taken to mean a minimal level of (not respect)caring is absent... how should I confide, or share, with someone who doesn't care? So communication becomes distorted... and since I have nobody to really confide, or share, with/in I must withdraw and either confront the problems alone, or find a space in that very crowded closet of mine- either of which takes a tremendous amount of time, emotional stress, and creates a burden on my soul.

As far as social interractions go... I only need someone to alleviate the demand I place on myself in private, in the solitude of my mind- here in my thought cathedral. It is much akin to the way people go to the movies, seeking distractions from their problems. Having someone to share the time with allows me to remove focus from myself and place it on another- to give attention to them (I do adore this), but... who really needs/wants to have me around in this capacity? Surely if I were not me, and saw this person, I would shun him too.

I understand a person's want/need to feel wanted/needed. And that sometimes people like to be chased... it may be that I'm just that jaded, but I would, and have always, preferred things to be simple. I call you- if I leave a message, you call me back. It is simple things that form foundations- curtains and lamps and coffee tables are always the last things when building a house.

I have always maintained the strictest rules on helping others... it goes like this:
If you ask for something, or something of me, it must meet these criteria:
1. I must be capable
2. It must be reasonable (ambiguous I know, but chances are, if you ask, its probably reasonable).
3. I prefer it to be legal.
If these criteria are satisfied, I really can't say no.
Questions.. I don't like open ended questions... this only stems from my lack of social interaction- I don't understand the question, am unsure of what is considered an adequate response. I don't really have any secrets (other than those two things that shall go unmentioned forevermore), so any question presented to me will be answered- though my nature is to give the simplest answer possible; I know this causes grief to those wishing to know more about me, but continue to ask questions and I shall continue to have answers. The only caveat to this is that if a question makes me uncomfortable, as in it pertains to the two unmentionables, then I may not answer.

I don't know. What I do know is that I'm recoiling, and giving up alcohol- drunk is not a pretty mood on me. I have never been a wordsmith, and when personal things are being expressed it is often a painful cluttered mess (I imagine a wall feels the same way)- confusing- even I'm confused. Must I be a social leper? I can only be me, even if I can't see the lesions.

the brighter side...

I don't know where to start, so I shall just begin.
I don't trust people. Recently I disclosed two pieces of information that I have never (and will never again) disclosed to any other person. And while I do not hold the person responsible for their adequate response, nonetheless, the communication has all but ceased. This is what I get for opening up.
You get what you give, and I am unwilling to give of my inner-self any more. I have absolutely no qualms with giving of my time, support, empathy, love to another person, but I will never tear down my walls-I am not Gorbachev.
I shall share with you (whoever you are) this piece of information (never before revealed, but only because I am positive of the three people who may read this):
After 8pm on any given day, I am suicidal. I wish with feverish anticipation that this life should end, but I can't take it- though I know many ways. This may be why I enjoy being with others... it dulls the pain of an existence that is otherwise meaningless... the meaning is in helping others- in caring for others. Despite your belief, this does not require opening up.
I am in constant need of a good friend, but they are more rare than diamonds, and harder to find than a needle in a haystack.. and when I seem to find one... it is only an illusion. For my finale I will transpose the first page of my journal entry, something I have never considered...

How deep does this evil run? The days are long and each consumes me in its own way. A weight, perhaps not mine to carry, is upon my shoulders. My neck is tight- perhaps a sign of my unwilingness to change.
At night I'm left to my thoughts, and rarely is it an uplifting event. I struggle to go to sleep, and then it is often interrupted by dreams that do not comfort (there is little to go around). I do find so little comfort these days.
I awake groggy and stiff, casting off what I believe to be right with the sheets of my bed.
Why are the things I want to do, the last I would think to do? How deep does this evil run, that I cannot bend my ways. I know that heaaven exists- and that makes the days all the harder to bear. I know a piece of the truth, of its sweetness, and all I want is more. (end journal entry)
All I can say is, "whatever," and "f-off, nobody should ever make me feel like this."
but then... I'm sure I'm deserving of all I receive- except the good.
I don't even deserve that.

seriously??

I title my blog entries before I even type... so this one has me shaking my head before even I begin. I am not a very open person, but effort is valued (I am unsure why). I keep nearly everything inside with the greatest of ease, and to cause this well to bubble over may be more difficult than the analogy. I am loved by a few people, and sometimes wish to give it. But it is those times at which I feel I may wish to give it, I... (dramatic effect) I hesitate.
And because of this, or partly due to the short attention span and "now" mentality, people withdraw from me as quickly as they came. Oh, they can be so excited initially, and there excitement excites me to the point where I nearly unleash... so close, but always so reserved. And though I may pine inside, and my face remain stone-carved as effigy- I go on with the toil of light and dark, through day and night. My place is my place, though I may never understand it, and the things I may wish for could be the very things I am never meant for.
In matters of the heart I will always be patient-be sure- because what is bound is bound, and I may hold that more sacred... more tight than my own life.

What is in name?

In a reflection, or musing, I contemplated names: meaning, purpose, and perception.
A name, first and foremost, is a title and typically one of the first things about a person we learn. In biblical times, names were chosen, typically, as a thanks to God, expressing a triumph of sorts (this is why many biblical names refer to God). Today names are chosen more through the steady application of a specific criteria: vanity. Of course thought is still given to meaning, but the emphasis is on originality and sound.
But upon the perception of a name: not of others on the person, but of the named and the namers. Growing up, as many of us did, I often expelled contempt for my name and wished to live by another. I believe that this is tied into the general rebellious nature of children against their parents. The name is, or was, a symbol of what the parents hoped for in their child, and rebellion was against that hope, against the feeling of being forced into a box that is uncomfortable to the one stuffed inside. So when anyone wants to change their name, it is not necessarily the image they wish to change, but the deep seeded hope for their own life that they wish to express.
I came upon this while pondering over my pen name, the one you see on the side of my profile, RS Althaus. It is a vanity, the "RS," chosen specifically to draw out the question, "what does it stand for?" But I will tell you, and I will tell you the meaning, thus divulging the hope I have for my own life.

Rema Sterling Althaus (faithful little star from the old house).

Call me Bert...

Only I don't have the candy-striped jacket or straw hat, but give me a moderate breeze and I'll be out flying a kite. Life is a lot like that I think: tension on the line; dependendant on the breeze; when there's slack you pull it in, but your never really in control.
I'm not sure if you should find this comforting, but I do, given the right amount of breeze you can let your kite go as high as you want. I'm not given to words lately, a dry spell, or dust bowl- there is plenty of.. hmm.. emotion, but never focused. I have noticed, or am becoming more aware, that I don't show emotion much- I like to think I keep it in my eyes, but sometimes it hides in my chest, but rarely is it on my face.
Still not sure if anyone reads this thing... I'm hoping to add a think-tank twist to it, though it would probably feel more like a dunk tank. I do like a good fair.

St. Patrick's Day

I am fortunate enough to know that a little bit of Irish blood runs through my veins, and I have never really indulged in the most Irish of holidays. But I am dissapointed that people seem to think it's o.k. to celebrate any holiday on any day that is not that holiday (follow?)
On a related note: One of the greatest movies ever made is "Boondock Saints," and I was pleased to hear last month that they are creating a "Boondock Saints 2: All Saints Day" I am really looking forward to this movie as they seemed to have locked up all the main members of the original cast, minus Willem Dafoe.
And finally, St. Patrick's day is the unofficial end of winter and beginning of spring- contrary to the beliefs of my hoosier fellows, it is not basketball- and the end of the winter relationships that were doomed to fail.
Happy St. Patrick's Day (by the by, it's on Tuesday!)

Weekend Reflections upon Oily surfaces

This last weekend I ventured out from my thought cathedral in search of inspiration, the kind found in the quiet wings of art museums. First let me say that it was enjoyable, in spite of there being no baroque works hung from the walls. It was my first visit to the Indianapolis Museum of Art since before the completion of the new entrance: an extravagant clear layered cake. It took me nearly four hours to tour (that includes skipping all the entire second floor) and by the end I had a limp that would make House jealous (seriously, my knee just can't take the abuse it used to). On the first floor is European art from renaissance to impressionism, dutch impressionist, romanticism and realism. There was also American art, placed towards the end and a selection of Hoosier artists including a T.C. Steele piece that I have always enjoyed but can never remember the name of. Back in the European section there was a sad face that drooped near the eyes, as if the tears weighed upon it immensely (I imagine this is what I'll look like if I ever cry again). The third floor contained the new European Design exhibit that was quite a bit smaller than I had anticipated, but the modern art on the same floor more than made up for the disappointment (I am not so fond of design). It was a lovely way to spend a Saturday afternoon, and I shall see to it that my "should replenish" becomes a "does replenish" more frequently (I do think they miss me something fierce, and some even tried to talk to me, but I digress...).

intricate woven rug

If you pay attention to the subtleties of the world around you may notice that more than one thing recurring through the days. An idea, or word, or person, comes into a day, not like the blinding light of a midday sun, though this may be where you notice it, but instead like the dawn, and fades like the sunset or the leaves from the autumn tree. Each is its own colored thread of a tapestry woven with great care, and where one thread ends another has already begun to take its place, just as the birds fly south before the last leaf falls, but never before the first leaf turns, and you can continue to see the migratory patterns when the first snow falls.

It is these threads that give me comfort, for I belief it is a recognition of the blanket I am wrapped within, alive with life and full of color.