Divorcing, Jellyfish, VHS vs. UHD/4k, Dreams, Life like Casablanca, and Other Things

Egg-drop soup feels like what I’d imagine it’d be to drink jellyfish.

Why do they call it drug abuse, when really, the drugs abuse you?

I’m becoming one of those people who always has a candle on, somewhere. They’re really all about comforting, and something about it makes me feel like somewhere, something about it, that it’s a spiritual-thing versus cat lady thing (despite at the moment, lacking the feline part of that sentiment, but my point remains).

In my experience, non-binaries tend to be absolutely gorgeous.

At what point does sharing turn to oversharing? The confessing, inti-mizing, the admission of vulnerabilities turn into overstaying your welcome? This has alluded me my entire adult life.

I think of any famous feminine persona I’ve ever felt drawn to, there would probably only be one, and that is Phoebe Cates. Don’t know what it is, or why, because although I am mostly attracted to feminine people, I don’t per se find femmes attractive in that way, but to Phoebe, who I’ve grown up watching like the proverbial older sister I’ve never met…I’m fine with it.

Something about watching your favorite 80’s films on UHD-Bluray feels…off. While I myself am a quite ardent enjoyer of Criterion-level worthy film restorations and remasterings, scans, etc., something about the VHS fuzz, the lack of up-close details lets my imagination fill in the blanks. Please do not confuse this with being some sort of luddite who can’t stand that technology is a constantly shifting paradigm…no…I just…have a soft spot, I guess, for VHS specifically. Watching some newer transfers of my favorite 80’s pulp in UHD/4K has kind of made me retroactively appreciate just how truly poopy VHS was (and, conversely, magical at the same time…for me.).

When you don’t take your ADD meds for some time and then get back on them to sort out some various tasks, let me tell you…it’s kind of a surreal experience, that some pharmacological concoction has been discovered to work with your brain chemistry (in this case, a mild stimulant) to calm you down. I don’t know why I felt the need to write that, but I feel like it counts.

I’m currently in the middle of a femme-aissance­ – i.e., rediscovering/re-cultivating the expression of my “inner” femme – by wearing dresses, skirts, stockings, feminine and cute things again, and this experiment has proved worthwhile. Not since my 20’s have I been all that keen to put on makeup (although skin care is an utmost priority for me), wear overtly feminine attire, and rediscovering this part of myself after a period of divorce, physical health ailments and COVID-19/lockdown, feels splendid. Not euphoric, not revelatory, but…sweet, and nice, easy, like finding an old blanket, or meeting with an old friend you haven’t shared time with in awhile. This, I must say, leads me to think that I’m doing alright when it comes to expressing oneself genuinely and dare I say, confidently?

They say (the proverbial they, whoever they are) crying purifies the soul. If this is the least bit true, then I must have a calcified soul of pure crystalline right about now.

It’s nobody’s job to love me; I want it to be someone’s dream. And to that end: self-love and wanting partnership are not diametrically oppositional…or, so said this love-neophyte.

What draws us to get tattoos? Does anybody truly have a logical conclusion, outside the realm of the obvious cultural-spiritual practices? In modernity, what drives an individual to wake up one day and think, “Hey, I ought to get some permanent ink on my body today”? I don’t say this as some microaggresion towards body art (I currently have a whopping two tattoos on the same arm, from many moons ago), but as somebody who is at-present, wondering if it’s about time to add something else to my sleeve. If it was truly up to me, and money not an issue, I would have a full sleeve by now, but alas, I’m thinking it’s time for something nuanced, understated, and maybe even too esoteric for the average, wandering eye to deduce.

There’s a strange thing that happens, when you grow up watching people older than you on a certain television show or film, that your age begins to overlap with their age whenever they filmed whatever you’re watching. Let me explain: I’m a 90’s kid, grew up in the expanse of cable and be-whoever-you-want-to-be-on-TV, eternally optimistic milieu of pre-9/11 America, and as a part of that, despite my own horrors of childhood happening congruently, television became an early part of my escapism (alongside literature, video games and eventually, drugs/alcohol). Now, as a bonafide Adult, from time to time I frequent certain pop-cultural artifacts from that era, and lately, after rewatching Seinfeld for the Nth time, it has been Friends. Now, the older Gen-X siblings I grew up watching are overlapping with my age, yet, I still see them as older. I know it’s hard to describe, but there’s this disconnect, like I’m forever watching them through the eyes of when I first saw them, my childhood eyes. Hope that’s not too woo-woo.

Somebody recently shared with me a funny encounter in the wild. Driving by a home in their neighborhood, somebody had colorful, celebratory lettering on their lawn with the word out in pizzaz: DIVORCED. While it had me laughing, and made me feel less alone in-regard to whatever’s behind the sentiment, it also got me thinking. Like…I know, I do, we should always honor anybody’s ascension, liberation from a poopy situation, and in times as those (celebrating divorce), something bad can turn out to be something good. So, it got me thinking…maybe for some of us divorcees, even though we may be relieved that a painful part of our lives (and hearts) has passed, perhaps those of us who are more sentimental than the others…perhaps we don’t need to celebrate per se, in so much as we honor the period in our lives in which we thought we were going to spend the rest of our lives with another person, has ended…like, a vigil of relief, but also, mindful reflection…like, akin to happy-sad…I don’t mean to split hairs about this, but…all I’ll say is that, nobody gets married just to get divorced (at least, I think).

2013 is 10 years old, and let me just say: this brings up a lot of emotions in me.

Life’s like Casablanca, I think. Random chance enters a random circumstance meets a random twist of fate and then…the ballet of fervent sentience compounds itself. Love, life, etc.

Sometimes, for me, prayer is an exercise in gaslighting oneself. Set the intention, release, ask the universe/sky/whatever to please be gentle with your heart, but then life just does what it does, and then you ask yourself (or at least, I do): “Excuse me, but what was the point?” For moi, it’s the slippery slope of any deity versus free-will versus where the heck does this line start and end, anyway, go. Would I love to absolve myself of any and/or all implications from my decisions, actions, instincts, intuitions, disappointments, ambitions, hopes and what-have-you, only to blame it on somebody or something upstairs behind a control panel? You bet. Do I actually believe that in the giant, conglomerate, juggernaut-lasagna that is existence, that things randomly reacting and going off in chain-reactions, are actually happening to me, specifically? Of course not…but, sometimes, in my most vulnerable, it feels like it.

Some movies I’ve been thinking about, floating around in my mind: Days of Heaven, Y Tu Mama Tambien, Carnival of Souls, Daydream Nation, Breathless (Goddard), You’ve Got Mail, Bed of Roses, Casablanca, The Seventh Seal, The Breakfast Club, Drop Dead Fred, Caddyshack, Blue Velvet, and Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Don’t ask me why, but my noggin’s seeing flashes.

We’ll always have Mexico. Or, to quote a movie I recently watched – Daydream Nation – “Somethings don’t need to last forever to be perfect.”

Albums I’ve been listening: The Magic Place; Clocktower Park; Midnights (3AM); Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea; No Angel; You Are Free, Daybreaker, and a host of ambient tracks assembled by yours truly for the moody/atmospheric experience.

The places that I only see/visit in my dreams? That’s still happening. In and out of constancy. I have a curious speculation about what’s on the other side of things in general, and definitely feel some sensitivity to the “unknown” things. Sometimes, I feel like a spiritual vagrant on the run, and…I kinda like that about myself (NOTE: this is very woo-woo­).

I just want to say: Jellyfish are beautiful.

Also, I have to say: Love is its own thing, and as of now, where I am in my short tenure on this spinning ball of stuffs, all I can say is that love feels a lot like jellyfish, in that A) jellyfish do not die of age, only being killed; B) jellyfish do not have cognizance in the way we recognize semi-sentient creatures to exhibit, but exist more akin to the way flowers do; C) jellyfish have a cool feature of being bioluminescent, so they glow in all sorts of neon, funky colors amidst a sea of blue; D) jellyfish are delicate creatures, but extremely durable, and emit toxins to defend themselves from predators (which, I hear, sting like nobody’s business, but as of yet, I haven’t had the displeasure); and finally, E) jellyfish cannot comprehend their own beautiful-ness.

One thing I want to say: The fact that Elden Ring is almost a year old and we have NO DLC announcement or confirmation is a big stinker. This is just me kvetching.

Something else: You are beautiful, even when no one else is looking.

Somebody recently told me something quite macabre, and I have to share it. They said, something along the lines of, “Some people didn’t wake up today, people who had plans to vacation in March.” While the point of that statement was to recognize the absolute, profound beauty that is our transient existence, it also hit my heart a little. Maybe that’s just the romantic part of being a hopeless romantic, but…I don’t like to think of things that fatalistically. Mind you, I’m no stranger to the whole, life-being-temporary-business, no really, but on that same token…I feel like, maybe, there has to be more to what we see, right? Why else do we feel all these things, just for it to go up in a vapor, whisper, wisp, trace of smoke in an instant? I don’t know…all I’m saying is…love has to mean something for this homosapien, and…I hope it does wherever next we go.

In closing: You’re beautiful, jellyfish. Here’s looking at you, kid.