Never good enough

  • merely concealing a barren emptiness behind an independent-seeming façade.

What kind of cry is this?

No one can say.

For sure..

 “Other people’s expectations can become of overriding importance, overlaying or contradicting the original sense of self, the one connected to the very roots of one’s being”.

Angel’s allies Bully Alleys

tamed tarnished

selves

harnessing

a barren

wasteland of oblivion

Authentication of self-esteem

The danger was particularly acute where the baby had to provide attunement for the mother/parents, rather than vice versa, building up a sort of dissociated recognition of the object on an impersonal, not personal and spontaneous basis.[11]

A compromised ego

Ghostface inauthentic

a pseudo-self of

Fortified

Harbingers

manifest at will,

activate

freedom’s antidote.

The loneliness of freedom

the annihilating experience of the exploitation of the hidden true self itself

…exhibit powers only rarely and this activation is always brought on by severe stress.

by means of introjections, even attains a show of being real

building up a sort of dissociated recognition of the object on an impersonal, not personal and spontaneous basis

-Donald Woods Winnicott FRCP (7 April 1896 – 25 January 1971

The self is a relation which relates itself to its own self, or it is that in the relation that the relation relates itself to its own self; the self is not the relation but that the relation relates itself to its own self.
—–Søren Kierkegaard, The Sickness Unto Death: A Christian Psychological Exposition for Upbuilding and Awakening

THE RELATION RELATES ITSELF TO ITS OWN SELF – have you met Narcissus?

Birth parents

Today is my 54th birthday. On this day, a Friday in 1965, my mother gave birth to me, the records say, at the Cleveland Clinic in the holy hour (3-4 a.m.).

She was 16, my birth father, 17.

From what I could tell from the “non-identifying” information I was charged $50 for when I was 23,

Seemingly, I had more in common with my father. Height, basketball, class president, a penchant for trains. My mother, who sacrificed a semester to deal with me, was fond of camping and played a musical instrument.

The Children Services letterhead, since the Red Feather agency (I think that was the name) had long since disbanded adding yet another level of erasure to my already amorphous existential origin- the letterhead and contents of this letter are all I have of my heritage, my genealogy, my DNA. Who you would say I am.

Always watched but never seen

Records of our days, cataloged with no sentiment allowed to obscure the meta data (subjective conjecture need not apply) dot the landscape, forming an infinite grid of mortality.

Mortal implies limits, so an infinite grid of solely self-aware beings, our qualia, in particular, not involving anyone or anything else, carries each individual’s uniqueness, believing we are the onliest as our way of coping with the fact that as far as we know, this existence is finite.

I tell you bout the onliest man I knowed come from Virginia.

Self-awareness consciously knows and understands character, feelings, motives, and desires.

feelings, motives, and desires.

There are two broad categories of self-awareness: internal self-awareness and external self-awareness.[3]

External self v Internal self

These mean very different things to you and me.

You see, by our society’s standards, I have no reference for the internal kind. Everything I got I learned without the leg up of familiar tradition, unspoken understanding and qualifying acceptance. In a way, I’ve always had to prove I am not a mistake even though clearly that is all I amounted to in the end, a foolish mistake for my mother to regret.

For some adoptees, particularly those who’ve experienced early childhood trauma such as neglect or abuse, it may be difficult to form emotional bonds. Some studies suggest that adoptees may also be at higher risk for depression, anxiety, learning disabilities, attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), or substance abuse.

Me at 22 in NZ

This started as a very different piece but between the narcissist showing me his drawing without caring about my writing kind of interrupted the flow.

The fact that I can’t really ever relax or do something mildly extravagant because I can never seem to get ahead, I’m terrible at getting reimbursed and in general, there are a million things I want to do, see, hear, and learn and chasing down the ability to just survive (it’s been that way for 20 years in the film and television industry) isn’t really my thing-the fact that I can’t really celebrate isn’t where I had hoped to be by now.

I’m tired. Tired of this particular existence that, the longer I live, seems more and more futile. Everything we were told was either a lie or a myth and now I’m in no position to take on the world as I once was, having been severely beaten, tortured and most recrntly mugged and stabbed in the past three years.

That’s not even the half of it. That’s not even what makes me sad. It’s the lack of friends I find myself enduring these days. The sadness just never goes away.

My sixth birthday

Moral Prejudices

Marlin Rand woke up, asleep, a dream within a living nightmare.

You like to daydream, huhn?

Head lost in the clouds.

Are you listening?

Listening not hearing. The world retracts into a distance illuminated by your reflection, the sun shaft reaching that taillight, sending shards of red through the blinds. Why do we call then blinds? Why are screen doors not calls deafs?

The noise is deafening.

The hard drive is named Friedrich Nietzsche, the router Liza Minnelli and the broadband a traveling troupe of Keynesian mechanics with carpetbaggers galore.

Absurd, says Cumquat Jones, the nommedeplume of Tennessee Williams’ unknown soldier.

… his “hypotheses” on the origins of morality to reading his friend Paul Rée’s book The Origin of the Moral Sensations (1877) and finding the “genealogical hypotheses” offered there unsatisfactory.

Nietzsche decided that “a critique of moral values” was needed, that “the value of these values themselves must be called into question”. To this end Nietzsche provides a history of morality, rather than a hypothetical account in the style of Rée, whom Nietzsche classifies as an “English psychologist”[2] (using “English” to designate an intellectual temperament, as distinct from a nationality).

What you give away

It occurred to me the other day that you might be lying about whether Ray Ray was a pathological liar.

Aren’t all junkies?

Creeps.

No. I was gonna say, everyone’s favorite junkie a premiere funky who gets sulky in his freewheeling scene -stealing calamide lotion staring down the street while you pop those friggled uptown

home of the brave my ass I heard her say as you walked away

But save that for another day

Sing the song of truth

No one knows your name

Bring in

calamity Jane

Citizen Kane

Nathaniel Zane

What?

Are you insane?

Some people call me loco

Mean Jean Feline

Coke machine

Powerful but

enamored

with the “wrong”

Crowd