S. H. Baldwin

Most of us don't really want to know the horrors that exist outside of our 'civilized' borders, and those who do are kidding themselves. Either naive but good-hearted, or adrenaline junkies maybe. The ones who want to know are the ones who think they can change it. But it's a dream of self-importance.
In the end, the horrors are always bigger than the man, always in control; and they will have their casualty. Sometimes the victim, other times the hero.
But there is always a casualty.

As I lie in bed, feeling unbearably ill from some virus or another, I tell the world to Fuck Off. I'm miserable. I have aches down my spine and into my legs, my body is chilled from what I assume is a fever, and I can't sleep. The one thing that very well might help is denied to me.
I think about the fairness of life, and how it isn't. Or maybe it is. That thought terrifies me. That maybe life is fair  in how impartial it is, how it doesn't pick or choose who succeeds and who suffers. It could be any of us, really. Everything is so picked at random. And I'm scared that maybe the world doesn't give a damn whether you are a good person or a bad person; to the world you are either living or dead. It sees you in, and it sees you out.

As I toss and turn and feel like crap, I think of how it would be to have something worse; something like cancer, or AIDS, or whatever else life could send to devastate you. It frightens me to think of how one must feel then, and I do not blame anyone for choose death when life is proposed in such a horrific way.

I know, this is bleak. I've been trapped in this tiny room for too long, and it's taken its toll. I need the sun, the fresh air, the company of friends. I need it to keep me of sound mind.
Hopefully I feel better in the morning.

Here Lies a Good Man. Driven to Madness by a World He So Loved.

I posted a picture on Flickr of sunlight streaming through a clear mug in my room-mate’s room. I had noticed it, and thought it was beautiful, so I thought I would capture the moment. On Flickr, someone commented, saying that the photo was an interesting observation, but that had I moved the mug, I could’ve made the composition even better.
The thing is, my moving the mug would change the reality of what I saw. No longer would it be this beautiful moment that I had found, but a moment I created. And I do not see myself as an artist, creating these situations; I see my goal to be a man documenting the world as he sees it; capturing the way of life around me. If I am anything, I see myself more as a documentarian. I’m a kid with a notepad, jotting down things I notice about the world. That’s all.
It seems to me that everyone these days thinks that they are an artist. But artistry takes skill, it takes vision; it isn’t just something that one is, because they are competent in one thing or another.
One can write without being a Writer, and one can paint without being a Painter. I know how to work a camera, and I use it, but does that mean that every single thing that I take a picture of is artwork? Because I know how to take a picture, does that mean that I am a Photographer?
There is no shame in using these tools, these mediums, as mere expression. I’m not saying that. I write, I take photographs, I make the occasional video - but I know that this is not art. Expression, maybe, but not mastery. Art is mastery. Art is the process of mastering one’s trade, and in turn mastering one’s self.
I am a dilettante at best. I am an admirer, who dabbles in what he loves. But that does not an artist make.
I am not an artist. And apparently I’m in the minority.

I see you again, this time through new lenses. You seem more frightened than you previously did. Am I just able to see you more clearly, or are you frightened by how clearly I see you? You seem like your guard is up, like you have something to defend. I wonder what you think I'm going to do. You can find me insufferable, but I hope that you do not believe me capable of being cruel. I am many things, awkward being one of them, but I am rarely unkind. Or I try for that to be true.
We talk about many things: Books, music, movies, religion. Religion seems especially touchy. You cannot believe that science is a religion, too, where nothing is certain and facts are too often proven false. And I say you cannot believe that, instead of you would not, because I think you needed it. You need science to be reliable.  You need science to be without faith, to feel it is solid and provable and real.
I know it's scary. The world, I mean. I know that iti s scary and that you want something to be certain, like science. But it just isn't. The term "an exact science" is another oxymoron. You can know all the facts and figures, and somethings will always happen that cannot be explained.
So much fear in you. That's why we're not dating more seriously, and I'd rather it be from our incompatibility. I'd rather it be that you don't find me funny, or that I don't dress right. I'd rather it be any of that than know it was from what the world has done to you, and how unwilling you are to trust any of its passengers.

We lie close together, swaddled in an ocean of white blankets, on a bed made for a queen. She was well covered, with just her head crowning through the top, like an infant soon to be released from the womb. She pulled the covers down to reveal herself to me, with a saddened expression.
Why do people lie? she asked.
I was caught off guard. She was not asking me of my actions, or to somehow explain something I may have observed about herself. She wanted to know something deeper than my base of knowledge, and I didn’t have an answer. Only speculation and guess. Before I could even begin to open my mouth, she continued.
Not why do people lie to cover things up, mind you. Why do they lie just to do it? Why do they put themselves in those situations, where they are forced to fabricate a reality that isn’t so?
I don’t know, I said. For sport, maybe. I think that some people enjoy it. Much like writing, but without the pen and paper. A kind of applied fiction, or even some kind of advanced Existentialism. Maybe they’re creating a world for themselves contrary to the one that’s been provided them.
She wasn’t looking at me this whole time. She seemed inward. She was somewhere far away, and my words were reaching her via radio wave and transmission. She was somewhere in the Andromeda galaxy, gazing to the Heavens and looking for answers. I was in the Heavens, and I didn’t have a fucking clue.
But it isn’t real, she continued. They can create themselves a history, or they can tell people (and themselves) that something is a way it isn’t, but it doesn’t change the fact that their words are merely words. No, I don’t think lying is a form of alternate living. I feel it’s the antithesis of living. It’s a receding from life. You’re taking a step backwards from the truth. It just seems like some people can’t live an honest life. Like they are afraid of the life that was meant for them, so they go the other way. It takes courage to be honest. You must be brave to be yourself unwaveringly. If you can’t even be honest about whom you are, then who are you?
She was wise like a child. She was unafraid of who she was. She lived her truth, heart on her sleeve, with no shame or mercy. She was brave. She was courageous. And I felt a tiny bit ashamed, I will admit, of every lie I had ever told in my entire life. Not because she would have scolded me, and or because she would have withheld from me if she knew every fault of my past, but because in that moment she had spoken a truth that does what truths always do: it had revealed. It had moved in me the importance of being earnest and true.
I moved in closer to her, and beneath the sheath in which we were, I wrapped my arms around her torso. As I held her, I felt the warmth spread through me. And there we were face to face, as if in fort we’d made. I kissed her lips and looked her in the eye. I will never lie to you, I told her. I was telling the truth.

I keep wanting to do my research on things for which there just isn't the correct data from the set I have to draw from. Specifically, I'd like to further study same-sex sexual violence. I've been reading this really fascinating article on Women-to-Women rape, which is very intriguing. It defies gender norms, it goes against certain Feminist thinking, and it's just not what most people would expect. It's perfect for someone wanting to write an interesting paper. BUT....
But the survey results don't really talk a lot about rape or sexual assault, at least not in the way of questioning whether people have or have not been sexually assaulted. Nor does it cover if they know someone who has openly admitted to being sexually assaulted, or anything else I might be able to work with. It's frustrating.
And as far as anything about homosexuality, it seems to only really cover whether people think it's right or wrong. Which might be interesting if I had more information on sexual assault. Then I could maybe construct a paper on how people view sexual assault of women (by men) and try to compare how empathetic people are of people who are assaulted by someone of the same sex. I could then use Feminist theories to compare any apathy to that of women in the 1970s, when women were first treated as if they wanted to be raped.
BUT... then again... I don't have the necessary data at my fingertips. So instead I'll just bitch.

I love the way she loves. Because she loves things not for their superiority, but because they simply are. She loves the shape of her guitar, because of how big and fat it is. She loves thunder storms, but only when she's not in them. She loves kittens, and bats, and snow, and being alive for the sake of living. How can you not love that kind of love?

“If I love you, I will carry for you all your pain, I will assume for you all your debts (in every definition of the word), I will protect you from your own insecurity, I will protect upon you all sorts of good qualities that you have never actually cultivated in yourself and I will buy Christmas presents for your entire family. I will give you the sun and the rain, and if they are not available, I will give you a sun check and a rain check. I will give you all this and more, until I get so exhausted and depleted that the only way I can recover my energy is by becoming infatuated with someone else.”
- Elizabeth Gilbert

The new semester has awakened something in me, in a way that only the Spring Semester can. It always seems that between January and May that I am revitalized in way that no other months can achieve. I think it's very symbolic, but very true. That I, too, slumber during the cold of Fall and Winter. And I, too, am reborn in with the Spring.
This semester seems promising, thus far. I love all of the classes that I am taking, especially my Sociology class about Media and Pop Culture. It is everything that I am interested in. I have assignments where I am supposed to spend time watching TV, or listening to music and noting the lyrics. I have to be tested on all of the trivia that I have spent my life memorizing, and I am now told that there is cultural value in what many have considered nonsense. It's a very rewarding and promising experience.
I haven't really made the time for reading that I might like, but it's been okay. I know that I will get around to it soon. I just have several books from McSweeney's that I am really interested in reading, and so I do want to get to them. I just know that when the end of the day rolls around that I only feel like listening to music or doing something mindless to unwind.

I find that the next six months are a transitional period, where I must adjust to the reality of living. As far as I have known, my life has been relatively planned. Each year of my childhood has an anticipated grade ahead of it, another planned year of study, through college. And as I now find myself facing graduation, I find that there is a certain desire for me to desperately seek graduate school or something. I don't have a plan. I don't have my schedule plotted out for me 6mo at a time. So what?
I'm trying to embrace the truth: that life is, and always has been, uncertain. This illusion of control is a falsity, and I'm trying to combat it by holding the truth like fire. I'm trying to live day-to-day, realizing that things will unfold as they will.

It was a warm day in April. Slightly above average in temperature, sunny with a recent rain dripping from the eaves trough. She sat with her husband on the enclosed porch, together, in matching chairs crafted of white wicker. They were both dressed in their best.
Reading the paper, her husband patted the ashes off of his cigarette and into the small dish on the table next to his seat.
I just can’t read anymore articles by Mr. Thomas, said the man.
He folded the paper down and lifted the cigarette to his face. The woman just sat staring out into the garden, watching as a butterfly fluttered with such nonchalance.
Did you hear me? her husband asked, in an unflattering tone.
What?
She was startled.
Oh, no, I’m sorry. I guess I was somewhere else for a moment.
The man blew smoke, Yes, well. I was just saying that I can’t read another article by Richard Thomas. He’s outlived his wit, if you ask me. But isn’t that just how it goes.
The man had failed to notice how his wife had slipped away again, to wherever she was before.
I think that’s how people often are, he went on. So much more interesting when you first get to know them. When you meet them, you always have things to talk about. You talk about your favorite books, you talk poetry, you talk art, you talk about life and what it means to live. And then, one day, after one period of time or another, you’ve heard it all. They’ve run out of clever things to say, and now it’s just a record on repeat.
His wife returned her gaze to him
Really? asked the woman. You don’t think that means that you’ve simply reached another stage with that person? Something deeper, more meaningful? I mean, we’ve been married for ten years now. We’ve been sitting on this porch for over an hour, not saying much at all. But there is still something enjoyable in just being with someone, isn’t there? Even after you’ve run out of silly things to say?
The man laughed.
Honey, my goodness, I wasn’t saying I’ve grown tired of you. No, no, it’s not like that.
He set the paper on the table and leaned forward in his chair.
I just think that we get so possessive. We don’t just want to love a thing, we have to own it. I don’t just have to care about you, I have to keep you forever, and I damn well better be happy about it. Friends forever, ‘til death do us part, all of it. It’s all silly.
He looked at this wife.
I can tell you’re confused, the man said. Let me continue.
We foolishy hold onto people, so maybe it’s okay that these people begin to bore us. Maybe it’s okay that they’ve run out of things to say. It’s not that anyone is wrong, or that it’s their fault. It’s just that maybe people need to know when to let go, when to move on, and try learning a thing or two from someone else. Someone more stimulating. I mean, everyone would benefit so much more if we stopped putting up with things that bore us, and we just moved forward.
His smile returned wide across his face.
But I wasn’t talking about you, for Christ sake.
He laughed merrily and patted her knee. He took her hand in his.
Do you see what I mean, now? he asked, cheerfully.
She smiled a faint smile, looking into her husband.
Yes, I think I do. Yes. You’re quite right, she said. Maybe some people really do run their course with you. Maybe some really do ‘outlive their wit.’
Excellent, said the man. I knew you’d get there.
He sat back in his chair and smoked his cigarette with a look of pride. The woman didn’t move, continuing to stare through her husband and ponder.

When we're growing up, there are some things that our parents prohibit us from. Driving cars, using the stove, pushing the lawnmower, etc. They don't allow us to to use these things, because they are dangerous. When I would pick up a knife, my mother would say "Be careful. That's really sharp, it could cut you." When my mother would open the oven to take out our supper, she would say "Step back, this is really hot. You could get burned." But as we grow, never do our parents sit us down and warn us "This is your heart, and if you're not careful, it can really fuck you up. You know, just FYI."

I have found that living without a car has been humbling. Frustrating at times, but humbling. It makes me realize that the world is not always fitted to my schedule. And if I wish it to be, then it takes works. It takes walking, going the distance in the snow and the cold. Ernest Shackleton. He didn't have a car. He and his men fucking trekked across the Antarctic. No, no, I don't need a car.
A part of me has always enjoyed getting back to basics, stripping myself of all material things and simplifying my life. I've loved camping, where it's just you, a knife, tinder, kindling, and fuel. That kind of thing. It's always been something I've enjoyed, and it seems to be something about the way men are raised. I see nothing wrong with it. I wish everyone was raised like that, appreciating the natural world and learning what things are truly essential (and how much isn't.)
That's a part of why I think people like the idea of Post-Apocalyptic worlds.  It's the end of the world, but it's better than this. It's better than being overwhelmed with consumerism and Capitalism and all of these worthless needs.

Karen Abad IM'd me, tonight. It was just like old times. She apologized for withdrawing this last summer, just when we were getting so close.
I told her she needn't.
She continued.
She wanted to let me know that no one had been close to her between me and her current beau, and that she's known him for six years. She admitted it has been very hard to let people in, and that when she and I met in New York, she doesn't know why she reacted the way she did.
I don't know. I had no hard feelings. We still had handholding and Rushmore. We'll always have NYC.
And it was worth it.
But I appreciated what she said none the less. How she told me, tonight, that she's learned so much from my huge heart. How no one should ever tell me that I am nothing short of great.
I'm allowing my pride to swell a bit, but it meant a lot to me. I had learned much from Karen, too, and having someone I see a life-teacher giving me a compliment like that is wonderful.

you can't paint a picture of the future with the colors of the past.

“Do you think that your fathers are watching? That they weigh you in their ledgerbook? Against what? There is no book and your fathers are dead in the ground.”
- The Road, pg. 196, Cormac McCarthy

While going to the gym with M, today, the car got a flat. M was unsure of how to change a tire, so I took the task. I had gone through the motions before, but never had I changed a tire in an "emergency" situation. If you call it that. But so I took out all of the tools, step-by-step teaching M along the way, changing the tire. I was pretty proud of myself, taking control of the situation like that. I mean, I know it wasn't life or death. But it was a life situation, and I was able to independently take care of myself and M. It felt good.

Also, I got to see Ginny's new place, today. She picked me up so I could run an errand or two, and then we went back to her place. I've been running on just a few hours sleep, today, since I woke up at 4am. So Ginny made me a cup of coffee in her Keurig coffee maker. It was kind of amazing, I have to say.
Ginny lives just a block from Marta, so I walked over there and had dinner with she and Jordan. We watched some TLC, had a good night, ordered pizza.

He helped her pack up her suitcase. Her life seemed able to be reduced to so little.
If you need anything, just let me know, he said. I’ll always be here for you. It’ll be okay. We’re going to be okay.
She laid her hand against his cheek. You’re such an optimist, she said.
I try my best.
It wasn’t a compliment. You’re disillusioned.
What do you mean, he asked.
You think we’re going to find our place, but you’re wrong. People like you and I don’t belong. Not to anyone. Not to this world, or any like it. We’re different, people like you and me. We’ll never fit in, we’ll never be home. Wherever we go, we’ll always have outstayed our welcome.
The man looked down at his feet. How can you be so sure?
She folded a yellow sweater and laid it in her bag. Because, she said. If you and I can’t make it together, it only proves that we’ll never make it apart. We understand each other like no one else does. If we can’t stand each other, then we’re never going to find rest. You and I will both wander this earth, alone. Alone until we die.
No, he said. I don’t believe that. I can’t. If there is any kind of order to this world, why would we have been created to be alone?
As a reminder, she said. To all of those unlike us. All of those who are happy and normal. We’re the reminder of what they have to lose. They look at us and feel sorry for us. They see us and know that they need to appreciate what they have, or they could end up being like you and I.
We really tried, didn’t we, he asked. We really gave it our all.
She looked at him, not stopping from zipping her suitcase shut. Yes, we did.
And love, he said, it wasn’t enough, was it?
No, she said. It was not.
I guess even love can’t defy fate.
I guess it can’t, she said.
He helped her carry her things down to her car, and he watched as she loaded them in back. They exchanged a hug and small kiss, and he stood in the middle of the road as he watched her pull away.

Nobody wants to be here and nobody wants to leave
- The Road, pg.169, Cormac McCarthy.

Feels like the most perfect metaphor for life.

People like us just don't belong. We've always outlived our stay.
We're not notes in the melody. We're the refrain.
We're the absence that goes unfelt, the silence softly played.
We're better when we go unnoticed. Otherwise, nothing seems quite the same.