You Only Moved The Headstones

 It's been a week.

I have always had pretty rotten luck. Not that I necessarily believe in luck, so much, or fate. Or maybe I do. I tend to find myself always going back and forth on belief in the cosmic nature of reality, or whatever the hell wants to call it. But the point is that I tend to often have pretty big setbacks, and fairly often. Sometimes these are of my own doing, other times it does feel like fate wants me to suffer. Obviously, I am still here, so fate either is doing a shitty job of killing me, or it has other plans.

But this week, it feels like I am cursed.

On Wednesday, there was a outbreak of covid at work, I tested negative, and went home at the end of the day feeling fine and excited for a day off, only for there to be a pretty severe fire in my apartment building. Luckily, no one was hurt and nothing too important was damaged, and I was able to replace what was damaged beyond repair, and everything seemed okay. I handled the fire and that intensity rather well. Cleaned up the room, replaced stuff, watched TV. Nothing too terrible.

Then I was told I needed to move to a new room while the building is repaired. Again, annoying, but doable. Then it was that I had to go to this hotel in the middle of nowhere for the weekend, far from work or home.

And then I got covid.

I spent that weekend in the hotel sick as hell, got home today and moved into my new room. Went to the store, got covid tests...I have this inescapable fear that somehow I'm going to lose my job (there is no evidence for this, just a worry I have...I have pretty severe work PTSD, and it likely is only in my head, but...what if it's not), the new room is fine but it's small and I don't feel terribly comfortable, I still feel a bit sick and...

Well, it's a lot. 

I hate whining. Or, rather, hate sounding like I'm whining, and I often fear that I am a whiny person in the eyes of others. People tend to get annoyed at my apologizing, my over-explanation, my various other likely-autistic traits...and I don't want to be whiny. I don't mind complaining. In fact, I kinda like complaining, but I can't stand the idea that people may think I want them to pity me.

Of course, all of this traces back to the same inescapable issue that is "But, Nathaniel, what do you care what other people think" and I don't, but I care what You think. To quote Turk from Scrubs. But that isn't why I wanted to write tonight, not really anyway. I mean, there was the desire to talk about the past few days, which have been somewhat lonely and isolating (it sucks going through scary stuff alone sometimes), but a simple recap is relatively pointless and unproductive. 

I haven't had a lot of time to process things, what with all the delirium, and stress, and fear, and all that stuff I've already driven into the ground here, but I do know that there is an inkling of an idea that I need to take some sort of stock of my life and what I've been doing.

Things had been somewhat on the upswing for me. Got out a toxic job, found one I didn't hate doing, was starting to make progress in developing basic working relationships and, maybe, even being somewhat liked at work. Granted, I'm poor(er) now, but it was an upswing.

Obviously, that upswing isn't gone, exactly (hopefully), but it has been kinda taken out behind the building and roughed up a bit, and when you take a beating, your life flashes before your eyes and other cliches...edible may be kicking in and I've been watching too much Rick and Morty...but it occurs to me that both the fire and the covid are, in fact, events that could have killed me, as they have killed others, and that while it feels like I'm being punished karmically, maybe it's also possible that fate saved me? Kinda all perspective, yeah? Especially if you don't really believe in fate, or karma, or luck...or much of anything really? 

Einstein did his best work when he was working as a Patent Clerk, or whatever. 

But, call it fate, call it karma, I believe we were destined to get thrown out of this dump. To go into business for ourselves.

Yeah. Edible kicking in. That was just Ghostbusters.

Point is: I didn't die. Again. So many times in my life these things pile on, and I get discouraged and feel like the world is ending, and somehow I get dumped on the side of the road to dust myself off and hike back to town, bruised and battered, but not dead or destroyed, and usually not that worse off than when I started. 

Granted, I rarely get ahead (not sure I have ever pulled that off), but I'm not as far behind as I tend to think I am, this time included.

But it does mean I need to maybe get serious about some things, even though many of those things are silly. I need to stop putting off watching movies I want to watch, for one. I need to figure out better living situations, I need to enrich myself more, get into the world, write stuff and make art. 

Trying to view this positively, which is rare for me...I'm going to have to cut this short before I make much sense of it. The smaller apartment means the horrible piece of a shit motherfucker of a roommate is even worse to deal with, and he has decided that 10pm is the perfect time to move his stuff in despite his doing nothing all day as per usual. Must be nice. And his dry heaving noises and his tik tok videos and all that other useless shit. 

I hate him so much. 

I actually have hated very few people in my whole life, and I genuinely wish harm upon this trash bag of a human.

Anyway, this was about the unusual way in which I have found myself adjusting to setbacks. It's rare that I hang onto, well, maybe hope is stretching it, but something hope adjacent? Maybe this journey of self-discovery is managing itself better than I thought. 

In taking stock, which was kinda the point of this (coming off of two events that have killed others who aren't me throughout history), I realize I have come to better understanding of myself in terms of my mental health, my kinks and sexuality (and maybe some spiritualism, these past couple months have been interesting in that mode of private self-examination, which isn't as dirty as that sentence sounds), my personal views on people, and my own ability to cope with setbacks. It isn't a bad start.

So, just gotta keep rolling with it, I guess. But I think I can do that. And that's actually...well, it's something.

Just wish I didn't feel like I had been hit by a truck. 

Backrooms and managing expectations

 Years ago, I walked into the Nickelodeon Cinema in my hometown of Portland, Maine to see Hereditary, a film that was blessed (and cursed) with a pull-quote heralding it "This Generation's The Exorcist." 

I didn't necessarily buy into that hype, mind you, but it admittedly did get me into the theater far sooner than I would have ordinarily gone (not quite opening weekend, but close), somewhat excited to see it. Ultimately, Hereditary largely delivered, but I found myself thinking a lot about the comparison to Exorcist and saying to myself that it wasn't that accurate a comparison.

This same concept is in my head right now, having left a screening of Backrooms just half an hour ago (give or take a few minutes), and finding myself not entirely trusting my own instincts. I opened social media upon arriving home and found at least a few people eager to get my thoughts on the film, and I found myself uncertain of what exactly to say about it. 

Ordinarily, I leap to my letterboxd and give a hot take review when I see a new film, nothing special or in depth, just a standard paragraph or two giving some broad strokes criticism and a star rating...but I find myself thinking that, in this case, that doesn't seem as fair as it normally would. 

This isn't because Backrooms is special (it's not), but because so many people are so hyped for this movie, dude. Just like I was. And I didn't want a broad, two paragraph review to contribute to that (in either direction). Because I currently find that hype working against me, and I don't want it to work against you. 

And before you get worried, I will give you my thoughts on Backrooms in just a minute (Jesus, you people are pushy) and no, there won't be any spoilers, but I'm realizing that the hype of the film is something of an enemy of critical thinking. I expected something from the film and, to be honest, I didn't get that expectation rewarded...but that shouldn't be held against the movie. That is my issue, and I have to work with that, and it has been on my mind since leaving the theater. 

Just like with Hereditary, it feels as if something was promised me in the marketing and general hype of the film that ultimately wasn't delivered, but then I realize nothing actually was promised. Just a trailer, some discourse, a few social media posts of people who liked the film, didn't like the film, hated the film, loved the film, whatever. People are upset that the film didn't incorporate the "lore" (I hate that term, by the way) of the overall Backrooms catalogue (which, like any other creepypasta that runs on a huge amount of the unknown, was aggressively jammed up it's own ass by chronically online people who can't just enjoy the concept of an empty room without needing to put something in it). People praise the film for the same reason.

I myself spoke not too long ago in a post about how curious I was to see if Backrooms would have an effect on the horror genre in the short term, if it would become a foundational text...and it might be? It certainly has already grossed enough money to ensure Kane Parsons isn't going anywhere, and likely will spawn sequels (there is something about the film that gives a certain mercenary "setting up a franchise" vibe, which didn't help, in my opinion) and probably will end up influencing the genre going forward.

All of this contributes to the exact same essential problem: projection of the self onto a work of art when the purpose of the art is to be absorbed into the self. Like I said before: there are people who cannot appreciate an empty room without needing to put something in it. And so, I walked out the theater finding myself trying to put something in an empty room because of my own expectations of what the room would be. So the best thing I can do, when writing about Backrooms, is to try and divorce those expectations and caution you to do the same.

It's just interesting how our expectations can get in the way of things, our own need to fill that empty space, and that is (in part, at least) somewhat crucial to Backrooms as a film: when is a search for meaning in the external nothing more than a projection of what our internal hopes for? What happens when we find something in the empty, but it isn't positive or constructive, but just our own empty expectations?

In some ways, this works for the film, in other ways it doesn't. Can I say that I found something about myself that maybe I didn't like in Backrooms? I can, and I bet most of you reading this can, too. Was it worth it? Maybe. That's what I can't quite figure out.

Backrooms largely delivers on the visual end of things, featuring incredible set design that creates a sense of otherworldly and that is, in the end, the film's core reason for being. If an audience wants to walk into the titular backrooms and see the strange lay outs, twisting corridors, uncanny rooms, and weird artifacts, the film offers plenty, and becomes an occasionally disorientating and unsettling experience. Parsons' direction is admirably confident, utilizing strong framing and camera work to maximize suspense in it's first hour, as characters attempt to navigate the space. 

All of that is well and good, but not quite good enough to keep it from mostly collapsing in the third act, and the reason for that is admittedly rather simple: script just ain't that great. The story and the characters feel largely interchangeable from any other A24 "Trauma Monster" narrative (no shade on actors Chiwetel Ejiofor or Renate Reinsve, both of whom are excellent (Reinsve in particular shines)), in which broken people run into something that just so happens to cause them to take a hard look at themselves, which is fine when it's interesting but Backrooms just...kinda isn't? 

At the end of the day, a concept like this runs into the same problem, and that problem lies in explanation. Even shows like Lost, Twin Peaks, and From inevitably suffer from asking questions they cannot entirely answer in a manner that will satisfy, and Backrooms falls into that same trap. "I am certain nothing in the world is more important than this place," a character says (paraphrased), "but I don't understand it." And there is no line that sums it up better. The film is saying a lot about the manner in which we, as flawed and broken humans, traverse the space around us, seeking meaning in the mundane and desperately avoiding the horrors contained within ourselves, but can't seem to find any meaning to it's own and, while one could make a meta-textual argument in terms of the art itself making a statement about lack of payoff in life(re: the film is the backrooms, and there's nothing there that you don't bring with you, ala House of Leaves), it doesn't entirely hold water. 

However, there thankfully are no expositional answers from old white men mumbling about a failed science experiment, creepy children making up fantasy realms, or ancient eldritch abominations rolling over in their sleep. There may be a Minotaur somewhere in this labyrinth, but if there is, they offer no answers...or much in the way of payoff. In the end, the characters just aren't that interesting, the story doesn't feel like it gets anywhere, spinning it's wheels in the same Trauma Caricatures that tend to permeate the modern "elevated" horror genre. 

It is as visually engaging and provocative as anything else you're likely to see this year, with plenty of surrealism and absurdist designs throughout (though there are things in the third act that will absolutely be polarizing, I don't care what your name is, but no spoilers means no spoilers...but I'm torn on one or two things), with nice moments of suspense and terror (liminal spaces lend themselves to that extremely well). There feels like there is a tonal disconnect that my gut tells me can be chalked up to the big names on that Producer list, like Parsons may have been mildly restrained, or the narrative muddled with in the name of digestible themes but, again, maybe I'm projecting? I do know there are occasional pacing issues, and I do know that a lot of it feels a bit shallow, and maybe more than a little trendy, and there is something of an uneasy desperation in the execution of the film...but maybe that is an intentional choice? 

But what did I expect? I guess I went in expecting House Of Leaves and got something more in line with Zach Cregger's  Barbarian and Weapons, which is mostly fine. I find myself thinking that I thought this would be more of a moody art film, not quite Skinamarink, but something more guerrilla, something more daring, something more transgressive and weird and challenging and it...wasn't. But I didn't want to hold it against the film. But taken on it's own merits, it feels lacking, like unmet expectations, but it doesn't quite feel like my expectations were the ones necessarily unmet, but rather a strange collective consciousness of hopes for something new and different that, when the space is navigated, offered little catharsis or further understanding. Just a series of rooms that we wish meant something, but can't quite manage to even find meaning in the empty room. Just, and this sounds harsher than intended, a shallow lie? A preliminary exercise meant to jog a few ideas but little else? There's something in the film to connect that to but, again, not quite enough for me to connect in any way that doesn't feel like an apology for underwhelming art.

So, instead of a couple paragraphs on Letterboxd, you get this. And this has been helpful to me in working through the film, so I appreciate you reading it. I hope I haven't discouraged anyone.

To sum up, for the tl;dr crowd:

Backrooms 3.5/5 Stars

Some uneven direction and a lackluster story hinder what is otherwise a visually interesting, well-acted series of sequences and sets that will satisfy most fans of both the original creepypasta, as well the those in the "liminal spaces" crowd, but casual audiences or fans of the wiki-driven versions will likely not find an awful lot of satisfaction in it's messy, "Trauma Caricature" story. 

Ejiofor is good, Reinsve is great, and the first half has tons of really neat stuff in it, but the overall effect is lacking in depth or substance, with what is almost certainly an extremely polarizing final act. What feels like it wants to be a guerilla filmmaking, surrealistic horror exercise, becomes another largely by-the-numbers A24 film, with everything that promises.

That's probably what's going in the Letterboxd, right there. 

As for my aforementioned statement about spotting something about myself that maybe I didn't like...let's just say that aspects of Ejiofor's character kinda felt too familiar, and are in line with a lot of themes in my own self-reflection, but you'll need to see the film to understand it, cause I ain't spoiling shit, yo.

Esoteric

 Been thinking a lot about art. 

In particular, art that presents a challenge.

Well, no, wait, let me start earlier.

So all of this stems from, not surprisingly, conversations on my podcasts (which I am disappointed that you aren't listening to. Unless you do. But if you don't, I'm disappointed. Also, please?) lately about foundational texts, marketing trends, and important voices in visual media. 

In the mid-90s, we saw the rise of names like Joss Whedon, Kevin Williamson, Quentin Tarantino, Spike Lee, Kevin Smith, Robert Rodriguez, and more, all of whom not only changed the way media looked and sounded, but created certain metafictional trends (re: characters who are familiar with media) in narrative, but also developed a certain "cult of personality" trend with their own personal characters (it's not an accident that their personas became pop culture just as much, if not more so, as the fiction they created. It is also not an accident that those very personas led to their decline in the very same pop culture spheres).

 All of this ran throughout film and television throughout the remainder of the 20th century and into the early years of the 21st century (and, notably, still are significant forces in media, even if their styles and ideas are largely relegated to certain nostalgia-based trends...even if one can argue the "Whedon" style is still utilized by Disney properties (most specifically Marvel, which is not surprising considering The Avengers was the film that stabilized that franchise), but that is another trend that is slowly(?) sliding into decline(??)), their influences felt across mediums and genres. It is worth noting, in fact it's fairly crucial, that the success of these trends is almost always preceded by other attempts that didn't land, there were more than a few meta-textual offerings in the horror world before Scream, they just didn't quite make it work, whether due to not being very good or-maybe more likely-simply being in the wrong place and/or the wrong time. (Personally, I'd take Popcorn over Scream, but most of you don't know what the former even is. And that's okay. In fact, that's so okay it is kinda the point I'm leading to eventually making.)

Self-aware Meta was undeniably in. Buffy discusses tropes and the blending of genres, just as Scream invokes the unspoken tropes of horror, Tarantino and Smith both are popularizing a certain "realistic" psycho-babble that speaks to a shared "common" experience, all of it bleeding into each other, the formulas and seasonings find their way through not only the artistic experience, but inevitably into the corporate world. 

However, eventually everything looks the same. Executives bury great ideas in popularized mechanics, the machine homogenizes creativity into easily digestible bits for the consumer. Also, attitudes towards these formulas change, audiences change, creative voices grow stale. There are a huge amount of reasons for change to inevitably become necessary. 

In the horror world, at least, this brings us to what is commonly referred to by the short hand of "A24 horror," or the more accurate and yet somehow even more condescending "elevated horror" or "art house horror," which is often attributed to almost any movie that is based more on performances, mood, and cinematography than the tropes, dialogue, and plot construction that generally popularized their predecessors (and provided the opportunity for subversion that allowed Whedon and the others to flourish). Again, there were attempts at this style prior to it's pop-culture success (maybe The VVitch is most likely to be considered the foundational text of that trend? Perhaps along with films like It Follows, Hereditary, The Babadook and a handful of others?), but didn't quite connect with an audience increasingly hungry for something else. But now that trend is starting to wind down, too, it seems even though many of those films are still selling well, but many of them are self-referential versions of the style.

Consider films like Skinamarink or In A Violent Nature, two esoteric extremes of the style that either connected very hard with audiences or left them befuddled and/or angry. Some people got it, others didn't, and both are valid responses to a stylistic trend that is attempting to remain in vogue, which isn't easy (especially as the style of film was already mildly polarizing from the start: the "art house" style was not as easy a sell to the majority as the "common man" subversion that dominated the mid-to-late-90s and 00s). I would argue Weapons was also a subversion that also left some cold. 

I can accept that people don't necessarily "get" these films. And, please understand, it is not a "failure" to not get these films. It is 100% okay for a film to be challenging and for an audience to not be up to that challenge. It doesn't make anyone stupid or bad. My only problem is when those same audiences claim the material is "bad" because they didn't (and I have witnessed this first hand), or claim that anyone who does get it is lying (also witnessed first hand). 

Today I was catching up on DC Comics' Absolute line, which is also a foundational text and is changing the face of comics, and realized that I don't get some of it. Absolute Martian Manhunter is a confounding book and, while I understand the broad story (and the art is incredible, a truly astonishing book to look at), I'm not sure I'm actually following it. Same for Absolute Green Lantern, which I'm understanding the basics, but I'm lost for half of it. I am not ashamed of this, they're surprisingly challenging books filled with esoteric ideas, spiritualism and philosophy references, and all kinds of wild shit, and they are amazing, but I have little idea what's going on. I'm not sure why I don't get it, feels like I should, and it frustrates me. But I'm not giving up on any of them (by the way, the other books-Absolute Batman, Absolute Wonder Woman, and Absolute Superman- are extraordinary titles that take on very modern social problems and they're fucking AWESOME), nor am I about to dismiss them as "garbage" because I don't understand them. But they are clearly the new trend of comics (Marvel is attempting it's own horror-based version, which I should be excited about, but it includes ideas such as "X-Men but they're Vampires," so I'm...eh?) and are connecting with audiences in a way comics haven't for a very long time (unlike film and television, which are more mainstream and constant, comics doesn't quite have the same trend-based staying power, usually resulting in periods of down time where status quo is inevitably reverted to), which is interesting because it looks more in-line with the late-stage subversive trends than a new foundation, but that may be a direct result of their esoteric idealism. 

I found myself wondering if The Backrooms was possibly the next "foundational text" for horror cinema. Like other texts of it's genre, there were attempts to create adaptations of creepypastas that didn't quite land, voices emerged from the world of the "common" (now standing largely for web original creators instead of the disaffected low income geeks that created the Meta stage, or the bohemian lifestyle weirdos of the 80s, or the revolutionary thinkers of the 60s and 70s, etc) that are already started to push that envelope. I think there's a very good change Backrooms could be the beginning of the next big thing if it is A)successful and B) y'know, actually good. Maybe it needs to be both, I dunno. But at least one of those qualifiers could cause a chain reaction in which more young voices from Youtube are crafting strange new visions from online original material, hopefully without resorting to AI imagery and other shortcuts. It may not have the guerrilla filmmaking appeal that previous generations have had, considering the proliferation of technology and an increasingly tech-savvy population makes DIY filmmaking a bit easier (but not easy), but also possibly a more personal experience. I'm not saying this trend may be one we old-folks may necessarily enjoy, mind you. I'm not rooting for either direction personally, just wondering if this is the change that moves horror into the next direction. But I feel like change is coming (and not just because sociopolitical conditions are undoubtedly a breeding ground for creative change, such as with the aforementioned Absolute comics line, which features Superman setting fire to a greedy CEOs factory in an effort to strongly suggest said CEO change his business practices to ones that don't exploit the poor, and a Batman who kicks the shit out of white nationalists. Seriously, read those books) regardless, and I'm curious to see what it looks like. 

Anyway, this has been on my mind for a couple weeks and I needed to something to do while I do laundry. Because I hate turning something on only to have to go outside midway through to change laundry over and shit. 

Maybe tomorrow I'll get back to writing more about myself. It has been awhile since I have used this blog for its intended purpose, and it's time I try harder to get this exercise working again. But I'm doing better. 

Why I Want To Be Famous

 I don't think I'd actually want to be famous.

It seems like a lot of work, really, and I don't like talking much to people as it is, let alone being swarmed by them, all of them armed with cellphones and microphones asking me my thoughts on which type of peas I like or which Pitch Perfect cast member defines me as a person (answers: mushy and any of the ones whose only claim to fame is standing next to Anna Kendrick. I might also answer "Any of them who isn't Rebel Wilson"). That movie was on the TV in the lobby of the new job last night. The sound wasn't on, but it made me confused and irritable.

I spent my morning going through a series of humiliations regarding new hire stuff. On boarding online for the new nursing home job was mostly just tedious, becoming annoying only when I needed to take pictures on my phone of my ID, SS card, and a selfie and had to convert them all individually to make them a supported file type for the website. Which is already way too much work for a job that barely pays above minimum wage, but this is the choice I made for peace of mind, so whatever. Sometimes it really tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune then take arms against the sea. 

The trouble began when I needed to sign into a payroll company site for the hotel side gig. 

Now, it's important to note that I had an account with this company before, from years ago. I have absolutely no idea what any of the login credentials are, I don't know what security questions I created, I'm not even certain what email is attached, this was literally years ago. So when I tried to log in, I suddenly knew what Indiana Jones felt like as he tried to reach the holy grail, except instead of big spinning blades, it's Kafkaesque bureaucracy. I eventually caved and went to their support chat, giving them every piece of information I had, explained a number of times that all I really wanted was to create a new account and forget trying to recover a previous one (because, again, almost all the information would be defunct by now anyway) but it was still Brazil style insanity, being asked questions I really don't have answers to. 

After twenty minutes or so, after multiple assurances that we were making progress, the agent says "Nope, can't help you" and then terminates the chat before I can say "The fuck you mean you can't help me?"

The least you could do is put a baby mask on and torture me. Nothing is worse than summary dismissal. I can tolerate a lot of nonsense, but to be marginalized...that is a severe irritation. And I do not do well with irritation. When it comes to big problems, I tend to just bounce back, but irritation? Suddenly I have a particular set of skills, and you best sleep with one eye open, because I'm coming for you and everything you hold dear. 

Eventually this will get solved, my boss will call someone, whatever. But try telling that to David Banner when he's Lou Ferrigno. So I tagged them on twitter to let them know I am dissatisfied with their customer care, especially customers who don't actually want to use their service, but are being forced to. It was a pointless, futile gesture, one made entirely of pointless spite, and an AI account did say "Sorry about that, chief, what's say you and a totally human and not-at-all chatbot have a very human conversation about human matters. Like, Number 5 is alive, am I right? Ha ha, what is kiss?"

Y'know, back in my day, you just went and got a job. You did that job, you got paid, the end. Now there's a dozen payroll companies all providing what is essentially the same "service," which is to make Human Resources an administrative redundancy (and, let's be honest, it always was. Name one useful HR rep you've ever met.) and essentially farm more personal data. Over the years, I have used many of them (I still have apps on my phone for three separate payroll companies, none of them this one, and the new nursing home job wants me to download yet another) and have yet to have a good experience with any of them. All are the opposite of user friendly, a strange other world of tabs, forms, a veritable appendix of appendixes in that it serves no purpose, but if it blows up it can kill you.

Anyway, why was I here again?

Oh, yes, why I want to be famous.

Long walk.

The only reason I could think of would be for revenge.

Like, I want to be the anti-influencer. Anti-Marketing. Become a famous author and then say:

"Ahem, here is a list of every employer, company, business, and individual who has ever mistreated, marginalized, or otherwise cheated or inconvenienced me in any way. I, your beloved hero, am telling you, adoring public, not to use their services, buy their wares, or break when you see them crossing the street."

Not enough famous people utilize their fame to fight again capitalism, which has made us all helpless automatons, unable to navigate an increasingly difficult world in which we have no money, power, or free will, victims of the rough beast that slouches toward bethlehem.

It is literally the only reason I can think of for being famous, because wealth does not interest me in any way (not that a decent amount of money would make me unhappy, I just don't want mansions and car collections and any of the other misappropriations of resources the wealth elite use to violate the world and other people: they're all villains, even the ones you like, never forget that), would be to bring the very system of fame down to ruin. 

I should probably get on that.

Yes, All Men

 I am severely sleep deprived at the moment, but I wanted to sit down and throw some thoughts together on an issue that is deeply concerning and fills me with insane rage and incredible sorrow, and that is the news this week that there is apparently a website in which Men shared tips on how to drug their female counterparts so that they could rape them. 

A "Rape Academy," if you will.

Not only that, but also stories were shared in which men drugged said women and invited other men to rape them as well.

And this site that tens of millions of views.

...

I wish I could say this surprised me. 

It doesn't.

This is a difficult thing to discuss, for a number of reasons, but I feel it's important to do more than share social media posts and memes decrying it, because that requires no self reflection, no conversation, no real thought. To share a post isn't even technically acknowledgement or agreement, it simply is boosting someone else's thought, and men are far too silent on this issue.

It's a difficult subject because you worry you'll say the wrong thing, you'll make things worse, you'll overstep bounds...sometimes the best thing a straight, white, cishet male can do is recognize they have no lines in the play and should just keep their mouth shut. Normally, I tend to lean in that direction more often than not (which is the definition of a poor sentence, but this is a stream of consciousness blog, so deal with it) because I want others to have that space for their voices.

The subject is also difficult because, when a man discusses it, they have to confront unpleasant truths about themselves, but considering I've made a career out of confronting unpleasant truths about myself (makes up probably 90% of my depressing and anxious thoughts, after all), that shouldn't be too hard.

So it's difficult to talk about. But sometimes...well, that means you have to talk about it. 

I was originally going to say "I'm against it" and let others do the talking, until I saw the call to action from many women directly asking us men to talk about it, and the only thing more important than shutting up is listening.

So I listened.

For a couple days now, I've been seeing the posts, the anger, the sadness, the hopelessness. The memes, the frustration, the outcry at the silence...also the pushback. The "not all men" comments, the resurgence of the "Man or Bear" meme...just now, prompting me to begin writing, was a meme in which a woman shared a photo of herself in a hospital bed after she was body slammed in the parking lot of a gas station by a man whom she refused to give her phone number to, along with a comment from a man stating (I'm paraphrasing) that "men need to respected" and I nearly threw up.

I'm finding it difficult to pontificate on the point that "rape academy is bad." Back in high school, my debate coach told me I had a tendency to accept certain points as self evident, and that it would hurt my cases, and I don't think I ever had the ability to really correct that, so I lack the ability to explain why "rape academy is bad" because that shouldn't need to be explained. Feels pretty fucking self-explanatory.

And yet.

But I do want to talk mainly about the "Not All Men" nonsense.

Because FUCKING YES ALL MEN. 

Even you, bro, and even me.

Every woman has a story about a man, and EVERY man has a story about him. 

I'm sure I'm the subject of more than a few, in fact, and that keeps me awake at night, as it should every man.

I know that I have never intended to harm anyone in my life. This is not an excuse, it simply is a truth of myself, but it is also true that I absolutely have created spaces that were unsafe for women. I have done is a partner, as a friend, as a coworker, as an employer. I never once intended to do so, I always believed myself a feminist, a promoter of equality, and someone who seeks to actively buck the patriarchal systems that dominate this shitty world in hopes of being a "safe" man. I think maybe sometimes I have succeeded, hopefully more so than I failed, but that's the thing, right? Just a couple weeks ago, I patted my female coworker on the shoulder, and then thought for a second and apologized to her for touching her without consent. I mean, I hate being touched and yet I felt like that was okay. She accepted the apology, even though she thought nothing of it, but I still felt guilty. And yes, even something that simple is relevant. 

I acknowledge that I have failed on many an occasion, and I try to keep that in mind, take responsibility and accountability, and be better today than I was yesterday. I feel sick when I think of some things I've done and said in the past, the way my words and deeds have been interpreted, and I cringe when I think about the man I've been. I acknowledge that, even in my forties, I have a lot to learn, a lot of growing to do, and I spend a considerable amount of time thinking about it.

There have been times when I am walking behind a woman and realize she's getting nervous, and at first that feels like an insult, and then I remember the simple fact that she has to get nervous for her survival and it breaks my heart. I want to say "You don't have to worry about me, I'd die before I harmed you" but I realize that likely would only make things worse. I try not to be behind women if I can avoid it, I try not to get too close, give wide space...because if there is something I can do to make her feel even a tiny bit safer, why wouldn't I?

But apparently that's too much for many a man. Still there is a persistent "Not all men" conversation, the idea that "men are protectors" and PROTECTORS FROM WHAT?! Fucking YOU?!

And to the women out there...I'd choose the damned bear, too. If for no other reason than the bear isn't going to mention Andrew Tate or Joe Rogan when it's trying to kill me. Bear is probably smarter, too, really. 

I wish this was more eloquent. I really feel strongly about this and I don't feel like I'm getting it right. I'm getting emotional, it hurts my head, and I really wanted to make something polished and proper but it's turned into a mess, but that is what stream of consciousness gets you sometimes, and Nathaniel don't do two takes. 

In the end, the purpose is to say that I hear the women out there, I see what they're going through, and I am urging other men to do the same. Do not be silent, do not be blind, do not condone. Call your friends out, your bosses and coworkers, and do better in recognizing the space you create for those around you (hell, not even just women: the world would be a far better place if we used some basic awareness of other people around us). Because you are creating that space, guys, feminism is not "taking over," there is no "girlboss" agenda affecting your agency. Men still have all the power, you see it daily on the news as our country continues to become the most pathetically evil force this world has ever seen and, while you may not to be able to do much about the macro power structure, you have way more influence over the micro structure than you realize. You absolutely do create the space around you, and you can always do more to make that space safer. Acknowledge that privilege and use it be better. You want to be protector? Create a space where no one needs protection. You want to be the man she chooses over the bear? Be better than the fucking bear. 

And, seriously, if you happen to be one of the 62 Million (?!) men who attended this rape academy bullshit? Eat shit and die. Because while I strive to make my spaces safer for others? You sure as shit ain't included. But there is always time to rethink, atone, and act right. Acknowledge you've done bad, and try to be better tomorrow than you were today. It's not about apologies, it's about correcting the course. 

And to those affected, triggered, and frightened by this, trust me when I say that I am genuinely sorry for that, and I make the very solemn pledge to practice what I preach. I will never say that I am genuinely safe, because I acknowledge I am a product of a system I abhor, but I can say that I will always listen and believe women, that I will always try to be as safe as I possibly can be. 

And please continue to be safe. Whatever it is you have to do to feel as safe as you can be. Cover those drinks, walk to the car in groups, carry that pepper spray, whatever you need to do. 

Because Yes, All Men. And that fucking sucks.

Trapped

 Feeling particularly trapped tonight. I have this interview in the morning, which is for a job I likely will find more tolerable, but it pays nothing and is likely part time, and I simply don't know if I can manage it (even though my overhead is the lowest it's been since the early 2000's). I could be wrong, and it could be full time or at least roughly 32 hours, which is potentially doable, but I doubt it. 

Every single week, two nights a week, I am asked to work the desk alone at the hotel I work at, and it's way too much for my anxiety. I have panic attacks before these shifts even occur, and then usually have at least one while on the job itself. I am the only non-manager (and the only individual besides my direct boss) to be asked to handle the job alone, and it's more responsibility than I feel comfortable with, the environment is always hostile (loud noises, lots of check-ins and guest requests, angry guests, not to mention the multiple times a night people can't seem to figure out how to pull open a door and get mad at me about it), and it leaves me feeling very tired, stressed, and deeply anxious. 

I have made it clear how I feel about it. To anyone and everyone. Every time, I'm told "well, there are times you have to work alone," instead of even the barest amount of sympathy (even a platitude of "we're working on hiring someone" would be sufficient in at least making me feel like anyone gives a shit) or effort, which essentially means I feel taken advantage of and undervalued. 

This isn't really new, really, that is generally what happens with capitalism, but considering that I didn't originally work alone here, it really sucks to go through on a weekly basis. It makes me feel very angry and exhausted and generally exacerbates my mental health issues (which I also have made clear many times: I told them I have an actual diagnosed anxiety disorder in my fucking interview) and yet, I am at best dismissed, at worst mocked. 

So I spend my whole week dreading these two shifts, find it difficult to relax and rest, and even when not alone, I feel increasingly angry and insulted and hurt that no one considers my feelings even worth discussing, let alone making a concession for. And it's not like there aren't people who could work overnight with me. Shit, they could sleep for half of it and I'd be fine, as long as I know there just is someone else. 

And I come back to the same problems. Can I afford to take a different job? If I do, will I ever get out of the one room I rent in a city I largely can't stand? Is this all in my head? I keep working on the assumption that it is in my head, and it has kept me working through for a month now, but nothing has changed, and I'm feeling more and more disgruntled. And that's assuming they'll even hire me somewhere else. I find the easier jobs, the ones where I have less responsibility, they never seem to want to hire me...I assume I'm overqualified (and I am, let's be clear on that) and therefore not taken seriously as an applicant. I went into that movie theater last week, told the manager (who was, y'know, twelve years old) that I genuinely wanted to work there, regardless of salary limitations, because I liked the work and the environment, and he told me he might call me in for an interview but hasn't. 

I'd love to work two low paying, low responsibility jobs. Nursing home dishwasher by day, movie theater by night, low pay but peaceful mind, close to home, generally rushing around...it sounds quite nice. But these places aren't calling, aren't hiring, aren't interested. Job hunting used to be simple and easy. But then, so did getting an apartment. So did commuting to work. As capitalism tightens it's evil, republican stranglehold on America, the harder simply living becomes. So, even though a simple, quiet life seems immanently possible, it keeps being yanked out for needless reasons. 

Therefore, trapped.

It's possible I'm sliding into a depression stage of the cycle again, but I don't necessarily feel that way outside of situational forces. I don't really hate myself right now. There is also the intrusive thought or memory, that still happens on a good day, but nothing that drags me into things. I've even been sleeping a little better lately, my sleep cycle has remained largely consistent (even though I find myself wishing more and more that I could go to bed at night when normal people do more than usual the past few weeks), and social interactions with friends online (the only method in which I actually socialize with friends these days) don't feel as negative. So is this just sliding into the dark side? I dunno. It doesn't feel that way. But I can't trust my own thoughts and feelings most days, and that is a deeply frustrating thing to feel. 

I know some people know what that's like, the fundamental lack of trust in ones own mental and emotional state, but if you don't? It sucks a lot. Never being sure if a feeling is your actual intuition or just you being crazy, that gut feeling could be your instincts trying to help you, or it could just be your brain lying to you. 

So, no idea what to do, really. I know I'll go to the interview and see what's happening. At least we start there. But even if that goes well...I have to face another night alone at this place? And I know it's going to be a lousy night...it will be frustrating and filled with anxiety (and I know, because I already am anxious about it: I took a walk around the building in the warmer weather just to stave off a panic attack), and I will leave feeling worse than when I went in, and nothing will change. 

As Buffy once said: the hardest thing to do in this world is to live in it. I know living in it is the one thing that makes me not want to anymore. 

Can't get no (satisfaction)

 It's been almost a month since I wrote anything, but I've been meaning to get back to it, but haven't really had the time at work (and never did get into the habit of working on it at home), nor did I really feel particularly compelled to do so...just haven't had as much on my mind, I guess? 

The upswing of depression has mostly held, anxiety has remained high, but I have been sleeping better. Most of my general frustration has been work related, but I do keep coming back to a familiar problem, which is my own strange dissatisfaction with my own lot in life.

I often find myself wishing I could just, y'know, be okay. With my life, in general. I have housing (while not great, it exists and is relatively affordable), a job that pays okay (even if it is often frustrating and fills me with considerable anxiety and irritation), relative health (?) and at least a few good friends, even if they aren't necessarily close by and/or available for regular hangouts...I mostly spend my time watching movies and television and taking edibles, and that really ain't so bad, since it's pretty much all I really want to do. Media makes me happy. All I really want out of life is to watch movies and television and talk about them with my friends.

So, why aren't I happy? 

I mean, sure, I'm lonely and would like to experience love. There is that. With spring beginning, I suppose that sensation begins to become more prevalent: the wanting of a partner and everything that comes with it. 

And, sure, I share a bathroom? That is an issue, too. 

I feel ashamed of my living situation? I'm in my forties and live in a single room in a bad neighborhood, it's not exactly spanish fly with the ladies...or so I assume, since I haven't spoken to any women I might be interested in (sans awkward maybe-kinda-sorta flirting with a coworker I have a little crush on), so I have no idea. I know I always believed that the kind of woman I'd be interested in being with wouldn't care about such shallow things like living situations, income, body hair, height, weight, and amount of hair on my head (I mean...she'd have to be) but it's one thing to believe in that, and another to actually experience it. Not to mention a ton of rejection sensitivity that had always been there, but hasn't gotten any better in my advancing age. 

Often, I find myself thinking that I should be doing better, most people my age have families and houses and long term jobs and all sort so things that I probably should have. I can't tell if I don't have those things due to my tendency to self-sabotage, my mental health issues, or simply bad luck (it's probably a combination of all of those things), but here I sit without them. And I know that at least part of it is my own poor decisions and a general sense of never being satisfied with things I do have. 

I don't know how to fix half the shit that's wrong. I don't really know how to fix my housing situation (money is easy enough to put together, really, I just haven't been bothering, spending money on things that momentarily make me happy instead of planning for any long term goals) without dealing with frustrating things like credit scores, accounts in collection (pretty sure the roach haven I lived in briefly in St.Louis renewed my lease and then evicted me, so applications for housing keep coming back with less than stellar results), and other fun things. Unfortunately, the current state of our country doesn't help much of anything, as housing becomes even harder to manage. But I can't blame it all on that.

The point I'm getting at is that I always had this thing where I look at what else I could have instead of looking at what I did have. There was always a better job, a better place, a better life...but never any sense of satisfaction with my current position. Like Luke Skywalker: always looking to the horizon, never focused on where he was, hm? What he was doing. 

And now I fear it's too late, and this is where I am, and what I am doing, and I'm worse off than ever. I made a decision when I moved into the room, that I would take my time and stand still instead of chasing the next decision, the next hurdle, the next goal. But I find that to be very difficult and stressful, to not be planning, or just to not even have a plan. I always had a plan, folks, always, and now I don't. Just podcasting, working, and trying to sleep enough to manage those things. Which is going well enough, at the moment, I suppose, even if I sometimes worry that I'm losing my voice (not literally) in a lot of ways. 

Partially, that was what this was for. To regain that voice. I probably should try to write some fiction, put together some kind of art. This situation does feel like a starving artist kind of scenario, and maybe that'll give me some confidence to figure out what's next, or at least, y'know, talk to a girl. Because, while maybe I can't change my circumstances much at the moment, I can probably do something about my confidence. 

Perhaps productivity can be the first step towards a new horizon. 

There's probably more to say (or at least a more coherent point to make), but things are beginning to get busier at work, so I should probably stop writing.