24 November, 2015

Rust, Chairs, And Dating People




presented by
Mystic Metals Body Jewelry



Rust, Chairs, And Dating People
11.24.15



I haven't written in over a year. I haven't written anything. Some poetry here and there, but it isn't 1550's Florence, so writing poetry doesn't amount to much of anything. I've had some people ask me about the blog. What's happened to it, why I stopped, that type of thing. My quick answer is that a blog, anyone's blog, isn't anything real and it doesn't matter. It's just some cocksucker behind a keyboard venting baseless opinions and unresearched fake-facts. I didn't have any real answers except that life sucks dog shit off of one of those dip dust candy pouch stick things. But that isn't a real excuse, is it. Everyone's life sucks. Or at the least, everyone has an innate ability to find the tiny, fly shit sized thing in his life and extrapolate it into being the thing that is dominating his every little thing. Which often, it really isn't.

That's the quick answer. So let's get into whatever it is that I do. This blog is being written by request.

I was asked to talk about myself. I typically stay pretty guarded about certain things about myself. Other things, opened book. I do have a rule, however, that I'll answer any question I'm asked honestly. I don't usually offer information. But I was asked to talk about my handicap, so I'm going to do that. You're welcome, Jet.

Specifically, Jet and I talked about love and relationships and how it relates to my perception of my handicap. Pretty specific, but I was asked, so here it is. It sucks. Thank you for reading this blog, and stay tuned for...

In all seriousness, it's difficult. There are a couple layers to it. The first layer is getting the date. I know, I know. That's hard for everyone not named Marquis. (Inside joke.) But rattling around my empty skull are some very specific lenses through which I see things. Here's an example.

When I'm in my wheelchair, I'm a lot shorter than I already am. And if you know me, I can't spare that much height already. But in the chair, I'm ass and ball height. Sometimes a cashier may not see me because of too many impulse buy bullshit displays on the counter, and I have to say something. I usually clear my throat; it's more polite. People lean down when they talk to me. One of the few things I miss from being a bass player for all those years was that on stage, people had to look up to me. Not in admiration, but in actuality. Similarly, when I'm in my chair, people in actuality have to look down on me. To tether this in, when I'm trying to talk to an able girl, I already feel inferior. As cool as I may try to look with my elbow resting on the push handles (let's see Fonzie look that cool), I already have a perception that she's talking to me out of a pity case or some sort of court ordered 'be nice to people' sentence. Odds are overwhelming that that isn't true, but what is and what feels are usually two different things. Every girl I've ever dated started knowing me standing with a cane. Never once did a relationship start in the wheelchair. There's some empirical credence there.

So let's say I got the date. (Laugh break) Let's say it's going well. (Guffaw break) Inevitably the handicap plays. It's there and I don't address it. Which is a problem with me and not the dame, I understand that. Actually, that's not entirely accurate. When I do address my spine, it's always comedy. Always jokes. It's like meeting someone for the first time, stranger or whomever, and not knowing where the profanity line is. I tend to use as many words as I know as much as I can. That includes the ones we've been taught are 'bad' ones. I say fuck a lot. I say cunt regularly. I'll even use the dreaded race words. Because words are descriptive, and words are not actions. They're just words. Returning from the tangent and getting back to the analogy, when you meet a stranger and you don't know where their language line lies, you wait. The first shit word or fuck word I hear from the stranger, I know those words are in bounds. Same thing with the crippled shit. I'll drop a joke pretty quickly so that we know there are no elephants here. Make your joke. I may use it in the future if it's a good one.

But very rarely am I to talk about my handicap in a useful and meaningful way. My opinions toward it are not very rosy. Not much about me is rosy. The idea is that I'm not going to waste time that I perceive as valuable and pleasant with melancholy, my spine hurts and I'm sad about it bullshit. We're together; let's talk about nice things. Or baseball. Let's always talk about baseball. The problem is that my not talking about it makes it grow like one of those spongy, twenty-five cent vending machine animal things that grow when you put them in water. Inevitably, it becomes a problem because barriers go up. There are things I can't do, and there are things I won't do.

Let's take a quick second to address the 'can't do' thing. There are things I can't do because of my handicap, and that's ok. I will never be a World Series winning second baseman. Never going to happen. And that's ok. Let's stop telling crippled people that they can do anything. It's a lie we perpetuate whose merit only facilitates misery and regret. Crippled people can do different things, for sure. Watching able hockey players try to play sled hockey is hilarious. They can't do it. But a legless man will never play in the NHL. And that's ok. Let's please stop with this 'every kid can be an astronaut' thing. It doesn't help society. We need plumbers and locksmiths too.

Then we have the talk about how the handicap is a thing that is causing problems. I mean me and the dame; not me and the sled hockey players. I've never met one. I won't compromise because I'm stubborn. She feels awkward that this is a thing she has a problem with. We talk, end the relationship pretty politely, and then the two of us are friends who can't be together for a dumbassed reason. Nearly all of my relationships ended this way. Except the last one, which was even more complicated but didn't have much to do with my spine; so that was refreshing.

This is the pattern. And it's a shitty one. But there are some linings around those clouds. I wouldn't say that I have a keener perception of reality because my body is shit. That's stupid. I'm not DareDevil. There is a common refrain which I hear from people, mostly able people, that I am not my body. And though that is true to a certain degree, it's a flawed statement because the way by which I participate within reality is my body. So to a larger, interactive degree with other's realities, yes; I am my body. We have no other way to perceive each other. Ok, that's way off topic, and probably a thing for another day. What I do perceive, however, is goodness and gladness. What? That makes no sense. It does. I have strict rules and bylines by which I hold myself. Other folks, they get more of a pass, but I can see in them a glorious gladness. Potential and beauty. Sweetness and happiness. People are good things deserving of love and comfort. When times are shitty, that is hard to believe, and I suppose most of us think that is hard to believe. It's not. My role is to support. People tell me frequently that I have a pretty good attitude toward my handicap. And I suppose as far as they're concerned, I do. It's just context. I'm not going to join in on complaining with a stranger in line at the bookstore because the line is taking too long. There are bigger things to worry about. I'm not one of those assholes who think every malady is a clandestine blessing. It's not. Being crippled sucks and has ruined a lot of good things in my life. But it also has given me a perspective that I'd not otherwise had. Knowing how I think (and yes, most of how I think is a byproduct of my handicap; but just go with it), I'd be so much more of a cocksucker without the disability. If I could control my resurrection and exist all over again, I'm not sure I'd change much because even though rage and woe populates my brain ninety percent of the time, the perspective and ability to see the goodness of others that occupies the other ten percent is much more valuable and irreplaceable. The ten carries more mass than the ninety. Nine parts water, one part mercury.

So that is my perspective toward what it's like to establish relationships while sitting on wheels. Hope you're happy, Jet. Now get off my ass. Ok, fine; so I didn't really stay on topic, and the entire thing really didn't explain nor solve anything. But honestly, what have you ever seen on the internet that solved anything? Nothing. Nope. Just hate and kittens. If the internet were a state, that would be on its welcome sign. Proud Home of Hate and Kittens. Stay beautiful, kids.



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