toxic cocktail

A writer, a person, a friend, a woman. I wonder why the planes are so flat, paradoxically, I can reach the bottom but not the top. The upwards slope is idealized in a way that makes me wonder what's really up there, and why I keep slipping. Is the peak a construct of society, and the happiness portrayed there simply fiction?

I have anger. Lots of it. I've never been able to figure out where it comes from. Tossing and turning last night after reading John Updike's Seek My Face my flitting thoughts kept me awake, but were more than revelatory.

..............I'm not really interested in what random people have to say to me (unless it's someone I really care about), even if it's some ridiculous story that might have really happened. I put on a good show though. Appropriate 'un huns' and 'reallys?', mixed with eye contact and appropriate questions. Is that even human? Therefore, I detest socializing without a little bit of booze mixed in to numb myself from feeling so exhausted bythe effort required for these encounters.

..............I'm not your typical artist/writer (stereo) type who lives in their own world and is absorbed in it, not affected by external factors. Quite the opposite. I feel too much, think too much, overanalyze and expect too much. This leaves me saddened and perennially dissapointed and unsatisfied- ultimately angry that I can't reach that mythical peak. Blissful ignorance. That place where people are happy and content with what they have and where they're going, and the simplest encounters are enjoyable.

Mix these two and a bit of booze together and you have a recipe for anger. This toxic cocktail takes me from mildly interested and sociable to completely angry and destructive. Starting at the root ingredient means looking at why I'm so mad at the world and expecting less from it. Expecting that I won't find that idealized version, and becoming comfortable with the version I have now.

Or, realizing that Truth is Ugly. My version of reality and reality seems to have a large discrepancy. And I think it's the truth factor. To seek the absolute truth about what kind of world I live in and the life I've created within it, I have to realize that it won't be pretty and won't meet my expectations. Ever.

I think alcohol works to take the blindfold off for me--- it shows me how distorted my perception of things are-- and it scares me. It makes me mad. Because in my world, I create an idolized version of things. The version at the bottom of the cocktail glass is certainly as raw as you can get. The guts, the marrow of how we live, it somehow never satisfies me. Reveling in the everyday workings - interacting with people, enjoying the sunshine, the satsifaction of a nice meal. I'm somehow numb to it. I think back and wonder- why was I not happy at that time?; that time I lived in the most romantic city in the world; that time I wandered the streets of Portugal- free to do as I pleased; that time I was with all of my friends in a bar watching a show. I wonder why I always feel that something's not there--- every moment has a missing piece.

I don't accept things how they are, but how I want them to be. And maybe that's why I write. Maybe I can write the effects of this toxic cocktail out of me, until all of my idealized notions of life are laid bare, splayed on the page naked. Except it's the naked parts, the ugly marrow that seems to come out-- the truth about how I think. Because, I play it well. Life that is. I play to the idealized notion that everyone has of me. Because how can I expect it from the world if I don't play the part? And when the blindfold comes off; the toxic cocktail plays it part? I'm desolate, i'm barren, i'm destructive, i'm angry, i'm sad, i'm ugly--- and maybe, that's the truth.