Tendency: an inclination toward a particular characteristic or type of behavior

After having not posted in two years, here’s something from a year ago. Click here, phthesisfinaldraft!

 

Frustration

Eyes blistered with tears
Budding from frustration
Before a failure to produce
Truths sought by the well-trained

Minds of Thoreau
Fair people are ubiquitous
Life is omnipresent
All comprised of matter

Of fact
WE are just chemical
Bonds sold by government
Puppets serving inflation

Deflating worth of
Reality, all encompassing
Truth is just a formality
For we are all lost in our psyche

Dead Man’s Cave

I needed help today
Caught in traffic on pain highway
But the traffic don’t ever stop
Just like the sound of an old tickin’ clock

Pullin’ out her bleach blonde hair
She stabs you with that wicked stare
A stare that only speaks one truth
The truth that she’s been hurt too

I wanna be a woman who
Pays her bills in a corporate suit
But you never wore a suit
Unless it was in the defendants booth

Momma please don’t look back
It ain’t nothin’ but a history fact
Thers’s a thing called a fictitious truth
You needn’t proof to know that I’m hurt too

Tears drop like candle wax
Hearts break like shattered glass
But tears will someday run out
And hearts come a round a bout

Searchin’ for a way to live
Lookin’ to forgive
I still don’t know just what I did
After all I was just a kid

I think I’ll build a boat today
Sail it from bay to bay
Get swept by a tidal wave
Find me in Dead Mans Cave

It

It <a fact or situation previously mentioned, known, or happening>

I woke up this morning regretting “it”
“It” made me feel less than (blank)
“It” made me realise how vulnerable I am to (blank)
“It” sees beyond the mundane conformable nature of (blank)
“It” sees the beauty in the utility of (blank)
“It” asked me to be better than (blank)
“It” asked me to be content (period)
So, that one day, I’d be worth “it”

Loneliness

The day I was born the nurses spanked me to ensure that I was alive (or whatever) and, naturally, I started crying. My father tells me I didn’t stop crying for the first two years of my life.

20 years and 5 months later I was sitting at a coffee shop where I met my ‘Modern and Contemporary Political Philosophy’ professor, Dean. I really didn’t understand how to write a philosophy paper- It seemed very foreign to me. He asked what my opinion was and I told him and he asked why and I couldn’t give him an answer. He then asked me who my favorite musician was and I told him I really don’t know and then I started crying. He asked me if I had always been so weepy and I, with the biggest ‘fuck you’ eyes I could muster, said yes.

But, I really couldn’t figure out how to argue why I thought Hobbes’ Leviathan was completely fucked up and a product (most likely) of Hobbes’ fucked up relationship to his wealthy aristocratic parents. And I really couldn’t figure out who my favorite musician was. I never thought anyone really wanted to know or understand my opinion anyway so what was the point of forming one?

I still don’t think many people want to know or understand my opinion or anyone else’s for that matter. It’s like when someone says, “Hello. How are you?” And you say, “I’m fine,” but really you’re not just fine. You’re actually really fucking depressed because you just moved back to a country comprised of fat people, over consumption and hipsters who smoke shitty American Spirit cigarettes, who’ve just asked, “how are you? How was your trip?” And you say it was fine, but really it wasn’t just fine. It was totally awesome and I met some totally amazing and different and cool people who, out of the kindness of their hearts, gave a complete stranger a warm place to sleep and a hot meal with green leafy things, which have become a total commodity because you’re completely broke and have been eating mostly processed foods for a month. But the person who just asked “How was your trip?” will never understand how awesome it all was and doesn’t want to. And then you become more depressed because these people just so happen to be your best friends and family and suddenly you’re all alone, converging in on yourself because you don’t know anyone like you anymore and because the people you do know don’t want to know the real you. And that blows so you’re just like “Well, fuck me. I’m just going to eat a dozen donut holes from Marie’s at 3 am because I don’t give a fuck about anything. So, fuck you metabolism!” And then I gain a bunch of weight and feel like a cow and hate myself for it, continuing the viscous cycle of depression caused by self hatred caused by loneliness.

And then I start crying because I don’t understand this blitzkrieg of feelings, just like the first two years of my life or the time I didn’t understand how to write a philosophy paper. And it also pisses me off to know that your reading this and the next time you ask someone “How are you?” you probably won’t want an honest or if you get one one you’ll realize e that you really don’t care and will continue being an apathetic asshole because that’s the person American culture has taught you to be. And you’re going to bitch to your friends about how fake she is or what an asshole he is, but the only fake asshole in this room is you.

But the world doesn’t have to be this way. I don’t think it should be this way. And I think it’s important to start by honestly asking ourselves how we are and giving ourselves an honest answer. Or else the hipsters are going to take over the world as they smoke their shitty American spirit cigarettes.

Eating Disorders: the Plague of American Culture

A vast majority of my friends and acquaintances (including myself) have suffered or are suffering from ragging eating disorders that continue to contribute to a culture of helplessness in the US.

For me it all began when I was in the 6th grade and I realised that my calves were twice the size of my best friend. I had self worth issues prior to this self-conscious realisation, but this memory seems to mark the beginning of the depreciation of my body image that has continued to haunt me for the past 10 years.

The part that sucks is that its not all my fault. Because if it were all my fault then it would be a lot fucking easier to take responsibility for it. If my eating disorder had manifested from my own imagination then it would be a lot fucking easier for me to get my self worth back and, you know, have a healthy relationship with myself. But no, this problem didn’t materialise for me (and you) within the self, but in the relationship of the people closest to us. And, sadly the media just so happens to live in our living rooms, bedrooms, and workplaces making them one of our most intimate and inescapable relatives.

For me it was my dad’s relationship to my mother. My parents got divorced when I was 9 years old because my mom cheated on my dad and therefore my dad hated (hates) my mom who I am a spitting image of. She, so generously, bequeathed unto me her body type, her eyes, her smile, her laugh, her sweet disposition, which serve as a constant reminder to my father of the hurt she incited in him. Especially at the age of 11, when puberty beckons and you start to look like a woman and you go from 118 to 135 lbs in three months because you’re using food to self comfort, shit gets real. I remember my dad telling me I had big calves (i.e. you’re too much like your lying, cheating mother) and then inviting me to go on runs with him because, apparently, I needed to change my body from its natural composition to fit his image of woman should be. And now your dads baggage is your baggage. It was enough to incite the vicious cycle of the ‘I’m fat’ mantra that has plagued my thoughts (and probably yours) for the last 10 years.

No matter what, you can’t help but think that you need to change your body and it doesn’t help when all your friends think the same thing. And then you’re all repeatedly telling yourselves ‘I’m fat’, reenforcing this image in your mind. And then on top of that you live in the States, which has the fattest people in the world second to Mexico. So now its not just you and your friends telling themselves ‘I’m fat’, but the entire United States, and in combination with our downtrodden economy, overall societal hopelessness. And to deal with the fact that you think of yourself as this walking gourd that the Fairy Godmother turned into Cinderella’s carriage in which her skinny ass went to a fucking ball where she met a prince who saved her from her evil stepmother and changed her life forever, further violating your self worth (because you need prince charming to fix your problems) just makes you feel even shittier.

And you hate yourself and your depressed all the time so nobody wants to be your friend. And on top of that, you’re now in high school and who you are is defined by who you hang out with. But you go to a preppy parochial school in which all the students come from hyper normal, white, upper middle class families. And of course you can’t help but hate every single one of these people. Because you’re secretly jealous of their uncanny white picket fenced lives, where their thin, athletic, good looking, 4.0 students who are all ivy league candidates and you imagine yourself as a fat, poor kid, who’s got no chance of going to college. And then you have no hope because you think you’re going no where in life and then suddenly this issue grows into an un-sizeable abyss that’s way bigger than you or I could ever deal with at 15.

So, you either self comfort with food (like muah) making yourself sick to the point where you excuse yourself to the bathroom, stuff a towel in the cracks to muffle the sound, and stick your finger down your throat; or refuse to eat, developing anorexia, as an attempt to take control over what is so out of your control.

All of a sudden, you’re 21, a year away from a college degree, with a very promising, profitable, adventure filled life ahead of you; and you’re laying in bed crying, watching every episode of Pretty Little Liars, which you’re strangely addicted to, drinking a litter of coffee because coffee is only 5 calories per serving so it can’t make me fat, thinking ‘I’m fat’ and having no self worth. But, eventually you write it out and realise that this is bullshit and so not worth you’re energy. So, you struggle to remind yourself that you are beautiful, you’re family loves you (despite their emotional baggage), and that this doesn’t have to be your consciousness. So, you move on, force yourself to eat something because your blood sugar is really low (which can’t possibly help), laugh, remind yourself that you’re really fucking strong and that you have the balls and bravery to overcome this disease, and accept this as your past, but promise yourself that this isn’t going to be your present or future. Let’s get real, you have better shit to do than fuel an eating disorder.

If everyone suffering from an eating disorder finds the courage to overcome this disease then maybe the world can change just a little bit. We can focus on the shit we care about most and insight even more change. Let’s recycle this energy into something productive, rather than self deprecating. May the force be with you. Peace.

Day 43:

High: Seeing the sea, feeling the sun on my skin, saying yes to the calmness and serenity (despite the fact that I am very stressed about midterms). 

Low: Going to an Irish pub for lunch. Not that I don’t like pub food, or Guinness, but I don’t like pub food, or Guinness. 

Gratitude: I’m am grateful for the sea, pebbly beaches, and people who willingly give you their time. Because time is precious, more precious than rubies, sapphires, and diamonds. We are all given equal opportunity to experience this moment. And what we choose to do with this moment is precious. Today, Ηπω (Iro), a young athenian woman, gave us her time by taking us to the crevasse of Γλυφαδα, in southern Athens. She took us to see the sea.

Learn: I learned that I have been out of the country for 43 days. I also decided what I will sacrifice for lent: sugar (even honey), alcohol, caffeine. These things aren’t good for anyone to begin with, let alone the feebleness for which I fall to them in times of weakness (i.e. my period, being stressed about school, being stressed about boys, being stressed about being stressed, being stressed about dishes in the sink, etc…) And Lent, just in case you didn’t know, is a season in Roman Catholicism celebrating the time Jesus Christ walked in the dessert for 40 days and nights without food and water. During the 40 days leading up to easter one is supposed to make a sacrifice like Jesus did. I’m not religious or anything– just spiritual. I think it’s a nice practice to sacrifice things you might think you are attached to. Attachment is based on ego, but non-attachment is based on spirit. We must let go of our ego self in order to live spiritually in light of love and happiness. So, that is why I am giving up these vices! So, that I may become freed from the ego self attached to them. 

Naming

I am often asked how I got the name, Payton. Despite popular belief, I wasn’t named after famous athletes such as Walter Payton, Gerry Peyton, or Peyton Manning. No, no, no, my parents don’t even know who these people are, having zero interest in professional athletics.

When my parents were young, they didn’t have many expenses and no children to occupy their time, so they would give into their passion for film by indulging at the movie theater.

While my mother was pregnant with me, my parents went to see the movie, “The Hand That Rocks The Cradle.” The movie follows a deranged woman, Peyton Flanders (Rebecca De Mornay), who loses both her husband and child in a tragic series of events. Peyton enacts revenge over the woman responsible for the death of her family by psychologically manipulating the situation in which Peyton replaces her as the wife and mother in the woman’s family.

Despite Peyton’s creepy, mind-fuckery factor, she enchanted my father (honestly, the mind-fuckery, creepy, crazy aspect to her character was probably on of the reasons he found/finds her so enchanting). He loved the way she dressed. She personified his idea of the perfect woman with her preppy and classic styling, not to mention the fact that she was 5’7”, blonde, blue eyed, and slim figured—his criteria for the perfect female. He’s fully aware of how shallow he can be. He’s a Taurus. I suppose he hoped, aspired really, that his own daughter would one day become the perfect woman as well, embodying Rebecca De Mornay, or Peyton Flanders.

When my mother was pregnant, my father made it clear only two names were acceptable for his baby girl, Marney and Peyton. This startled my mother because he’d never shown such passion before or had tried to make any family decisions. My dad simply went to his job every day at seven in the morning and came home around four in the afternoon. My mother worked as a phlebotomist and managed the domestic sphere of their lives (i.e. paying the bills and taxes, keeping the house kept, and food on the table). My mother made the majority of the decisions and was the authority in the household and for my dad to try to over step his chosen role (of complacency), not only surprised my mother, but also showed her the excitement my dad felt over my arrival. Now, she had a decision to make: Marney or Peyton.

In my mother’s life time, she had met only one woman named Marney and describes her as being “stout, unsightly, and not overly bright.” BAHAHAHAHAHA My mom thought it was a goofy name to begin with and even she’d feel guilty associating her own daughter with a woman of such caliber. So my mother went out and bought a few books on baby names and did some research on the name Peyton.

Peyton originated as a surname in the anglo-saxon region of the world, but has been adopted by contemporary’s  as a male’s name, which was important to my mother at the time. In the nineties women were gaining respect with the insurgence of the feminist movement, but most people, still embedded with the social ideologies of past generations, did not perceive the genders as equally capable of performing the faculties of, what traditionally were, male professions.  My mother didn’t want her daughter judged on the basis of having a feminine name due to people’s prejudices. She thought the name Peyton embodied strength, confidence, and assertiveness, which are imperative traits for any person, but especially for a female who would later find it her prerogative to make a home in a world made by men. So, by default, I was to be named Peyton.

After 16 hours of labor, my exhausted mother and father welcomed me into the world. Halleluia! Ok. She was so drained she couldn’t fully concentrate on my birth certificate. She thought the name Peyton sounded like it was spelled P-a-y-t-o-n. And while filling out my birth certificate that’s how she spelled it (ummm, where was my father?).

At the end of the day, I was named Payton after one of Rebecca De Mornay’s characters, Peyton Flanders, because my father thought she was h-a-w-t, hawt, spelled with an a not an e because of my mother’s exhaustive nature, but Peyton nonetheless.

Resolutions

With the coming of each new year one is expected to come up with some new resolution, or give birth to an old resolution. I know we’re 36 days into the new year, but it’s never to late to make resolutions. Here are 14 resolutions for 2014 (yeah, I know its cheesy. Whatever!):

1. Start a blog 

2. Develop a daily yoga practice

3. Do a forearm stand

4. Hand write letters to my “soul mates” to spell out why I am grateful to have them in my life

5. Do an allergy cleanse

6. Go on a meditation retreat

7. Run at least once per week

8. Plan a backpacking trip

9. Set off on said backpacking trip

10. Find an exciting, interesting, and slightly obscure internship.

11. Go Abroad

12. Host a family dinner for all my “soul mates”

13. Avoid yelling, screaming, and various other abusive behaviors

14. Don’t expect perfection from anyone, especially oneself

Resolutions, or goals in general, are important. I feel lonely sometimes. It’s not so much that, “I’m lonely because I have no friends and hate the world.” My loneliness is more of a derivative of not understanding my place in the world. I remember feeling especially lonely just a few months ago and my friend, Thom suggested I start a bucket list– to simply keep a small notebook and pencil near my bed to scribble done any silly thing that I found interesting to experience. I felt/feel comforted by this list of resolutions, my bucket list, if you will.

The sang goes, “you are what you eat.” I said this once to my mother and she retorted that, “you are the choices you make.” But even that doesn’t resonate with me because a choice, or choices, are always in the past. A choice represents the being we once were when we made the choice, not who we are now in this present moment. To try to understand oneself, or “find oneself,” is a self defeating task. You don’t find yourself, you build yourself. I think making resolutions, setting goals, even if you don’t accomplish them, creates a blueprint for building the person you want to be. The person who you want to be is more indicative of who you are than who you are… if that makes sense.

I have a new favorite mediation mantra. It starts, “I know I am breathing in. I know I am breathing out. Breathing in, I calm my body. breathing out, I smile. I dwell in the present moment. i know this is a precious moment.” (Rogers, Holly and Margaret Maytan, Mindfulness for the Next Generation) After repeating this mantra twice, it is shortened to, “In. Out. Calming. Smiling. Present moment. Precious moment.” If I am having trouble concentrating in class or being present and in the moment, in flow, mindful, I quietly chant this mantra to myself in my own mind. My friend emily introduced it to me. It’s nice I think. It’s important to stay present, otherwise life will pass you by.  

My Day with Mackenzie

In the other room I hear a young man’s voice ask my roommate, Dina if she’d like to grab a coffee or something. But I guess she had plans for day.

First of all, since our (Emily, Dina, and I’s) arrival to Athens and moving into our new apartment we knew we had a fourth housemate, but after nearly 4 days hadn’t seen or heard from them. Dina met him briefly one night, but the morning after couldn’t remember his name or what he’d looked like.

After hearing the young man’s voice, I was bubbling with curiosity over who our fourth housemate would be. The word “coffee” was enough to make me jump out of bed and throw the first reasonable, decent looking thing on, prepared to chip away at this little mystery.

I strategically made my way to the bathroom, where I knew he was, introducing myself, finally putting a face to the mysterious voice I overheard. I busied myself with putting my face on. I turned to him, “coffee?”

We walked from our apartment building to the kiosk on the main street to the right of our lane. We bought bus tickets and then waited at the terminal. While waiting for the bus, Mackenzie showed me some of his art, meanwhile I took a drag of his cigarette. He takes images, messes around with them on photoshop, then prints and cuts them up to put them back together. They were lovely pieces. Very abstract. Surreal. Dark. Yet lovely.

We stepped onto the bus. He asked me what kind of music I liked and from the time we got on to the bus, on the train, and into Monastiraki, I didn’t stop talking. I like just about every genre. Almost all the greats (except for the Stones. I hate the Stones).

I followed him through the many small side streets, cluttered with small merchants shops selling various items. He pointed to a cobbler who wrote poetry. And then a blind watch maker. We eventually made our way to a cafe called, TAF / the Art Foundation, sat at a table in the very center, and both ordered a double espresso.

It was nearly 2 by the time we sat to have our espressos, meaning I’d been up for three hours before having my first sip of coffee which is basically torture. I have no idea how I’d managed to be so polite and patient till then. I took a drag of my cigarette. It, along with my espresso and the small cookie that came with it, I can only describe as heavenly, as if I were floating on a cloud of bliss.

This cafe was special. I’d never seen anything like it in the States. It was outside, covered in what seemed like a thin sheet, in what once might have been the court yard of someone’s home. Plants were crawling from every crook– similar to a fairy’s refuge. From every angle there was a door or window and in each room was an exhibit of someone’s work.

The installations ranged in mediums. One room had a sculpture of an elephant, another of a floating paper table with floating paper cups and utensils. One room had a film playing. It made me feel very sad. The opening scene culminated in a man, who had been asked to be on a popular television show, dropped off on the side of a highway off the coast. There were two chairs, clearly intended for he and the host, but the host wasn’t there. He was alone. Anyway, no one ends up meeting him and all you hear is this booming voice and fake applause from a fake audience. And this guy just looks like he’s been tortured, having his mind fucked with and all.

Anyway we eventually left, headed toward another cafe/bar to grab a beer. Again, we crept through winding side streets and allys. We sat down at the six d.o.g.s. he ordered a Heinekein, I ordered a Fix. There was a rad table with a chair for a swing and we babbled at one another about the most arbitrary, but important, things. Sometimes the conversation seemed to end. I’d prepare myself for the disappointment that normally betrays me when I like a person– not like like, but like– but then something seemed to come up. He told me about his mother and her theory about the people we feel most connected with. You know, the people you feel the click with? Anyway, she thought these people were our soul mates from past lives.

We talked about all my favorite things: music, family, philosophy, and philosophy. He kept repeating the words, “…open heart…”

I would never say I have an open heart. To open your heart is to let it be vulnerable, unprotected, open to hurt. But i suppose we wouldn’t know happiness unless we understand suffering.

After the beers we left and made our way once again through Athens to a district called Karemeikos. Stray cats and dogs are ubiquitous throughout Athens. When we arrived at the “bar” (I forget the name) there was a pup that sat at our feet while we listened to nice music and sipped our beers. We talked about our dads. Not necessarily our relationship with them just them, by themselves.

We went to a restaurant in Karemeikos, serving traditional Cretan food. We had zucchini cakes, flava, greek salad, barbecued mushrooms, and this unbelievable creamy tomato and egg dish, which was unexpectedly my favorite. As turns out Mackenzie is also a vegetarian– it’s nice. He eats appetizers like mains too. I guess I don’t feel weird about that so much anymore.

Anyway, we went to two other places, both very nice. One, the first, was in an old run down looking building in which the ceiling looked like it might cave in. I tried Metaxa for the fist time here. It’s a sweet brandy with hints of rose and licorice. It’s nice. It comes with chocolate. The second was a gay bar, far more modern, fashionable if you will, and had a DJ who played Madonna while we sipped red wine and ate chocolate mouse.

He’s has taken me several adventures since my first day with Mackenzie. Last night we went to this district of Athens that’s become a popular venue for political demonstrations, run over by the youth. The hand painted flags protesting fascism and Golden Dawn inescapable, hung from every lamppost in the square. We played on the swings and teeter-totter carelessly, hopeful in our escape from reality. We ate dinner of appetizers (yet again) at a very nice restaurant just across from the part that played nice jazz music and was cheerfully painted in blues, yellows, and pinks with a rustic staircase that creaked, announcing to all your journey to the toilet. I’m heavy footed. But they played nice jazz and gave us free shots of something sweet so my utter dismay at the announcement of my venture to the facilities seemed to be righted.

I fell off the teeter-totter while trying to touch a leaf just out of my reach. We bailed and laughed the entire way home.

I was… concerned about whether or not I’d be able to make friends while I was here. But I think I’m doing alright.