136

I can't avoid it any more. My IQ is 136. I wanted it to be over 140, but it just isn't. It's time to move on.

As a child I developed a bunch of narratives in order to survive the constant onslaught of my vindictive gorilla of a super ego. These myths tend to center around some unexpressed, inherent, brilliance - waiting for the perfect moment to emerge.

From an early age, despite all evidence to the contrary, I held the belief that I was an unrecognized genius of some form. When the bulk of my age group started to drift away and eventually ridicule me, I wrote it off as just an expression of the jealousy of my less intelligent peers.

Well, it's time to let this one go. 136 is above average. By some measures it puts me between the 95th and 98th percentile. It isn't the deus ex machina my fragile juvenile mind needed, but it'll do.

I have spent too much time vacillating between the fictional poles of superiority and inferiority with regards to my intelligence. Maybe now I can put the matter to rest.

If I can ever shed all of this poisonous, crippling, self loathing I might be able to put it what brain power I do have to good use.

now i wanna be your dog

I can't hear this song without feeling shame and embarrassment. After my usual fashion, in the early 1990's I decided to be a rock star. I picked up the saxophone I hadn't touched since 1983 and got together w/ my friend Mike and the guys he was jamming with. Mike took, and I'm sure continues to take, music very seriously. We fell out pretty hard when I went paranoid schizo in 1992.

Anyway, they decided to play I Wanna Be Your Dog by the Stooges. There I am blaring musical garbage for a while - while the three of them, the real musicians, got into the song. I stop gibbering on the sax and pick up the mic and start to sing the song.

I finish and start to strut around, glowing with post rocking gusto, when I notice that they're still playing. Then, one of the guys that Mike played with starts to sing the song.

I had come in too soon. They had a thing going on, and I didn't get it. I felt like a fool.

I still feel like a fool. Writing this little post has been excruciating. I started to sweat.

I don't know why I cling to this poisonous shit. I've forgotten so much. Why do I need to remember this? It serves no purpose.

joy

I just performed a creative act and am filled w/ peace. So little of my job is creative anymore that when I get to design something it is incredibly satisfying.

I feel that I am in the right place and it will all work out.

Maybe it's just the coffee.

the phantom of the paradise

Jen and I watched the Phantom of the Paradise Friday night. If you haven't seen it and like kitschy early seventies rock operas with music by Paul Williams I highly recommend it. It is a pop-rock mishmash of Faust, The Picture of Dorian Gray, and The Phantom of the Opera.

I saw it in 1974 at the drive-in. I was four. It was totally inapproriate, but in my parents defense, they may have expected me to sleep through it.

As I watched it this last time, I identified some bad ideas that got lodged in my head and ended up skewing my life negatively. Whether this movie was the primary source of these constructs, or just a manifestation of the psychological environment my father fostered, I can't say. Regardless, they stood out clearly in all of their cartoonish sincerity.

Here's a list of the bad ideas:

1. The true artist is unappreciated
2. The system corrupts and destroys the artist
3. The artist can only love from afar
4. The object of the artist's affection will destroy him
5. Martyrdom is the ultimate expression of love

I absorbed all of these things.

why this blog will fail

This blog will fail. It may have already. At some point the entries will drop off. The period between them growing, until finally it will just sit gathering eDust^®.

The reason? My complex system of expectations. They are a trap from which no endeavor can escape.

If historical trends hold, I will, consumed with manic energy, throw myself into this blog. I will develop absurd expectations that can't possibly be achieved.

As I begin to fall short of these results, self-loathing and fear will begin to nudge me. My self-directed disdain for not living up to my expectations, and my fear of being judged and found wanting will form a fog that will descend on my brain, obscuring reality.

So, the tool I am trying to use to help repair my mind will be acted upon and destroyed.

Hammer into anvil.

inferiority for lunch

All morning I had been feeling mildly repelled by the idea of a heavy lunch. Had I gone with this I might have had a light, healthy, lunch. Instead I talked myself into going to Subway and having a 12" meatball sub, 2 bags of chips, and a coke.

I started to feel awkward as I pulled into the parking lot, and the feeling kept building as I stood in line. I felt a little embarrassed as I ordered, but my inferiority really kicked in when I saw what the man in front of me had ordered. He had a veggie patty on a 6" pita, covered with sauces and fresh veggies. To drink he got a cup of water.

This was the lunch that I should have ordered. This was an example of the way I should be living. Modest in portions, but enormous in satisfaction. My food was flat and heavy; punishing me with its artificial flavoring and density. His was complex and uplifting.

When the man behind the counter mentioned that both he and the man with the envied lunch were Brahmans (the highest caste in Hinduism) I started to feel like a lowly mongrel.

After lunch I started to compulsively find fault with everyone I saw. "This guy didn't pull into his parking space right." "Look at that guy's coat. You can tell he's weak just by looking at it." "That guy on the radio is an idiot."

I find myself in the middle of this pointless exercise. Something shakes my fragile sense of superiority and I react by wallowing in (self) hatred. I am especially susceptible to this when I know I am not in the right.