Monday, October 14, 2024

[1163] Boo Collar

It's official, I can say I've "worked in manufacturing," even if it's been barely. I found myself on a shop floor moving things from one bin to another and one said of the room to another, tailing an older gentleman who had been working there for 22 years. 90% of the job I learned in the first hour. I have a solid-enough instinct for staying out of the way from racing forklifts. I made 3 small errors that took less than a minute to rectify.

I was there because i've cornered myself into absolutely needing "a job." A temp agency placed me there. It's a touch more than half of what I'd make in my field. They've already made an issue out of "overtime," essentially keeping it secret what that would precisely entail until you're on the floor. The shift is, technically, 6:30 AM to 3 PM. You get a $2/hr "bonus" if you have "perfect attendance" which can be undermined by showing up 5 minutes late any day. With overtime, they expect you to stay until 5 PM. 

 What this means is essentially a 13 hour day, 5 days a week, at what is grinding, mind-numbing work. I have to try to force myself to sleep early, which never works, wake up at 5:30ish, get to work early enough to not threaten my "bonus," and then get home 6ish. Invariably thinking about how fucked my life has become. I know, even as my best self, I cannot sustain that. It's not labor intensive. It's not too quick paced. I'm not going to complain about my aching back and hands from walking around and pushing things on wheels. 

What struck me most was the people. You could see the deadened resolve of "these are my circumstances." No one was really talking to each other. Very few people even feigned smiling or head-nodding as you walked by. You are made into a machine, and you perform your function at or better than the pace indicated overhead. The gentleman I got temp-hired on with worked there previously for a couple years, then explained how bad it got and why he had to leave. He complained that similar jobs were on offer in or near his home up the road in Brazil for $18-$22 an hour, and he's just biding his time until one of them calls him back. 

 I'm desperate enough that I think I can shut my brain off for a couple weeks. I also immediately applied to every remotely open, regardless of how poorly rated, addiction counseling company, located anywhere, I could. Certain experiences have a way of clarifying why you’re no longer willing to be picky or high-minded about what impact you might have. Watching souls actively leaving dozens of bodies is one of those experiences.

It also got me thinking about the fervor and entitlement in the voice of the guy who hired on too. It brought me back to Steak N Shake, where the drug-addled children spoke so highly of themselves and how screwed the place would be if they quit. Everyone has this story about their place and vital position in these massive corporations who literally wouldn’t notice if you died 30 seconds after your shift and just outside the parking lot.

It’s with that blind and naive pride that you get people defending their low pay, exploitative overtime hours, and weird gamification for $1,000 drawings if you download the company app and spend too much at the company over-priced mini-mart. It’s one, insanely huge thing, to negotiate with yourself to handle financial business by entertaining a place like that just long enough. It’s entirely another to be born and bred from that culture, baked into it like it’s normal or human to be set on repeat, insofar as we are pattern-seeking animals, but goddamn.

It’s one more instance I get to bear witness to as far as “chronic conditioning” is concerned. You might be fooled into thinking it’s more a Tetris-like zen going through the set of motions related to your very specific lane. But it’s so much darker than that. And, to be sure, I begrudge no one who enjoys their work or provides for themselves or their family. I just find it excruciating to think about how the baseline conception of a conscious human is so far removed, it’s less hard to imagine why we’re always teetering on a meltdown.

Saturday, October 12, 2024

[1162] Mad Man

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on the idea of me being “angry all the time.” It’s one of the most true and consistent things about me. I’m ready, pretty much at any moment, to make something of a show out of how much pent-up feelings I have about something. I’m not precisely looking for an excuse to blow, but I am secretly daring the universe to test me. Based on my size and history, I have every reason to believe I could be some dramatic display of consequences that fly in the face of my otherwise training, practice, and outward display 99.9% of the time.

I forget where I read it, but this is apparently a well-documented and categorized personality already. That took some of the oomph out of my enthusiasm for my potential years ago. If you’re reading the right books, you’ll reduce yourself to someone’s particular field’s cliche with every chapter eventually. At the same time, being capable of an explosive episode is different from a standing anger.

The circumstances that provoke the anger are going to be often obscure or counter-intuitive. I don’t get intimidated or scared and adrenaline-rushed by other dudes macho-manning or doing the weird almost-kiss chest bump thing. I didn’t get angry when my SNAP card info was skimmed and food money was stolen. I don’t get angry at the weather, even though I deeply hate snow. I don’t get angry at animals for doing animal things until it’s a reflection of the ambivalence of their owners.

Here we start to breach into the base of the anger. I want to believe people have more control than they care to acknowledge. There are many standing mysteries regarding life, agency, “free will,” and spooky probabilistic means of describing existence. As a person, as a conscious agent, I think there is as clear and obvious difference between making a choice and doing something like this writing, and throwing my hands up to suffer and proclaim the inevitability of my victimhood.

There’s dozens of ways to describe this. When my cat jumps on the table and thinks he’s going to eat my food, I can bop him on the nose or ass. I can do it every single time until he arrives at the place he is today, looking onward from 3 to 5 feet away, not even trying. It might take months or years, but the reality for him has no less been molded by me and clearly set in for him. The less-conscious agent I’ve taken the responsibility over to both be kept alive and turned into less of an annoying cunt.

I don’t find this controversial, hard to understand, immoral, or anything less than necessary in order to function in my home where I would like to eat in peace. I’m not punching, bruising, or breaking the cat. I’m speaking a universal language that gets me where I want us to go. It’s right here I will say exactly one line about the fucking idiots who would never harm an animal as though we’re in Narnia and a deal could be cut with his instincts, or that it’s somehow noble to live at the mercy of the ambivalent destruction of nature.

I don’t blame the cat. I blame people who would construct a fantasy around what a cat is and let that pollute how you might better engage and orient one. It works the other way too. My, extremely shy and scared female cat? I’ve turned her into an annoying lap cat. I don’t yell at her for crawling into my lap. I’ve spent years constantly training her to normalize and not flinch at pets. Now, she doesn’t even move sometimes as I go to step over her. My will be done, sometimes overdone. I was lucky enough to grow up with collies and know very well how much you can get a dog to do if you care and try and mold.

I find myself most often in conversations that betray what I know to be true, not just about myself and the nature of control, but about pets, health, government, or really any single interpersonal interaction. This is probably the heart of my anger.

A few days ago, as it’s now time to vote in Indiana, as I sent out a couple texts encouraging people in my life to do so, I had a friend respond that she wasn’t going to. She offered the cliches; they’re all corrupt, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t mean anything to her, she’s not informed enough, yada yada. A day later, I sent her another text saying, “I’m not trying to persuade you, but I’m curious, what would it take you to vote?” She responded, “Money.” So I asked, “How much?”

This then kicked off an anger-inducing exchange where, all of a sudden, she’s behaving as though her vote matters to her, and when I earnestly say I would buy it from her, she’s got paragraphs of excuses and explanations I have less than 0 interest in fielding. I don’t need her to explain. I don’t need her to contextualize. I do not care if she doesn’t care, provided I can carry on with my agenda.

But, that’s exactly what she said. She’s talking out of both sides of her mouth. She’s carrying on as though her life as it’s currently being conducted is “just hers” bestowed upon her as an inevitable perfect manifestation that suits her preferences. The kicker? She’s an addiction counselor. It’s her job to help people wake up to their patterns that keep them under the threat of dying or destroying everything they care about.

I understand, at some level, the societal need for performance, ritual, polite pleasantries, and the facade of basic civility. There is something practically and inextricably “corrupt” about the ways in which we communicate and navigate shared spaces. I’ve already explained my latest understanding of lying, and I don’t think the majority of how we engage with each other in those veins are the dangerous corrosive kinds of lies.

Yet, there’s what appears to be a spillover effect where we treat ourselves as superficially, and that’s where the disingenuous danger appears.

Of course your decisions, awareness, and actions matter. That you have a choice to perform one thing over another matters. It’s, to me, literally the only thing that can truly matter if you’re going to distinguish yourself as a moral person and not some arbitrary collection of atoms. I feel like, to deny this, you’d have to be perfectly okay being force-fed any type of food, merely kept alive. Surely, you have food preferences, right? You'd like it to enter your body through your mouth and not a tube cut into your stomach?

When I think about a cultural narrative that either sees us colonizing space or ending up wiped out via nuclear holocaust, it’s the distance between responsible personal agency, and forlorn ambivalent conclusions.

At many levels, we are stuck. We don’t know what we don’t know. We can’t perfectly predict the weather, but we can evacuate. To deny yourself the use of your legs, vehicles, or eyes and ears taking in the news is inhuman. I don’t think you get fascism unless a major plurality of people are not just subverting and excusing and denying their humanity, but an even larger portion of people are letting them get away with it.

It’s an everyday kind of exercise. Every day you have to find your power, choices, and orient yourself against, or in concert, with the way the wind is blowing. It’s work. It’s hard. It’s most often unfair. It’s the operative difference between being human, or just an animal. Are you a perpetually justified at-the-mercy-of-instinct being? I’m not, and we’re made of the same stuff. It makes me incredibly angry when you sacrifice yourself, and in turn me, to your base animal. I actually want to live, and live in a particular kind of way. I can’t achieve my goals pretending, like you, that I don’t have them.

We normalize complacent, complicit, hopelessness constantly. “It is what it is.” That’s my go-to catch-all summary. You, in all your majesty and wisdom, know what it is more than anyone else, and you think it’s time to give up, ride it out, and die. Thanks, dick bag. “They’re all corrupt!” That’s not just simply not true, it’s not true-enough to matter for the issue at hand. Identify and vote for someone who is not corrupt, or barring that, less corrupt. Are you corrupt? If so, how much corruption are you willing to stand from your representative so you can keep functioning as you please?

I can kick the shit out of most people. I can snap into verbally and emotionally abusive language in a split-second. I’m the meanest person I know, and I go through zero emotional withdrawal when I shift into those demonstrations of my character. I’m as petty, small, volatile, ignorant, hateful, spiteful, judgemental, and ridiculous as anyone you’ve ever met. That doesn’t mean I don’t have a choice. That doesn’t mean I get to deny the compounding nature of my better habits. That doesn’t mean I get to let my vitriol excuse my responsibility to myself or others.

I don’t know how much of it is a consequence of the internet, or of the general wealth and decadence of modernity, or of the targeted plots of nefarious power-hungry actors, but we seem to have forgotten how to feel meaningful shame. We should be ashamed of our laziness and pride. We should be ashamed of empowering those who fuel our anger and resentments. We should be ashamed of emboldening our indignant self-righteous pretensions because we’re afraid of the patience and humility it takes to be a proper person.

Every single one of us contributes to this pot, and I feel like I’m never not floating in shit. We keep choosing to look away and lie. We keep choosing to lay down and give up. We keep reducing what would be a preferred direction or sense of stability into a tit-for-tat ironically hyperbolic performance. The only thing more powerful than my anger is the exhaustion.

Tuesday, October 8, 2024

[1161] Blind And Silence

This might be easier to read and follow than my instinct suggested as I began.

I've been thinking about "having my back against a wall" versus "having a goal."

As I've scrambled to take (nearly) any job that will higher quickly, I'm feeling the familiar waves of panic, motivation, relief, dread, and comfort - all tentative - and on rotation over the course of each day. It's not unfair to say that for most of my adult life, I've had something of a plan, contingencies, and emergency pull-switches for ensuring I could keep a certain standard and platform for my life. The plan is always lacking, but has been acutely felt recently.

Back when I had considerably less perspective, I took it for granted things would be about as easy for me in life , as it pertained to jobs or professional obligations, as it had been for me in school. I was lucky enough to be born with a big enough brain that allows a solid amount of what life asks of you to come pretty easy. It is exceptionally rare that I'm at a job for even 3 months before being ask-told to learn the next thing, take on more, or become a supervisor or manager. That is, provided I'm not trying to cross into an upper-class environment.

Here, thoughts about "showing versus telling" come up. I can get pretty dramatic in how I describe my feelings or what I think the "inevitable consequences" will be of a course of action. It's not that I don't feel intensely. It's not that I'm talking purely irrationally and just routinely predict incorrectly. It's that when I pull back and look at my behavior and pair it against my most ridiculous or hyperbolic writing, or most compelling and exhausting stomach-dropping, headaches, and jaw-clenching, I almost without-fail do the things necessary to appropriately and accountably respond to the moment.

The first of which is writing. I'm exceptionally rarely going to actually scream, hit something, or drive a little too fast a little too buzzed around a blind corner. I don't oblige people to "handle me at my worst," nor do I take some kind of secret undue pride in the amount of chaos I can embody. This is showing, to myself first, that I'm thinking more carefully, deliberately, and acknowledging each wave of feeling or choice word as it hits me. The words aren't hot, sharp, heavy, or dangerous. At bottom, they don't inherently mean anything, except to me, and except if they can be construed in a way that I calm down, pick a direction, or make a certain amount of peace with my antagonized moment.

I think it's important to point out that it's never "fixed" or "settled." I'm, forever, processing. I'm weighing the last thing I demonstrate against the next thing I feel, and am constantly balancing.

It's the first day of early voting in Indiana. My two closest friends in the area pay next to no attention, if not actively avoid politics. They aren't fascists, but they could easily "forget" to vote. I'm incredibly sympathetic to their feelings, and wholly angered by their ambivalence. I can't trust they would vote without my intervention. Whether or not they "believe" in the consequences of participating in the maintenance of the country, their actions, and the reason we're friends, suggest they don't want to sleepwalk into fascism. Materializing the consequences of ambivalence for someone is nearly impossible.

So it goes for all of us about the infinite list of things we aren't paying attention to. You don't pay that close attention to the words you choose or friends you keep? I've watched that turn into chronic addiction attempting to cope with instantiated abuses and excuses. You don't pay attention to how much time you spend at work? I've watched that balloon family and child problems because a narrative about "taking care of your family" doesn't include the time to foment emotional well-being after being reduced to a desperately-sought dollar amount. A dollar amount often explicitly not even budgeted for, so people will work over-time or several jobs and not register they are making sometimes less than if they worked less after gas, taxes, and other opportunity costs.

Here we can bring it back to an examination of class. Rich people, significantly more often than they'll ever admit, work less and earn more. There are plenty of hyper-focused talented and particularly-skilled people who deserve every penny of every minute they spend exercising there worth. For every one of those people, there are tens of thousands more who simply own everything. They indefinitely benefit from their family history, adjacency to privileged places, or other circumstances invariably downplayed in their autobiography/self-help book.

It would be foolish, for example, for me to pretend I'm not, as measured by many tests, "generally intelligent." It doesn't mean I'm wise. It doesn't mean I'm likeable. It doesn't mean I'm suitable for your team or can figure anything out I please. It just means I'll be able to describe and execute how to navigate all of those deficiencies in a way most won't. Whether I find the will, capitalize on an opportunity, or manifest the luck that sees my circumstances improved remain indefinitely open questions. General intelligence, in and of itself, doesn't mean shit if people don't like you, trust you, or recognize and respect what you're showing them.

I can show myself the work to remain "sane" or "stable," but that doesn't mean it translates. I can work myself to death accomplishing tasks at a job, but it doesn't mean I'm emanating pride in my work that anyone looking at won't simply resent or seek to undermine. I thought, incorrectly, if I showed you could move to cousin-fuck Indiana, build something from limited resources, and then carry on describing the math and timelines for more indulgences and opportunities, people would join or follow. I've described every beat of how I've gotten to now. It is perpetually unpersuasive and uncompelling.

What is it people want to see? Themselves? Maybe, sometimes. Maybe at an instinctual basic animal level. We do pack together. Girls with about the same levels of attractiveness or similar body types certainly do. Frat bros flock like migratory birds. I feel like I can smell most pictures from a gaming conference or Comic-Con. I'm suspicious people can see at all. I think in order to be able to see, you have to have an idea of what you're looking at. We spend most of our time having the idea of what we're looking at filled in by other people.

I didn't discover I was smart. I was told it, constantly, growing up. I didn't know I was cute. I certainly didn't feel I was cute, and therefore didn't carry myself with the confidence or attitude of someone "worthy" of engaging attraction games. I was told I was cute, didn't believe it. I cut off my hair. I dug at my skin. I bemoaned not having abs. I refused to smile in pictures. What was I looking at? The caricatured, resented, and made-fun-of target of my mother who turned her weight issues and low self-esteem into lessons on how to emotionally abuse. I was looking at the opposite of the kids wearing Abercrombie and playing sports. This, in perfectly unrealized contradictory irony, as I also played sports and wore a bit of Abercrombie.

I think it's easier to conceptualize "not having an identity" or "not knowing what you're looking at" in the context of kids or childhood. We start practically feral and are at the mercy of our circumstances, genes included. So many of my clients at the prison started using things like meth or heroin when they were in their teens after being introduced to drugs while being in the single digits. Many had no idea what it even meant to be an "adult man" because they severely got their brains fucked with before they ever had the chance to learn what that could mean.

The class you're born into comes with it a certain narrative. Maybe it jives with your sensibilities, maybe not. Maybe it compliments your inherent capacity, or maybe it stands as a constant source of antagonism. Maybe you don't have the industriousness and high-achieving capacity of your parent who immigrated. Maybe you don't have the emotional intelligence to surround yourself with people who compliment and redirect your negative self-regard. Maybe you don't have the capacity for ambivalence and pretext to play politics in elite circles. If you don't know you're born into a certain vein and are described by an existing, evolving and diffuse story, you can't figure out how, or why you'd even bother, to change it.

Neither of my parents are dumb. My mom is insane, my dad is Tim Walzian. It's a reactive distinction I've felt emotionally my whole life, and took years to understand intellectually. My dad has been an iron-worker almost my entire life. When his parents immigrated, you could raise four kids, put them all through college, and retire working at the steel mill. If, like so many families in our middle-class existence, you wanted to keep repeating the pattern of my grandparents, we've watched how the systems have declined and devolved into nascent fascism. We fundamentally can't conceive of the magnitude of what we're embedded in and looking at, so a reactionary posture foments.

Back we return to having your back against a wall versus having a goal. Here is the reason so much feels like life is binary instead of probabilistic. The binary exists, but it's at the level of choosing altogether. It's not "Trump vs. Harris." It's asking what probably happens when you enable and support one version of existence over another. Do you compound the pain and absurdity? Do you make it harder to see and believe in things getting better? We can equivocate literal dumb fascism with perhaps a valid laundry list of complaints and criticisms about any other form of democratic politicking. Why?

We don't know what we want. We don't know how to articulate it. We don't practice the patience to deeply appreciate when we've gotten it. We look at our work and feel exhausted because we've been exploited and punished for trying, trusting, and caring. Our backs are against the wall, so anything we do or say as the bullets barrel towards us is justified. We're linguistically and psychologically trapped. Our concept is so distorted that the work of how to make things better is unrecognizable and takes too long to be realized emotionally. Or, worse, we've crippled our capacity to train a positive feedback loop at all, introducing proverbial meth into the system too early to fully repair.

Your voice is the most powerful thing in finding a prayer for dealing with "everything." It's the first fucking amendment for a reason. Those who had something to say were violently and perpetually silenced. I believe you have something to say, and are violently and perpetually silenced. But your goal hasn't been articulated like theirs was. Their imprecise, imperfect, ever-evolving goal was written down and given a place to start informing whatever beautiful or damning thing you wish to say about our place and country today. You hear the goals of the craziest and most vitriolic people every day. The "corrupt" part of that system is you pretending not to hear them. It's you pretending not to have feelings about them. It's you pretending you're not baked into the cake with them.

My life doesn't get better the more I hate something. I might need to describe my ongoing hatred and accompanying feelings, but ultimately my behavior has to look like hope. It has to look like I'm reasonably trying to fix the big abstract bad feelings with day-to-day exercises patching all the holes life pokes through my sense of agency and well-being. I will never not be an angry ape, raging and afraid. That will never excuse my decisions to reward instead of correct for how that manifests. I can acknowledge the infinite list of things cornering me, trying to shut me up, or attempting to hijack my attention. The consequences aren't "more true" than what probably happens in how I do or don't respond.

Monday, October 7, 2024

[xx-27] Cope

 

Is it hope if you don't have a choice?
Hope or die
Hope or cry
Hope or tell another lie

What is hope if not a default setting?
Hope that "one day"
Hope that they'll forget
Hope that you'll manage

Hope is foolish, and we're born fools
To hope is to live within hope's betrayal
Hope, for what?
Hope's sake

I do not have hope, I have stuck
I have stuck myself in a bottomless well
Of nope, nonsense, and venal temptation
To ascribe hope where stuck reigns

I move in mockery of my motives
I dance like I don't hear the bangs
I sway with the wind working its damnedest
To blow me on the tracks.

Why cry when you can whistle?
Pick, dig, haul, slumber
Bite, clench, stare, wonder
Any minute now

[1160] Huff

I’m a level of “anxious” I haven’t been for quite some time. It’s partly because of coffee on a mostly empty stomach. Even acknowledging and writing that down tempered the feeling immediately, and is why I put the word anxious in quotes. I have a specific desire in writing this, to feel better, and I know how to get there, by being incredibly specific in my word choices.

I’m waiting to hear back about a job. (I learned approximately 30 minutes later I didn’t get it.) I’ve managed to back myself into another corner, and if I don’t get the job (for what would certainly be some left-field universe nut-kicking-me reason) I’m staring down the prospect of taking literally anything that hires immediately. I’ve done that and ran that experiment in the past, and I have little faith if I found myself on a production line that I would last any longer than the 2 and half days I did back then.

I had what felt like 2 good interviews. I’m not a pie-in-the-sky type who pretends things went better than they did, nor would I discount any particularly egregious missteps or misspeaking. I had a couple decent conversations with people of what appeared to be similar dispositions for roles I’m told they are fairly “desperate” to fill. I have the credentials and experience, a friend already works there, and I’ve patiently and professionally navigated an initial red flag where my second interviewer didn’t notice or show up for our first meeting.

The pause, doubt, and pain of the waiting game is tied directly to the amount of debt I’ve gotten into. It’s tied to my 2 or 3 failed attempts to get other roles or even volunteer in similar social work roles. One for certain fell apart for small-town political reasons, and I suspect another did as well. I’m one of those people who, on paper, should not have the kinds of “problems” or type of “financial insecurity” that I do.

It’s all self-imposed. I leave secure work environments when they start to degrade my sense of responsibility to values and standards. I’ve broken the dam of self-indulgence and being conservative in my spending. I’ve made bets on my ideals in starting the counseling nonprofit, LLC before that, and attempts to hire people to get them to a sustainable place. I sometimes talk about myself like, “If I could just shut up and deal, relearn how to eat time playing video games instead of leaving the house, go back to eating nothing but hotdogs and ramen for a year like in college, and just ‘be normal,’ I’d have my bills paid years in advance, all kinds of insurance, and the money to modestly explore my hobbies.”

What happens instead, is I experience too many of these heightened moments back-to-back. I find myself in a chronic state of stress as the boiling frog water inches towards cooked. I find it nearly impossible to justify any given moment of my day. I play in the dramatic and despotic dialogues of colleagues who all have their take on why they’re stuck dealing with the inadequate support, pay, or basic dignity.

I am properly exhausted by a “look on the bright side” or “of course they’ll hire you!” narratives. Anything that smells of hope is extremely off-putting. Anything that tries to matter-of-factly describe my potential or worth is off the table. Any remotely positive impression I get from someone I haven’t known for longer than an hour is beyond suspect. So much of my interactions contribute to this deep and gaping hole at the heart of my ability to trust things that “should” go a certain way, ever will.

I’m not the first person to complain about job hunting. I’m not on the verge of being homeless. I’m not interested in making a dozen qualifying statements about my privileges and options.

I want to fit. I just want to fit. I think it’s incredibly stupid to exist in this society that’s constantly swinging from crazy presumptive talking point to the next, bastardizing all language, and pulling up drawbridges after our luck nets the right status. I don’t want to sacrifice every waking minute of my life with thoughts consumed by work for the hour or 2 a month to myself or 2 weeks vacation. I don’t want to keep playing dress-up as though there aren’t sincere and capable ways we could be using resources and rewarding those with the capacity to efficiently execute the task.

I’m so fucking angry, all the time. It doesn’t matter how many fun things I go to. It doesn’t matter how creative I get with a woodworking project or song. It doesn’t matter how much I write. I’m so. fucking. angry.

I can learn how to incorporate abuses from the past. I can swallow all kind of logistic shit when it comes to trying something new or coordinating with someone. I can stomach the darkness and ambivalence of life broadly. I’ve never been able to drop my fundamental anger. I know that because when the “perfect storm” of circumstances highlight the details and history that inform the anger, it’s like I’m the helpless child getting wailed on growing up all over again.

And it’s fucking STUPID. Nothing should be this hard or complicated, and it’s not. If we actually gave a fuck, it would not be this hard and stupid. It doesn’t need to be some series of abstract parables passed down through time. It doesn’t need to be abstracted economic equations pretending at bottom there’s rational actors with perfect information. We don’t have to celebrate greed. We don’t have to cross our fingers fascism versus any alternative isn’t a “toss up.” We don’t have to do any of the shit that makes it so we all suffer the same shit, but a handful complain about it, and the rest try to get them to shut up and deal like they are.

The point is, you’re not dealing. You’re not dealing any better than I am. 48.5 million Americans battled a substance use disorder in the past year. That’s 16.7% of the population, or close to 1 in 5 if you consider how many people hide and pretend. That means whether it is you, or someone in your family, everyone is chronically coping in a series of unhealthy ways that permeate through families and work environments. What if a fifth of your body didn’t work? Or your brain? Or the words you use? Every fifth one just drops or confuses and steers the conversation awry. 41.9% of Americans are obese. Almost half are not the type to take the stairs, let alone entertain the vicissitudes of class struggle. “We” don’t have the inclination or headspace to even google “vicissitudes.”

I feel like a fucking joke and failure. Not because I actually am, but because I suffer my idealism and let that shit play out in dramatic ways when it comes to accounting for practical shit. I could’ve worked harder to find something remote and paying even peanuts. I could’ve looked harder for something part-time. I could’ve leaned into efforts advertising and side-hustling. These are the thoughts you can suffocate under as though you didn’t have reasons and feelings and obligations every moment you weren’t attending to fixing the latest issue.

I’m constantly trying to remind myself and others that it’s never “either/or.” No situation is all bad or good. No decisions come without strings. No moment can you confidently claim the sum total of knowledge and potential about it. Those are brute facts that should temper any enthusiasm for belaboring the worst version of the story you tell yourself. I still don’t know shit, and never will. I’ve made long-term friends from “bad” work environments. I’ve gained perspective and demonstrated persistent resilience. I’d rather have money and hopes not consistently betrayed.

Wednesday, October 2, 2024

[1159] About Ten

 I want to run a few thought experiments. The task is to say, “What if what was said is even 10% true?”

I’ve been going back and reading/listening to some of my old writing. Sometimes, I come across a blog that’s blisteringly drunk and “embarrassing” insofar as I might compare it to how I speak and write now. It doesn’t mean that version of me isn’t still there, but I can more easily identify the weaknesses in its voice and character. I care about voice and character because I want to make sense and discover operative ways of being. To recognize, starkly, how often I can get in my own way is instructive.

That doesn’t mean that what I was writing about wasn’t true. You can’t adopt or discover operating principles if you don’t first start with a foundational pursuit, respect, and recognition of the truth. I was, truly, coming from those places, even if today they’re less intense. I can’t treat the sentiments as a raging hot inferno of “things we all must realize” or “be all end all” fatalism of a One True Opinion, despite their phrasing. They are no less informative and emotionally resonant at some level. It’s at least 10%.

This got me thinking about answers that snap into focus if you frame them like this:

“If it was even 10% true that Palestine will not accept a 2-state solution and desires the expulsion and extermination of the Jews, what would you do?“

”If it’s even 10% true there’s genocidal things being carried out by Israel, what’s the next step?“

”If it was even 10% true that an extremely messy and disingenuous political prospect and his followers wanted to overthrow the government, what would you do?“

”If it was even 10% true your partner was verbally and emotionally abusive…?“

“If it’s even 10% true that you’re being lazier, angrier, deceptive, quieter, more obnoxious, defensive, etc. than you need to be, what does that mean for what to do next?”

I think when you do this, it gives you the opportunity to introduce critical thinking. You see responses to absolutist phrasing, and you see the back-and-forth leveraging of specific atrocities and hyperbolic language ad nauseam. “They’re killing babies!” If it’s even 10% true, then surely we can agree it’s atrocious, and then move the conversation into the realm of context and history. Israel didn’t raid Palestine and start killing its children. They’re playing 2 different games. Israel hasn’t mandated the ethnic cleansing of Palestine. It’s literally impossible to carry on a conversation with someone who can’t qualify even the possibility that “their truth” and “your truth” might exist at all, but maybe only 10%.

That leaves 90% of space for the “real work” of agreeing to context. The 10% is the good faith, but it’s hardly enough to find a negotiated middle or consensus. We complicate this further by misidentifying who or what constitutes an immovable ideologue. I think this is why it’s most important to apply this exercise individually and with regard to your subjective experience.

I’m persuadable. That’s only because I come up with the arguments that make sense to me. Screaming at me isn’t persuasive. Demonstrating you have a looser or incomplete grasp of the facts than I do turns me off. An unwillingness to consider or introduce relevant details does too. If you can’t take what I say and repeat it back to me in a way that demonstrates understanding, I don’t pretend we’re having a real conversation. In the abstract, words are ever imprecise, sure. There is a realm where you understand not to put your hand on a hot stove. Even and especially if you’re the type of cunt who promises you like that kind of pain, hate your hands, and would lay your forearm across the adjacent burner to really sell it.

Most of the time, you don’t need to entertain the “most damming” or “craziest sounding” or, in the language of recovery, “catastrophized” version of events. We feel at 100%. We react at 100%. That’s fight, flight, freeze, and fawn. We’ve thrown this into overdrive with algorithms. We’ve let then 10% of propaganda and arbitrary associations dictate our operating systems. Even if the craziest and most shocking thing was 10% true, the next step isn’t to swing dramatically into the arms of whomever said it or decry the evil as though you’ve confirmed or worked to establish the 90% of the context.

“They’re eating dogs!”

Some cultures do eat dogs. Do I know enough about Haitians? No? Okay, are they one that eats dogs? No? Okay, 10% acknowledgment that dogs are meat to some people, Haitians aren’t one of them. Time to move on.

“Global warming will kill us all!”

If that’s even 10% true, give me the charts, like on the latest series attempting to rehab Bill Gates’ image, that show what’s contributing. Give me a budget. Show me the leaders and investments. Let me listen to the scientists describing the damage. I don’t need to cry and scream with you, nor am I the enemy for my desire to build the context.

Let’s do a personal one. “This job will kill my soul and make time feel insufferable.”

I’ve already adopted behaviors that mitigate this. I fill in dead air with podcasts, shows, and books. I build efficiency if I’m driving somewhere and have several things to get done throughout the week. I document, both work-related incidents and my experience when it reaches acute levels of dread. I’m already prepared to leave and continuously apply or search for the next thing. It’s not either I’m suffering at the ambivalence of my worst phrasing or I’m thriving. It’s all at once all the time provided I do the work of identifying the nature of the context and continue making decisions.

After a while, you might start to phrase it like, “That’s not true enough to matter.” You might start to feel that way so you can move on quicker until you run up against something that does. You don’t have to guiltily indict yourself by saying something like, “I don’t care about dead babies!” or “Fuck climate change!” or whatever the issue may be that day. You can begin to understand how genuinely removed and ignorant you are about most things in any given moment, and how the work to contextualize probably doesn’t interest you. You can put some distance between your feelings and the propensity to feed and justify them.

This absolutely does not happen incidentally or just because you get old. This takes work. You have to actually want to be accountable. It’s only if you want to recognize and entertain without being an embodied perpetual reactionary. This, I suspect, is less than 10% of any given population at any point in history. If that’s even 10% true, the burden to those of us trying to do better is the 90% of nonsense, instinct, patterns, norms, and undulating nature of consciousness as it bumps against technology.

What does that mean for how you should conduct yourself each day? What does that mean for the words you’ll choose? What does that say about the lines you’ll draw for acceptable exchange? What does it say about the work you have left to do in order to adequately shoulder that burden? There’s something to react to constantly. Are you sure you have the real desire and energy to even want to do better?

Tuesday, October 1, 2024

[1158] The Teensiest Bit

My head hurts. I have this string of muscles/nerves that run through the back of my head into the middle of my back. They’ve been aggravated for 4 days, swinging between decently severe nausea-inducing pain, and dull “You know, I haven’t gone away” antagonism that can’t be pilled away.

But I don’t want to talk about that.

For an ever-so-brief period in my life, I found a writing home at Sondry.com. It was the first place you could find both introspective writers and people who were seeking out that kind of writing. The site wasn’t particularly robust, but it eked out an identity and a fair amount of engagement. It took me back to the days when I first started writing on Myspace, and how those would get people commenting and engaging in a conversation. What started as me bursting forth with too much to say and barely intelligible ways of saying it, turned into an exchange, a flicker of what the internet was advertised it would be, as a place to connect.

I’m feeling murmurs of the cultural tide really starting to reckon with the disconnect. I think most people are over being constantly full of hatred and dread. I think a lot of the people mostly ill-equipped to understand internet tone/culture are dying off. I think the things we miss about our nature and history are taking shape again, and it’s not some kind of extra or noble thing to hold an event without phones or install something to shut down a screen. We’ll never go back in time, but I think getting jaded and less mystified about the pace or usefulness of technology is allowing more adult thoughts about regulating and control to take over.

Maybe that’s the theme in the air, “control.” It’s fundamentally always about control over “the narrative.” I can’t control the pain in my head, but I can control how much I talk about it. I can control, or pre-control, the conditions under which I’ll attempt to explain what’s on my mind. There’s something illuminated about the nature of control if you begin listing all of the things you don’t. It’s in that exercise. You don’t get lost in semantics about “free will.” You just uncover and embody “whatever it is” that colloquially registers as a control or a choice.

Recently, I was explaining how magic mushrooms can work to a friend who is often “blocked” or “primed.” While we’re spending most of our time basically locked into our bodies, mushrooms dissolve the barrier between intention and the ability to act on what we feel. The reason you can have a bad trip and spiral out of control is because you might not take up the task and responsibility to prepare or respond to the negativity. It flows just as easily as the positivity, and when you embody the dam between them or the bridge that connects them, it’s hard to unlearn or unfeel that true extent of your power.

There’s much you can’t control while on shrooms, or many hallucinogens, but what you can is the exact same thing you can control sober. This isn’t necessarily the case with other kinds of drugs. At the time we were discussing it, even the idea of experiencing that process overwhelmed my friend and we had to stop.

I picked up writing because I felt explicitly out of control. I couldn’t help myself, so I had to spew. I had to externalize. I had to give myself something to occupy my hands and mouth along to so I wouldn’t keep feeling sick and anxious and whiny. I’ve written more than I’ve posted, erasing or losing a decent amount. I’ve deleted so much that never felt like it was getting to where I needed. All of the time and effort could be conceived of as a giant ongoing summary of feelings and thoughts I can’t control, but for the words they manifest.

I consider it a certain kind of magic and mystery. I don’t know “exactly how” but I certainly “feel better.” I can define this as “order” of what’s otherwise standing “chaos.” Some days I rearrange furniture or meticulously clean something and achieve the same feeling. When I put together a stellar spreadsheet or check everything off on a list I can get it again. It’s not even palpably felt. If anything, it’s felt mostly as that contrast to chaos. Not “good” or “bad.” It’s “can” versus “can’t.” It’s “now” versus “one day.“

I had a job interview yesterday and was asked about my approach to counseling. I said I try to teach what I practice. I said I try to get people to define things in their own terms. We have everyone in every moment telling us something as though we share definitions. You’ll meet people in recovery, regularly, who’ve been in for decades, who deny they have ”triggers.“ Do they have a million things each day that signal to them a desire to use substances? Absolutely. They just don’t have ”triggers,“ or understand the response to a stimuli as one, or just maybe don’t care for the word.

I get intrusive thoughts. In a sense, all thoughts are intrusive, but I’ll have something dark or mean come to mind for shiggles (that’s shits and giggles for you high class folks) and then I am given the chance to wonder what, or if, that says something about me. I think it’s a knock-on effect of having a dark sense of humor. I don’t know where some of my best jokes come from beyond a contrarian dispositional habit and free-association. I do well on hallucinogens, so I don’t entertain those fucked up thoughts as anything more or less than a thought that I’ll eventually move on from. It doesn’t change my preestablished, pre-controlled desire or goal for myself or our interactions.

Making this distinction practically gave me license to mature. I’m an argumentative cunt, at heart. I will fight you, myself, and even people I don’t care for, over anything in which I can find an inconsistency. With no goal in mind, this means you often exhaust or alienate people and stockpile void-screaming time. If my headache was a result of being too full of errant thoughts, I’d know to stop when it subsided. The goal of talking at all would be tied directly towards my sense of my own health, thus I would find the reason and motivation to keep doing so when I experience the same kind of pain again.

Tying things together, though? That’s an individual art. Writing didn’t used to, or ”always“ ”fix me.“ In fact, it’s not the writing in and of itself that does so. It’s getting things ordered. It’s exercising a reflection. It’s allowing myself to occupy each feeling, or lack thereof, as it comes along, and translating it into English words. I feel like a perfect fool for not recognizing the analogy when it comes to writing or playing music. I’m not someone who can cry remotely easily. I’ve shocked myself in hitting chords that ”feel write“ and singing poetic phrasing that could induce tears. I can get a little misty over a line or two in the penultimate paragraph of 1 in 100 or so blogs? And probably only if I’m drunk.

We’re incredibly complex creatures just baked into an unceasingly mysterious and evolving story. To maintain some kind of entitled and insecure ego instead of adopt a curious and matter-of-fact posture about that is a tragedy. You’re allowed to not know something and fuck up as you keep figuring things out. You’re allowed to understand your worst enemy from as many viewpoints as you choose to introduce. You’re allowed to choose your sense and response. Start by listing everything not in your control, and then let yourself feel where the control comes in. It takes practice. And even if you find a way to do it for years, you might still only be telling the smallest part of where you’re coming from.

Tuesday, September 24, 2024

[1157] Open For Business

 I kinda wanna birds-eye my spot in life as I get ready to head to my 85th concert, Mother Mother, of the year. Earlier in the day, I did some back-of-a-napkin math on the amount I’ve traveled for shows or entertainment over the last 3 years. It was approximately 62,000 miles for 312 events, including flights to Phoenix, Seattle, Daytona, Las Vegas, and a drive to Niagara and Toronto. I have 18 shows set for the rest of the year, and if I get a job, it’s likely that will jump a little more.

The last 3 years have been a kind of testimony to one of my ideals. I felt like I was falling behind. I had a plan that I would “get rich,” so to speak, and spend most of my life doing exactly this, but from a more care-free place. There’s a world in which I went to dramatically less shows and have a marginally higher amount in the bank (read: am a little less in debt), but I wouldn’t resonate the same. I like the memories and ability to opine from first-hand experience. I like getting up and around the world.

Just being an American from a more or less middle class place, I know how much has been afforded to me. I know that I’ve practiced learning how to better appreciate my circumstances and options as I’ve gotten older. I know the work it takes to maintain perspective so that you’re not at the mercy of your feelings or compulsive insecurities.

Why bother saying that? What’s bringing up this, maybe true, maybe not, sentiment have to do with seeing shows?

I’ve spent the last few hours listening to some usual suspects from the “public intellectual” space. These people make careers and brands out of sometimes talking in circles, but appearing on each others’ podcasts and talking at length about topics most people don’t have the attention or interest in understanding any deeper than the intellectual who might begin talking outside of their lane. One person remarked that the whole exercise is “fun,” debating the theory of mind, for example. I agree.

I think it’s fun to stay curious and talk about things that often feel out of reach. I think it’s fun to try and resolve ideas that might be very sticky in inconvenient ways. I want a certain level of dissonance and to see how it maps to my behavior and words.

Sometimes I introduce dissonance in a way that feels less than helpful. It’s mostly inaccurate to call the feelings I have today as “panic” or even “anxiety,” necessarily. They’re just the closest or what I started out as before I learned to write. I have this desire to stay in this moment. Most of the time, right now, in spite of the little things wrong with me from a tight muscle or itchy face, is where I want to be. I’m either full or on my way to satiating my hunger fairly easily. I have the whole of the world’s information and entertainment a click away. I have air conditioning.

The dissonance, or drama, or angst, or “problems” that I introduce into my life are meant to shake things up. I worry about “comfort” as an ideal. It’s never been one I’ve adopted deliberately, but you’re probably a lot more comfortable than you’ll ever let on, and if you don’t look at how that influences you, then your perception of how to fix something or shake something up is going to be off.

I’m staring down the prospect of returning to a kind of job I won’t enjoy. Not because of the work itself, but because the types of people and types of companies that get involved with the work are fundamentally betraying the alleged purpose of their existence. You can argue “innocently,” to the extent we all feel stuck or forced to play capitalist games and logic, but it’s no less psychologically troubling for someone like me.

I know I’m as full of contradictions as anyone. I know how to describe when I “betray” my “best self” in any given moment. I also know when I’m not trying to, but am otherwise feeling unable to stop. That’s what working in shitty environments provokes. When I adopt writing to keep myself sane, and then work in an environment that won’t expect the same kind of behavior from its people, what am I doing? Shrugging my shoulders indefinitely and collecting a paycheck by doing the bare minimum and ignoring conflicts?

I can put a single goal like “get out of debt” at the top of my list and automatically filter those kinds of conflicts out. I’ve watched myself cut through mountains of cacophonous noise when I know what it is I want. Pain, sleep, opinions, money, the weather…I can best them all.

The problem is maybe being made a little clearer as I type this. I’m kinda over this “hero story?” Like, I want to vibe. I want to continue mostly on the road of what I’m doing, but have enough reasonable challenges lined up that I don’t feel I need to antagonize myself in some showy or dramatic way.

This last round had me applying to every kind of random job. The moment they call? The reality sinks in. Get your CDL and just drive around from time to time for cash? Pony up $5,000. Go back to school and get your Master’s? Northwestern is happy to have you for $135,000. Wanna “simply” do some manual labor? They’ll have you driving your truck farther than you were errantly driving to remote work as a counselor, and pay you less! Woo! The place I will probably land will be the 4th job I’ve followed a friend to or vice versa, run as precisely miserably as the places we’ve left.

I want to be “more okay” about that. It’s a bad situation fundamentally, but it would pay and pay consistently. That’s the “practical” “mature” way to “eat shit.” It’s not enough of a reason by itself. A big portion of the picture for why I come back around to joining those environments is what I’m doing otherwise. You can watch too much TV. You can spend too much time on your hobbies. I love having my own place and space, and getting out into the world and like, you know, interacting with people and feeling alive.

I don’t necessarily want an “easy” life, but I want it to feel real and possible to both handle practical adult business, and live as though I’m not an ignorant constantly justifying slave to my circumstances. I’ve tried the affirmative “live in service to my values” thing in one form or another, but if people around you don’t share your values, or can only do so in “accessible” doses, you don’t necessarily get as far as you’d like or need.

There’s a framing of my circumstances that lets me feel like I “finally reached a point” and found some relative peace with the idea of repeating a bad pattern. But it’s the same story of victim of circumstances. I capitalize on my free time, for sure. I don’t find a place that’s as elevated and motivated to achieve as consistently. I need structure. I need income and future planning. I’ve only recently trained my brain to believe I won’t be “somehow occupied” months in the future in order to go to all of these shows. I literally couldn’t imagine buying a ticket a year in advance, my underlying unstable psychology couldn’t pretend to guess who or what I’d be that far away.

Well, now I kinda know. Barring a certain tragedy or improbable unknown unknowns, I’ll be more or less about the same income or debt. I suspect my friends will be about as available as they’ve been. I may be a little more developed in my songwriting or woodworking. But much as it’s been for the last 7 or so years, I’ll probably be right here, writing something about how basically good I have it.

I think in the past, I was mostly on that tip and taking for granted I could incorporate the people in my life into the grander plans and schemes. I didn’t think it would take “bravery” or a particular tolerance for risk. I thought we all kind of knew that we had it pretty good and it was more just a series of conversations and pooling of resources that would allow that story to compound. Instead, everyone splits up, stops answering texts, and gets incredibly busy with whatever they’re doing.

One of the themes on today’s lectures was talking about the denial of death. How so much has been invented and exhaustively professed today as old-world concepts of religion have died and new ones rush in. People need that cause to believe in that transcends them. They have to have a story about their place in the world that outlives the heat death of the universe. I’ve never had a gun to my head, exactly, but death has always felt close. Part of my fuel to do what I do is the very real exercise of wrestling with what happens when the semi doesn’t notice me or I cross the wrong crazy person. There’s literally no reason “life,” in its ambivalent abstraction couldn’t take what’s left of mine.

That informs how and why I speak at all. That informs the guilty conscience of complicity. That informs the sense of urgency and hope and math behind why I think I can or can’t do something. I’m healthy. I’m fed. I’m on my way to my church of music and artistic expression. I’m spending time with friends and family tomorrow, and not in a way that’s like tongue-in-cheek or because I “have to.” I dress like I listen to the bands on my chest and play the instruments they play. I’ve never thought “tomorrow” about anything I’ve genuinely wanted, for everything that might get ignored or procrastinated otherwise.

I want peace of mind. I want to know that if I go down swinging, it’s because I wanted to swing and not because I was flailing in desperation. I want the vaguest approximation of a consistent paycheck that’s actually consistent, but doesn’t require me functionally donating my life in service to it. 9-5, 40 hours a week, not including a commute, and time spent thinking about it does not comport. Odd job door-to-door “What’s this guy doing here?” doesn’t either. Constantly gambling or going extra broke trying gate-kept or monopolized sources of income proved infeasible as well.

Like the last job, I’m only going to work it until I can’t anymore. I’m going to document everything, get it in writing, and patiently watch how things burn. I’ve ran this play dozens of times. I’ve lived this pattern for 20 years.

There’s things I dream about that I don’t think I have the will and attention to do. I’m probably not going to be a touring musician. I doubt I become a “master” wood-worker. I don’t know how I would ever afford my license, let alone actually run my own company, particularly with what I’ve learned about who gets the money and why. I think it’s fairly unlikely I find a particularly robust social network where we all just continue to enable our higher and higher goals each year. I doubt I go viral or build a culty brand around my personality.

All I really want is to keep going to shows, maybe with better seats. I want to go, on a whim, to some restaurant I see on a cooking show. I want to feel the inspiration I had last night composing and mixing a song, and know I have the time and freedom to stay up all night watching tutorials and cursing those same tutorials. By the numbers, it’s not an incredibly expensive or unreasonable series of goals. It’s aspiring to “more” that has cost me money. It’s been trusting the wrong people that has help keep me secured in debt. It’s been perhaps not owning how much I need to modify my previously idyllic concept of “owning my own business” or something in that vein.

Is it impossible to find peace of mind in these social work jobs? No. I worked for 2 years at DCS and quit over the dumb cunts in “leadership.” The work is never the problem. The clients don’t keep me up at night. It’s when I try to more sync up the higher-order values with my day to day that I get into psychological trouble. Does that make them less worthy of attention? Should I be resolved to a kind of middle? I’m struggling to feel a full-throated “NO!” Do I want “followers?” Is anyone appreciating the example I’m setting? Again, I spend 95% of my life out to sea and alone.

Certain stints of positive feedback aside and pretending it’s not been empty or superficial, the examples I try to set often seem to mean something mostly just to me. I know that story isn’t complete and I do trust some people some of the time, but if I don’t know where I’m trying to go, why, or what doing one thing or another does to/for me? It’s game over. It has to be for me. I have to make sense for myself first. On the whole, people are silent and afraid and waiting to get drunk before they tell me they read or like something I said. I feel like I’ve drowned myself in those kinds of people, and thus am shopping around the narrative for the proper cloth under which to be water-boarded.

There’s still a lot of life left. There’s still hours in this day. There will be thousands of decisions I make over the next few months figuring out how to either cope or accept. I want the right kind of challenge. I want the option to sleep and wake when I please, even if it’s approximately at the same times. I want to enjoy the craft beer and burger wherever I smell it coming. I don’t want to continue pitting my practical needs against some story of indulgence or privilege. We’re all privileged, and have been. It doesn’t mean hate or punish yourself in stupid ways. It doesn’t mean swallow shit indefinitely and pretend it isn’t shit.

Sunday, September 22, 2024

[1156] Tragic Quip

It might just be a quirk about me, but I find it almost impressive how terrible people are at arguing for something.

I can be just as quick to “clap back” at someone’s comment or shitty opinion of me. That’s not “arguing.” I would call that more “shit talking.” Because of the internet, we’ve created this kind of hybrid shit-talking attempt at argumentation that is like the beating heart of most interactions online.

For as much as I distaste emojis, I think they got so popular because we instinctively knew our conversations were devoid of important context our faces, tone, and even ability to look basically coherent betrayed by spelling errors, otherwise provided.

Enough, too much, I get into some kind of back-and-forth with someone who I perceive to be oozing a substance described as “middling.” A reddit moderator. An HR person or supervisor. A first-order call-in representative. The kind of person who occupies exactly one area in life in which they have any remote authority or power, and if it’s under the threat of your observations or inconvenient perspective, they feel it’s time to sit you down and tell it like it is.

I post these digressions on reddit. Sometimes, my word choices trigger the automatic moderators. I message the mods asking for reviews. Almost always they get posted without issue a day or so later, and/or I have to go in and put [reddit trigger word] in place of a political figure name or you know how people will say “unalive themselves” in Youtube videos? Goofy shit like that because every day has to mock the reality of life in some way or we don’t get our ice cream.

Who decides they want to moderate a subreddit, let alone a popular one, I have no idea. That’s a very different person from me. One of the ones I caught recently complained that my posts are too long, they aren’t paid, and (after 4 emails) eventually quoted where I used the reddit trigger word, dismissed the context of it, and then went on to say my posts are inappropriate for a sub called “/r/self.” I’ve made about 100 so far over the years, but today, they’re inappropriate. The moderator also cited my “low engagement,” as though were I to garner enough internet points, I could spend them somewhere, or your average engagement on reddit is anything but obscene and hateful.

/r/self is a place where people mostly just go to ask teenager-level questions, quip about awkward situations, and stress over relationship issues. You know, my posts really spoil the pot of, “when ur naked in bed then he starts ranting & u find out he’s racist” and, “Is it weird for my younger brother (16) to stay in my room for a weekend?”

You would be making a strong and compelling argument for me to not use reddit (or even much of the internet) at all, let alone for the amount of time I do. I wouldn’t even feel compelled to argue back. I would describe my context of being mostly alone and functionally fishing in the ocean for the oft positive comment or interaction and person who feels like they found something useful in what I said. I have garnered 130-something followers on a blogging site before, have just a handful on reddit, and had people leave encouraging comments or send DMs. It also doesn’t really cost me anything to post depending on how you quantify dignity and time otherwise clicking between webpages.

Many people have described the kind of wimpy tyranny of these kinds of interactions. I liken it to the day that I was working at the liquor store, and a clearly decently drunk older lady came in. I could have denied her immediately. Instead, she came up to pay, was missing a penny, and I gave an extremely poor and unreasonable excuse that she needed to go back to her car and get me that missing penny. She gambled, showed up with a level of disingenuous entitlement and made a “Are you serious?” comment, that I would have said, “Of course not,” to anyone who didn’t put me in that position. She ambled out, back in, and got her booze. I can’t stop you from destroying yourself, but I have a say in how we interact together.

We have to interact with the systems on offer if we’re to maintain a certain level of awareness and superficial connection. You can spend hours finding alternatives to the giants of the internet, but it’s the same logic behind why people subscribe to major TV and music providers instead of torrent. You can make a wholly disingenuous argument about “theft” or find it too confusing, but ultimately it’s familiar, readily available, you’re bad with money anyway, and you already know “your show” is “right there.”

A handful of not the worst people on the planet are here. Sometimes we interact and it’s smile-worthy. They’re not going to flock to the alternatives with me. I’ve spent 20 years not-learning Linux.

I think we should all be mindful of that, “Now now, child” syndrome when it comes to discussing our issues with what someone has said or done online. You’re, almost certainly not, an authority. Even if you were, you probably unconsciously relay your perspective in a manner that isn’t just uncompelling, but antagonistic, condescending, and self-refuting. I know this because I write a lot and feel all of those things in my argument to the avatar of this collective voice. But, I can also feel the argument against things I’m saying in real time. It leads to qualifying, googling whether I’ve chosen the right word, struggling to analogize my instincts to real-world examples, or describe explicit easy-to-understand patterns.

My power isn’t in keeping the nonsense fight alive indefinitely. It’s incorporating it into how I engage going forward, or comfortably putting it aside in the future. For every 1 time I might write a digression about a particularly jarring or indicative-of-something-worthwhile interaction, I move on from 100. That wasn’t the case when I first started online, nor how I carried myself in life.

I don’t force you to read anything I ever post. You do sign up to have it pass by your eyes if we’re connected on these mediums. It’s worth figuring out why it bugs you so much.

Saturday, September 21, 2024

[1155] Ring

If you believe you are a someone who “overthinks,” maybe you’ll find some solidarity with this digression.

If you dig through my writing history, several times I’ve described being, always, “on.” I don’t really understand the concept of “checking out” or “daydreaming,” per say. I can get distracted. I can get decently immersed in a movie or TV show. But there’s always a “hum.” Almost like a tinnitus of the mind. There’s an extremely vague, yet palpably felt and unyielding persistent “thing” I “could” or “should” be doing.

I understand that today as, more or less, an “irrational thought.” That is, against my will or intention, I’m getting bugged or poked by the mere existence of my sensory inputs and torrential storm of errant thoughts. Yes, it is true, I can do an exhaustively large list of things in any given moment. I am feeling the air, taste in my mouth, itch, or inclination to pee. I have considered the future of the day from what I might do outside all the way through to the decision to start and continue writing. If I had a vote, or the capacity and consequential decision, I’d shut off the automatic nature of existing altogether. I don’t want to itch, or be cold, or think I’m a stupid piece of shit because of a hasty or naive set of decisions.

While I can’t control any of that, I can scratch. I can write. I can put on music. I can frame the entirety of that nagging constant series of impossible to ignore or shut off things into my own set of words and responses. This is the burden of bothering to exist altogether. It’s trying to make sense out of the fundamentally arbitrary and irrational. This is why “god” is both the answer, and not an answer at all. It might be the language you adopt, but it’s also the irrational condition we’re all suffering at the mercy of regardless of our opinions.

If you use “god” as a banal linguistic place-filler for the unknown and mysterious, you’re not the problem. If you use “god” as a weapon, which can also be read as an “excuse,” you are explicitly the problem.

As far as we know, we may never have a satisfying and comprehensive understanding or scientific account for consciousness and existing altogether. This, to me, makes it all the more imperative to make explicit our burdens and responsibilities. Provided we actually care about being alive and living one way over another. I don’t want to be surrounded by people who can’t be bothered to take whatever level of responsibility they can. There’s extremes, always. But that’s part of the responsibility to discuss when you’ve gone too far.

There is infinite work. I return to this idea often. I met dozens of people through counseling who suffered from the idea that they, pretty much, always need to be working. Maybe it’s multiple jobs. Maybe it’s job, then kids, then spouse, then parents, then friends, then, maybe but probably not, they’ll get 5 minutes to themselves. It’s no wonder they then end up in a chronically antagonistic place where addiction can flourish.

When you arrest or donate your sense of self and agency to a pathological framework, the path out literally does not manifest in your awareness.

As a kid, I didn’t know what it meant to respond to my mom’s violence with a calm tone and specific word choices. They aren’t highly intellectual or difficult concepts, they simply didn’t exist for me. Until the day that I could physically restrain her, it didn’t even occur to me I had options until the precise moment I’m holding her wrist.

In moments like those, and this is coming from the social worker perspective, you most often see the corrupting nature of your realized power. It’s domestic violence. It’s the tense and threatening interactions with the accountability systems. It’s an invigorating sense of license to double-down. Just as soon as we get a little jolt or pride in exercising our new power, we crash. Why? Power, in and of itself, is ambivalent. The electricity that Zeus strikes you down with didn’t give him the idea to do so.

Very quickly we get confused and defensive. The nagging from our existential demons gets colored by arbitrary consequences and uses of power. We reflexively seek “why,” because it’s psychologically untenable or impossible to digest the level of absurdity. There is no why until you invent one.

No one likes to believe that in order to “stay sane” or “take responsibility” or “beat addiction,” you’re literally working. How often you work, or how that work takes shape, is both to be determined, and made obscure by everyone’s version of the work they’re professing, but often pretending, to be doing.

Whatever you might say about me, for example, you cannot deny me the 1,155 times, at least, I’ve worked to better understand, or failing that, stabilize “enough” my mind through writing. I’m building a verbal context, history, and example to help prove to me that my perception is a decent amount of the things I’m claiming about it. I release that perception into the wild to be scrutinized and judged. If I can’t notice a contradiction or unhelpful vagary, I invite feedback deliberately, because it’s coming regardless. Maybe I can filter it through more helpful or reliable means.

That’s, hopefully, what you’re after too. I hope you want to better frame yourself. I hope you want to feel empowered to take on more responsibility and problems others struggle with. I hope you wish to be a more open and honest person. I hope you’re willing to take the time to explain what’s worth your time, sacrifice, or attention. You may not and you may never, but that’s the hope considerably more than the expectation.

I might expect it from you if you come to me for counseling. If you came because a gun was to your head, probably not. If you came because everywhere else you tried wasn’t working, I’m listening, because I’m acknowledging the desire to try is there. I can see and understand that the “thing” missing is a lot like mine, and everyone else’s, when the frame is wobbly or corrupted. Instinctively, or as a result of your “I can stop you from hitting me” moment, you know there’s “more” or something “better” available, but might not realize what to practice in order to get there.

One of those things is “radical acceptance.” I don’t like the idea that it’s “radical” to accept the facts of your experience, but that’s what we have, and have to do. The “facts” don’t need to be intellectual or convoluted either. I can accept that most damming description of my life and existence possible; that I’m nothing, don’t matter, etc. I can accept that if only because it’s only as true as what I must unironically deny in…you know, continuing to exist. I may not know what that “something” is, but if I feel like nothing or that I don’t matter, I might as well kill myself. Simply refraining from killing myself means I know, at least, I “matter.”

Have you made it to his paragraph alive? That’s it, we have a floor. You may not have or agree with any of the language that describes that floor, but you’re standing on it with me nonetheless.

I’m a big believer in balance too. I think for as easy as it is to intuit or react with a negative valence to something, it simultaneously begs the question of the positive. This is why I will never mind “bad” or “inappropriate” or “too soon” jokes. They are the best evidence that life is both at once, not one way over the other. They are evidence of the inherent choice that feels impossible, but isn’t. You can spiral out of control in every moment available to you. You can also make a fart joke. Just because we don’t understand our power, doesn’t mean it isn’t there, or that we don’t have a responsibility to and for it.

I’ve resisted my power, and still do. I don’t trust myself not to “get high” on it. I “panicked” pretty hard just yesterday, and it took me less than a day to build the kind of foundation that made the panic feel “stupid” and “misplaced.” It’s one of my patterns. I think, irrationally, that I need to be “backed into a corner” in order to find the “motivation” or “reason” to “behave exhaustively” until a need is met. Then, I get to look at my creation, take undue and sick pride in my capacity, and ride that until I burn out.

Here’s the thing, though. I panicked as someone who has written 1,155 times about the nature of his thoughts and perception of the world. That’s why it resulted in a blog, a few phone calls, and a handful of practical steps in service to quelling an otherwise inevitable spiral out of control. I’m still thinking about every obligation I need to meet, but my heart isn’t racing, my stomach isn’t sinking, my jaw isn’t clenched, and my head isn’t pounding. I’m no less bombarded by my catastrophic thoughts about how I got here, how long or hard it will take to “fix,” or what it still says about me in my less than ideal responses. But this is as good as it gets.

I can accept that too.

I don’t need nor like to compare myself to others in the story of why or whether I can swallow something about life. It certainly helps to know there are an insane number of people suffering from the same issues, but whether or not I realize that in a personal way and build into my bone structure my own path through the condition is always up to me. It’s not enough to “simply know” you’re a cliche. You have to feel it. You have to develop your practice for incorporating and redirecting the consequences.

This is why I get fundamentally and instantly exhausted by people who don’t care to act. You can’t change if you won’t move or try or manifest something. Talking only gets you so far, maybe only to the point of describing an approximate door you can one day walk through. When you sound like a commercial, bad TV show, or series of colloquial truisms, I don’t trust you exist in the way you need to. I accept that you’re here, and good or bad for things, and might entirely reject my presumption that you “need” anything altogether. All that means for me is that we’re probably not going to be friends lol. I might also have to refrain from damaging my character by being condescending or manipulative.

I write this much so I can move in the world. I’m not “persuading” myself, nor you, of anything. I’m not “arguing” for my point of view, I’m spewing it. I’m articulating approximate doors for myself so I can feel as though I’m walking in a direction instead of falling into holes that open up forever beyond my choices. I don’t even have to have a coherent idea of what a “choice” even is to recognize this is one, and so is this, and so was the decision to put every weird word that popped into my head on “paper” instead of back up my ass and empowered to swirl around my concepts of “panic” or “anxiety.”

I get somewhere “stable” and “better” and “consistent’ and ”hopeful“ and turn the infinite intangible mess of existing and itching into the power of mercy for myself. You poor, lowly, suffering idiot thrust into this world through no fault of your own, here’s the ability to collapse the noise and the mess into a few pages. Here’s the cues to breathe, and stretch, and call, and eat. Here’s an invitation to the joke as your heart is being run through. Are you scared, or excited, or both and a dozen things more about what happens next?

Thursday, September 19, 2024

[1154] Scream Queen

My disposition is shifting into a familiar gear.

For as much as I espouse the value and virtue of having the freedom with my time to do with as I please, it comes with caveats. First, I don’t know anyone with time like I do, so I’m almost always alone. When I have time, it doesn’t mean I have money, or the required tools, or skills, or focus, or motivation, or weather to do the things I otherwise like to do with said time. Most of my hobbies are not ends unto themselves. I’ll fiddle about on one of the instruments, but I have to be in some pretty low places to find the focus to actually write a song and fight with DAWs I don’t understand.

I get dozens of ADHD targeted ads trying to…apologize? for what maliciously might be described as “laziness” or “wasted potential.” You see, I’m actually just without enough structure. I’ve navigated the structures of school and 15 different work environments. I’ve never had issues showing up, doing what was asked, and moving on. Whether I was working 20 hours a day like when I started my coffee shop, or just needing to meet my 1 client for an hour once a week, if the structure is there, I stick to it.

Well, I’ve had no, or not-enough structure for too long, and it’s throwing me into, not precisely a panic, but it’s raising a lot of alarms. I’ve complained about debt for years now, and until the last few months, I’d never paid a dime of interest. Interest is now 9.7% of the money I have spent all year. I cannot psychologically stomach this. As a result, this morning I debt consolidated. How much debt am I in? Right about equal to the amount of money I would have gotten had my uncles not stolen money from me when my grandma died. I’m twice the amount I was expected to make (when it was half as much) from selling a house I spent 10 months renovating. I’m about as much as I would have hoped to make from any sane and reasonable grant for offering counseling and casework services at 20% of what the State overpays shitty monopolies.

Most people are familiar with the horrible, horrible process of applying to jobs in the modern world. You think you’re done just because you have your resume uploaded to half a dozen “the jobs are here!” websites? HA! Spend literally hours on the worst designed systems known to man filling out the same information on buggy spamming websites for prestigious roles like bagging groceries or delivery driving. You know, jobs that absolutely need 7 pages of redundant information.

I’ve gotten really lucky in my life so far. I was able to do drug studies for a couple years and amass enough money to buy my land. As I was trying to transition out here in a smart or patient way, I got fucked. The consequences of that fucking are still playing out. But, what it’s meant in general is that I have not had to spend the vast majority of my adult life swallowing loads of complacent shit about how I’m infinitely bound to whatever my shitty job might have been at the time. $5,000 a year pays my property taxes, electricity, and internet.

When I work shitty jobs, I do the math. It usually costs me somewhere between 25% and 33% of my take-home pay just to drive to the mother fuckers. So, even when I’m technically making enough to cover “basics” (if you’re raised poor enough and know insurance isn’t always part of that equation) I’m still often losing money just because cars break down, gas fluctuates, and the handful of times I’ve tried to meal prep I ended up throwing out half the food I got sick of

I’ve spent my adult life, save the last 3 years, pretty much living as though “fun” isn’t a thing. I’ve gone in debt to get my house in order. I’ve bought “toys” like a new computer because I absolutely needed it for my job and hadn’t upgraded for 15 years. I drive cars that have been crashed into or guzzle damn near as much oil as they do gas. Half my clothing is free giveaways from places like bars or clothes that have somehow maintained some kind of shape since high school. I know how to apply and get SNAP. I know how to cope with being functionally indoors or at home for weeks and months at a time.

I’m the kind of person who should NEVER be in any kind of debt, difficult situation, or piddling “I’ll take any job!” kind of place. I have my degree. I have special skills when it comes to interpersonal professional engagement. I have a supervisory level addiction counseling credential. In the past, I’ve gotten my real estate broker’s license. I’ve engaged hundreds of people at a time at varying levels of ongoing crisis. I’ve learned how to do fun things like woodwork in my free time. I’m a doer. I create. I struggle with every second in which I can describe myself as a “lazy piece of shit” because I didn’t occupy it with something to stimulate my brain or demonstrate my worth. It truly is a pathological base disposition to belabor my strengths as I lament excruciating details impeding my small conceptions of progress.

The self-hatred spilleth over. Now, I want every shitty job. I want to exhaust myself until I’ve paid off the money. I want to ignore my hobbies, TV, or the idea that I deserve a single second of my time doing something like this, instead of moving some box from one side of the room to the other in a warehouse or bagging your groceries at the white trash Dollar Store up the road.

If I could have “simply” maintained an uncritical and complacent disposition, I could have just kept my job enabling addicts to not really improve. What’s wrong with me? I pretty much had my remote position, wasted gas to the office 2 days a week 1.5 hours away aside. This is the critical piece of what is wrong with me. I fucking believe in myself! I try, desperately, to practice the behaviors and beliefs I arrive at after writing. If I think I’m being an exploited and exploitative cunt who is contributing to the veneer of insincere “help” that plagues disingenuous social work, THAT ACTUALLY BUGS THE FUCK OUT OF ME! I can’t ignore the ick. I can’t play along and adopt the catch-phrases.

I have left so many otherwise straight-forward or “comfortable” positions for this reason. Until recently, I haven’t had a job, paying next to nothing or otherwise, that couldn’t pay off my debt in 3 to 6 months. Why wasn’t the debt paid? I needed to go to extreme levels of distraction and coping because I was spending 12 to 15 hours a day poorly playing along. If I couldn’t pack the handful of hours or weekends with other shit to do and think about? I might lose my shit around clients. My mouth will get me fired and more alienated than it already does.

The wild swings between doing “nothing” with all of my free time, to this craving to occupy every second with something on the clock making me any kind of money I know is wrong or inappropriate. But also, I need to hype myself up. I need to get comfortable with the deadening that happens. I need to mourn the loss of the things I’d rather be doing while I’m standing for 8 to 12 hours a day or being directed by someone who gives me immediate pause and cause for concern.

I can’t ever seem to find some happy middle ground with my collection of skills and experience. It’s either 40+ hours a week, in office or equivalent, taking home 70% of my pay and eating 70% of my day, or it’s peanuts in the form of plasma donation and odd-jobs offered to me out of pity, no less appreciated and very needed, from friends and family. Part-time? No no, that’s a trick to get you in the door so they can impose mandatory overtime. Well, that’s the case no matter what role you get.

I also can’t seem to stomach the idea of constantly starting from the bottom. Every field has its “pre-license or certification” “x-hours you need to blah” “a year from now you might be qualified to tie my shoes!” kind of stupid fucking process. It’s fees. It’s tests. It’s arbitrary because the role they hired you for actually needs something they’re gonna take 9 months to even hint at bothering to show you how to do.

I should deliberately avoid trauma-dumping my experience across roles right now.

I had to back myself into a corner that raised my internal threat level. Included in my debt consolidation plan, I’m also thinking about returning to school for my Master’s in counseling. Why? Because I don’t want to pay some greedy asshole for the privilege of using their license number to run my nonprofit. I don’t want to have to keep reminding the people fawning over how I do counseling that I’m not licensed, technically, just “credentialed” and trusted to conduct crisis intervention. It’s about the money and plausible deniability for liability if someone loses their shit, not that any of the companies I worked for genuinely give a fuck. I’m extremely timely and organized with my paperwork, they like that.

I’ve worked 4 jobs at once before. I very nearly passed out, but I did it. I was also 24 and not 36. I also know that when an idea gets stuck like “I’m fucking sick of this, fix it,” I won’t be able to let it go. Before I started writing this, I applied to 15 more jobs, all over the map, but applied nonetheless. I’m getting up at 8, it’s 2:15 right now, no matter how late I stay up, to hit the job placement spot in town. I’m reaching out to people who might let me host a fundraising event for free in their spot. I’ve got the list of things sitting around my house and property that can make their way to facebook marketplace. I can start breaking down the large pile of scrap I collected over years because I thought that’d be a good and consistent form of money-making for too long.

There’s a world where I go into something of a fugue state and fix my problem in a few weeks or couple months, but I genuinely shudder and worry about what the true cost of that would be.

I want balance. I really do. I want a healthy medium between how much TV I can watch, or the 20 years of video games I need to catch up on, or the 80 hours of music production tutorials I need to filter through, or the dozens of pieces of wood I’ll fuck up and my otherwise capacity to deftly psychoanalyze, encourage, and model behavior. I wouldn’t advocate anyone do what I’m gearing up to do. But, more to the point, I’m not at the mercy of the compulsion to try, I just deeply appreciate the utility and my capacity.

The goal is clear, get out of debt. My arms and legs work. I can operate for months on 4 hours of sleep. No one is going to “save me” from myself like when I reached out to my “friend” that helped drive me to this fucked place altogether. I was thinking so naively that it’s worth turning every stone once a certain psychological threshold has been breached. I gathered his distance-putting pretense and superficiality immediately. You know what happened when I called another friend later that day? He sent $200 in anticipation of a work I’m going to do to install workbenches around his garage. He sent it after I told him 8 times not to. My former friend? He doesn’t even think he’s done anything wrong. This isn’t the mind-reading I caution clients against, this is me reading tone and his phrasing, “I can see why you would have that position.” Yeah, I bet.

This is the most chaos-like I’ve written in a long time. I’ve got like 4 separate things I could bitch indefinitely about. I’m fishing for a sustainable approach to what’s a flatly irresponsible and unrelenting place I’m inviting into my behavior. I’m so beyond whatever levels of anger or frustration I’ve bled onto pages in the past. Or maybe the numbing is doing its job. Or maybe, and this is a symptom of this state of mind, the fact that I’ve eaten 3 pieces of toast and some Cheez-its all day is maybe starting to sink in.

If I get 1 or 3 jobs in the next couple days and my new budgeting spreadsheet put together, it’s entirely possible I’ll write a 3 paragraph matter-of-fact digression about how I’ve solved my problem, and in 3 to 6 months at yada yada pace (with no overtime or a return to dreaded meal prep) this will all register like some frenetic fever dream accident blog reflective of a bygone era. Do I dare hope?

Wednesday, September 18, 2024

[1153] Mean

I’ve written maybe 7 pages over the last week of noise. I’m not in a wholly chaotic and ambivalent place, but zeroing in on something specific to explore has been elusive. Maybe this will get me there.

A few weeks ago, I came across an explanation for why so much abhorrent behavior is tolerated in different work environments. There are things I, and people in my circles, find it “incomprehensible” to do, and a common refrain I hear is some complaint about why a colleague gets paid more, isn’t fired, or is otherwise ignored when they do something that, my friend or higher-achieving person, would never.

The explanation was that we’re more a collection of average-to-shit than not. When you have someone who can legitimately do something better than you, you’re a threat. Almost always you’re going to have a boss that is exceptionally average, typically lazy, and aspiring to the middle of the road maintain basic survival space. This was true when I worked at a movie theater all the way up to the literal head of the Indiana Department of Child Services.

“Average” is the key word. Most of us, probably too often, can speak to areas in which we excel. We ruminate particularly deeply on our strengths or past achievements when we want to fuel a narrative of what we’re entitled to or our worth. As a society, I would put money on the idea that almost all of us have said something to the effect of, “I hate people.” Whether that’s true or just true-enough, it’s a gut-level reaction to our approximate engagement with “your average person.”

I try to depersonalize how I understand the average person. Every baby that’s born functionally resets the species. Whatever genetic information that carries through, it’s only informed in a passively selected way. All of the religious baggage you might wish to stain that baby’s brain with, all of the “cultural norms,” or pathological circularly reasoned spaces need practice. The infinite sea of things that baby will stay ignorant about as it grows up will be as diverse as any individual, but no less infinite.

What happens if you are “generally” an improvement on what’s average? Say you’re pretty. Say you’re smart. Say you’re exceptionally agreeable. You don’t have to be above average to recognize the potential desirability and exploitability of people like that. You can simply want to jerk off to a pretty face, pawn off the responsibility for cleaning the oceans, and abuse the persistently self-immolating patience of your exhausted-mommy-esc spouse.

When one of those people gains the confidence or self-awareness, now you’re in trouble. The smart person might dictate, in excruciating detail, how you aren’t living up to your responsibilities. The pretty person recognizes the control they have over your emotional well-being which might translate into a certain control over your finances. The agreeable one plots underneath the outward displays of social chaos as no one suspects they have an agenda beyond affirming yours.

When you’re average, you’re safe. You don’t become a target. You aren’t immediately resented. People aren’t deeply suspicious that you’ll just “do anything you please.” I think back to the party house. I engineered the conditions, but at a certain point, I became like this evil mastermind presumed to be…I guess…pulling the strings of hundreds of people coming over almost every weekend? People were practically sling-shooting their sense of agency and self-control at me if anything remotely went wrong towards the end of the party years. “We” were no longer partying together, I fucked up for organizing it in the first place altogether. You certainly can’t be blamed for moving into what I pitched, explicitly, as a party house, right?

As average habits go, finding someone to blame is as biblically cliche as it gets. Even when we may be more accurate than not in assigning the blame, we’re still exercising the wrong muscles. I’m a big Bernie Sanders fan. I think millionaires and billionaires are “victims” of our disingenuous systems. Why? By the numbers, you can call someone rich. By their psychology, or history, or wisdom, or rules we incentivize them to play by though? I blame the species-level messaging. We’re still scapegoating our own poor understanding of macro-economic systems. We’re still refusing to lead with a collective ethic versus entrench behind our narrative presumptions.

That is, if we don’t generally, on average, believe and behave as if power and money are corrupting forces, in our heart of hearts, we’re not going to do the practical work to claw back the money it takes for all of us to live better. It’s analogous to addiction. We’re absolutely sold and stuck on agency-crippling notions. We refuse or are never invited to do the work of explicitly stating those notions. So, in the abstract, in the grey, we flail. Without a goal, we default to the norms. We succumb to induced states of propaganda and irrelevance.

I think average is unduly and overwhelmingly deadly. Average is the output of unsympathetic, unconscious, and ambivalent natural selection. What’s “natural” is going to be insufficient if there’s any real “we” in this collective exercise to survive beyond this given moment. We need to define and enable other areas of exceptional human behavior and achievement. We need to do it in the same way we do with Hollywood. I want the Brad Pitt’s of social work to be making 6 figures, not their greedy share-holding bosses or subsidized firm bilking the government. The money is, and has always been, there. The values aren’t.

I genuinely struggle with the idea of wanting to “excel.” I want to be, not just better than average, but exceptionally good at things I do. It’s a borderline pathological disposition that’s taken me many years to find a remotely mellow way to relate to it. I’m literally thankful for getting older and having some energy zapped and thus forced to slow and calm down if I didn’t want to hurt myself. My experience of life has often left me dumbfounded in how people respond to the desire to live and act in service to “more than average.”

It’s worse than that though, because I’m still scarred by the responses I’ve gotten from people for being basically human or competent too. When I called the police to wellness check a friend who vague-booked a suicidal-sounding message, the look on like 7 people’s faces around me was like, “Why bother?” I still can’t fucking figure that one out and you’d think I wouldn’t need a larger display for why I shouldn’t have continued being friends with them. Each client at DCS I informed of their rights or treated with respect and not as though I was a wanna-be cop who needed to threaten them, more than half of the leadership maintained the not-so-quiet condescending and flabbergasted posture because, in their minds, you get better outcomes when people are scared, angry, and lied to?

Round we circle to looking like a threat. When you hold an above-average decency and engagement standard, the insecure cunts who’ve bullied their way to positions of power or influence know that, were you ever in direct competition to something, people are going to prefer you. People are going to be looking for the solutions-focused patient leader more than the threatening asshole. (Innate fascist tendencies and patterns aside. Or, once they subside.)

If I’m not doing something that I create, or where I can be more or less left alone, or where I can do a dozen other things that serve as coping, I’m stuck in an impossible situation. I can’t help but notice when you’re being inefficient. I can’t help but notice when you’re getting in your own, or especially my, way. I can’t help when people like me more than you. I can’t help that I’ve developed in a way that does not allow me to accept “average” where better can be achieved, often with less effort, once we’ve made a detailed account of the nature of the process or problem.

I’m not on auto-pilot. I’m not using every opportunity to speak with someone to unload prepared remarks or cliches. It is what it is? It’s also not what it’s fucking not. And it’s also not making much fucking sense, stressing everyone out, and does not have to be this way. We need to recognize we’re in a constant, moment to moment battle, for control. Control of what? Hopefully, with any sense, how we define and practice our values. How we dignify our work and time. How we celebrate and long for each day instead of justify and excuse all that we haven’t lived up to.