[532] Head Above Water

When do you truly feel like you’ve accomplished something? When do you feel safe and secure that you’ve gotten your point across, some measure of progress can be claimed, and it’s time to move on to some new problem or goal? It’s a hastily enough often employed word, “progress.” We’ve been given thousands of examples we believe we can rely on. You get married or start a family, you get the degree and then the extra certifications, you make the hoards of things you buy look fancy. You’re allowed to make it personal. Maybe you need to check countries you’ve visited off a list or lose a few pounds. To make progress, at the very least, is to speak to something exceedingly broad and potentially shifting.

Progress weighs on my thoughts because it’s an imposition of stress. If you don’t have an urge or drive to “get somewhere” you’re viewed very unhealthily. It’s instilled that you need to constantly work. It’s assumed that you’re always primed to learn something new. Hell, the very invention of numbers suggests growth. In what direction, well, what’s the next number? Situated as the animals we are, watching ourselves get older, watching things change from what we’re used to, we’re disposed to rooting for progress. For example, what’s bad about thinking that we’ll bend the arc of history from racism to acceptance? Any progressive worth the moniker would gleefully come aboard that ship.

The longer I let “progress” sink into my stomach, I think it’s a wildly flawed idea. I’ve stated in the past that I no longer believe in it. I said that because all that ever was, or at least the memory of it, and all that ever will be is contained in our awareness right now. Those sentiments alone I’m sure are borrowed from some religious tradition I don’t care to cite, but I think the more important practical breakdown of how that idea works gets ignored. What do you say to yourself, alone, cuddled up with TV and food, about your place in the world and where you’re going? How do we describe “progress,” if, like me, we’ve essentially disavowed the word?

Let me try and start with something that’s, in theory, “simple.” Take an online conversation. There’s plenty to pick from whether you’re arguing with a Hitler 2 supporter or someone deeply offended that a football player wouldn’t stand for the national anthem. Again this in theory, but people should be able to freely share ideas in a thoughtful manner, exercising their American-ness all over the place. Experience shows name-calling, defensive empty professions of the real truth and just my opinions, condescension, logical fallacies, or emotional appeals. Ad Nauseum. If someone does come in and manages to sound reasonable, or at least, persuade the crazy to calm down and perhaps stop responding, often the comments are deleted, hands are thrown up in the air, and we resolve ourselves to the perpetual failures of communication.

For me, to “progress” in that kind of interaction has been about a lot of comment preservation and self-restraint. It stresses me out to see stupid people strongly advocating for stupid things. It makes me want to be mean. It makes me want to dig the hole deeper. So, I measure progress by my ability to save everything they said, respond line by line, and bring to the table what I’ve researched or figured out how to argue in the past. I try to think of myself as a wave and put myself in the eyes of every person who’s been as frustrated as me reading about, oh, say, how racism isn’t really the problem, a lack of patriotism is.

Here I can build a larger holistic sense of progress. I might be the only one willing. I might be the only voice with the patience who’s persuaded himself that it was worth it. We have the personal level; refrain from calling them a cunt. We have the larger picture; I hope to bring silent sympathetic people together. Now, it’s important to note the very selfish reasons I would engage in this behavior. LIke I said, it stresses me out to listen to idiots. If I can get people already on my side to pick up my tools for dealing with, persuading otherwise, or silencing idiots, my world gets more peaceful. Peace of mind is hard for me to maintain.

I look at most things as an opportunity to play the “scale up” game. War gets simple that way. Interpersonal relationships get simple. It’s just this handy tool to help direct where to look and find clues about what to say or when to stay silent. Big problems are a culmination of millions of little excuses. It is your job. It is your responsibility. You’re carrying the torch whether you want to believe it or not. You don’t get “simple” opinions. You can’t cannonball in this pool and only get yourself wet.

I think the strength of making your conception of progress personal is that you literally have to live it. You can feel it each day. For the discernible future, I’ll be going through a shit breakup. I haven’t spent a single day feeling as dramatic as the first time I decided to play the feelings game. To me, that’s progress. I’m able to say, logically, honestly, yes this sucks, but she’s just a person, even though I didn’t want her to just be a person. I can feel the drama in my body and you’ll hear the joke on my tongue or read the words not typed through tears. It doesn’t mean I’m happy, or just feeling nothing, but it means the stress, the pursuit of a peaceful mind, are things I’ve learned how to navigate better. I learned something, even if the story of my personal life is as boring and cliche on the surface as the next person’s.

Progress, to me, is about follow-up. I don’t want to emote and yell, kick, and scream and then just wait around for the opportunity to do it again. I write. I can put myself back in my teenage body like it was yesterday. I can see when I had ridiculous things to say and was just wallowing around in self-pity. That suggests to me that this is what we’re disposed to and taught as children. We don’t get better until we trap our awareness into right now. Feel the horror, judge the words, express boundless joy, because it’s all happening right now. Progress needs to be substituted at that point. It’s now awareness or presence. It’s an honesty or balance. It’s the story of every word that hits you in the moment that it hits you.

I think this is why my disposition or “style” is often taxing on people. They only want one or the other and on their terms. They can’t be manically depressive and happy. They need to have their depressive phases or block out all the unholy darkness of the world and profess how goddamn beautiful it all is and fuck you if you deny it! They want the “deep” conversation when it suits them. They want to follow up when it’s part of their job or they feel very personally they’ve got something to lose. I’m telling you, it’s not enough. You have to make yourself uncomfortable all the time. You have to remind yourself. You have to feel trapped. You have to be genuinely scared. Then you’re allowed access to what allows you to cope with it all. It happens all at once.

I’ve been told that if they had my resources, my one friend would just kick back, buy a motorcycle and just travel for a year. He’s got goals, but he doesn’t stress himself out about setting the same kinds of examples in the same kinds of ways. I’ve referred to myself as having “peaked” several times in the past. I’m housed, I’m fed, I could go find another girlfriend if I wanted to ensure I’d have someone else dissatisfied with me in the future. But I’m always plagued, poked, by this idea that I’m supposed to be setting a more resounding example than “guy on his couch watching TV.”

A holistic progressive conception for me is approaching the world comprehensively and by the numbers. It’s not enough for my mind to “just do good” so to speak. I’m not the Greenpeace volunteer. I’m not the dollar to the Salvation Army. I’m not the advanced degree bringing you into the future whether you like it or not. I’m an accountant. I’m a story-teller. I make connections. Progress is helping you get what you want. It’s relating information in a way that feels scarily personal. It’s making sure nothing slips through the cracks when we’re retelling what’s going on. It’s irresponsible, but in a significant way, my peace lies within you. This means I have to accurately account for you. This means I have to be able to identify how subtle and fluid you can be when you’re lying.

So my mind won’t rest. It won’t rest until I’ve created the tools that take away all of my excuses, and therefore yours. Until then, I get to rehearse. I get to try and speak clearly. I get to try and account and advocate and exercise my voice beyond stupid as fuck memes. Maybe it’ll go long. Maybe it needs to. Maybe 1000 examples of what 2 or 3 pages of dissecting words and feelings will finally signal to you I’m not just in it because I’m so special. I don’t just want to be talking. I don’t want you just to be friends anymore than I wanted my ex to just be a person. It takes time and attention, and dare I say it, bravery, to try and own yourself and how far the wave you create travels.

Don’t drown in someone else’s.

[531] Lie Not?

I’m working too hard. I spend way too much time at the office worrying about things that aren’t my problem and that I can’t fix. What good does it do me to read about Saudi Arabia bombing Yemen and the weapons we supply in order for them to do so? It’s not so much “who cares,” because certainly the millions facing food and medical shortages have an opinion, but what good does it do me? It’s not my place.

I have so many close friends. We see each other all the time and make plans for the future. It’s reassuring to be so deeply understood by people who understand me. Even when things go wrong I know I can rely on some tough conversations that will see us through to the end. It’s no secret that such good people had good influences, and it’s why I’m so blessed to know so many of their family members who have been nothing but a lot of fun.

I have too many dreams to count. From a lot of my hard work and dedication, I’ve learned so many details that have allowed me to reevaluate, but open my mind to new and exciting ways of doing business or attempting to learn things. I wanted to build a sustainable house, for example, but the funding was going to take longer than I’d like, so I pivoted to a more cost effective goal that will only open more doors to potential.

I’m commissioning tools for organizing information too. Although it’s slow going, I know the end product will be something to astound. I may not have a huge amount of money, but I do have time. It’s the most fulfilling feeling in the world to be able to dedicate it to understanding and translating life as it happens. I stopped making projections for when it might happen, but I’m sure it will be soon. I never let my spirit get burdened by “life happens” things I know are built into the costs of doing business.

Even if I don’t have a ton of money, it’s still provides such a security blanket when I think about what I’ve heard from other people. I know that no one would try to exploit or lean on that fact given that they know, as much as we all do, how hard it can be to come across. I’ve learned to mostly keep the specifics of it to myself as I’ve absent-mindedly created some invitations to some uncomfortable conversations. What invaluable opportunities to learn though ;).

I know people are basically good. They just have a lot on their plates and not a lot of time to deal with it all. I made the mistake when I was younger of thinking I had control and could learn and apply different habits that would help steer us. Now, I relax and trust that things will take their course if you let the underlying good-spirited wave of humanity take over. It’s nice to think you might be the change, but the change is happening anyway, and I want to be whatever it is I want to be that day. Lo, the burden of us creatives!

The other day, I took time out to just stop and literally smell and enjoy the flowers. The world is filled with so much hidden beauty we take for granted “just happens” because it’s part of some landscaping at the mall or design on a store front. It was such a colorful and intricate arrangement, I saved a picture of it on my phone.

One of my favorite things to do is people watch. I like to imagine everyone walking by has lived some exciting life or is working hard to achieve their dreams. This life stuff is so complicated in the most fun ways. I find it helpful to put myself in their shoes and styles and play along as their character. The thousands of places that has taken me could fill a book.

Oh! I’ve been thinking of writing a book. Someone told me once that with a little organization and a few citations they thought my perspective could be very intriguing on the question of how to fix things. While there have been haters, mostly people have given me praise for my philosophical insights. It’s slightly embarrassing lol, but hey, I’m so glad to help. Finding the words has never come easy to me, so it’s encouraging that others may follow in my example.

Eating is one of my favorite things to do. I don’t worry too much about things like factory farming or pesticides. I’ve gone vegan. The bad guys can’t survive as long as I’m not giving them my dollar. But honestly, I know they’re not all bad guys and capitalism is the driving force of why I’m able to have so much. I mean there’s so many options once you choose to be healthy! I don’t understand why people think it’s that hard to switch. I even started walking to the store so I could budget gas money for more tasty treats. 2 birds, 1 stone.

It’s hard to imagine me asking for a better life. I’m not religious, but I still find myself praying, but I’m not sure why. It just feels good to know something spiritual is looking out for me. I’m engaged, I give back. And with the karmic flow of the universe, I know I’m getting everything I deserve, even on the few and far between bad days. (I know, I get lazy sometimes and binge TV, oops!)

I think most people just need someone to listen to them. Just getting things off your chest can motivate you to some real changes. Once someone in dire straights learns of all the resources we’ve created to help each other, it’s hard to imagine anyone not being able to live like me. I know it’s not perfect, but there’s hardly any reason not to look on the bright side.

I got a world-class education at a solid school. My car is a little clunky, but it gets me around without costing too much. I got this awesome gift that makes my hair sit and feel absolutely brilliant. It’s hard to not just post random sporadic boasts about the amount of good going on in my life. My instagram rivals my soon-to-be famous favorite Youtube rising star. My god, that place is just too funny!

I wish more people would take the time to just sit in how perfect it all really is. How all you have to do is shift your perspective and the world brightens up. It’s easy if you lie.

[530] I'm A Fake I'm A Fake I'm A Fake

I’m in a particularly cynical mood tonight. I can feel the irrational levels of hatred forming the front lines of an outburst. I loathe these moments for how informative they feel. My deepest sense of reality pressed at every pressure point. And it’s brought on by a stupid board game.

I see the rest of my life. I’ve met people like me, or more often read about them. The “go-getter” with an unassailable spirit to keep trying. The one who’s interested in everything and never backs away from a fight, especially ones he doesn’t need to have. I’ve been comfortable for some time with referring to myself as much a cliché as I may label someone else. It’s the healthy mix of naivety and wisdom that let’s you keep moving in spite of yourself.

The psychology I’m molded from has just enough drops of abuse and despair intermingled with selfless sentiment. Each moment I choose to make an opponent of myself, or “humanity,” or “your stupid stupid self who has no capacity to properly use words.” There’s no surprises. There’s nothing engaging. Whether I get on an old-man ramble how I’m going to be having the same conversation about the Middle East 25 years from now as my parents did 25 years ago, or if I get drunk and talk for 3 hours to a group of people on their porch in the middle of the night, to me, it speaks to nothing.

Because this is my voice, I don’t have a voice. Because those examples are when I’m loudest, when I pick up a megaphone, you’ll never hear me. The pen is only mightier than the sword in a battle of wits. It takes almost negative thought to exist as we do. I phrase it as such because I offer people the chance to read or recognize and they literally tell me they feel sorry for me. I don’t deserve to be as sure of myself as they are themselves. I’m not worthy of the game they’re playing.

I feel my grip loosen as each finger is plucked by the macabre man who oversees existence. How does one not dance about in the depravity? What’s worth it really mean anymore?

Depravity, for me, looks like taking the money and running. It says, rather insistently, fuck you, I got mine. No, you didn’t hear me, FUCK YOU, I GOT MINE, LIFE’S HARD ENOUGH NIGGA GET THE FUCK BACK. And then when the guilt or pity kicks in from time to time you donate to the dying children. Depravity looks like sleep. So much sleep I up my capacity for indulgence to induce it artificially. Why not? Although, lately, even my dreams haven’t been safe.

What’s left for me to believe in? That I’ll get my cool house or compound? That I’ll give more privileged travelers opportunities to mask the depravity of the “gig economy” and spectacle of dipping your toes into the homogenized commodities that are becoming the rest of the world? That I’ll “find someone” who so amazingly and wonderfully thinks like me! And it will all be okay again because we’ve been hurt before and learned so much!

The tragedy is belief. I believed in school. I believed in love. I believed in family. I believed in my work ethic. I believed in my intelligence. I believed in my interested and engaged perspective. I believed in conversation. I believed in sincerity. I believed in, practically unconditional, acceptance. I believed in selfishness. I believed in manipulation. And apparently I believe in an endless stream of disgusting words that speak to my snarled lip and furled brow.

I’m always lying. What to make of all the time I’m lying and I never even meant to. When I’ve bitched too much it wasn’t enough. When I stopped hitting the wall after the first hole or first few drops of blood I let myself off easy. When I set my computer aside and roll over thinking I was done writing and might be able to sleep it will be complete and utter bullshit.

I already told you, total cliché.

I’m being dragged around by life. It’s blowing me in every which direction and I’ve found nothing to ground myself in but wandering around, saving money, and complaining. I pick goals for their ability to retain my attention for longer than a few days. I form opinions on thousands of movies and shows so I can say, “you know, I forget that scene in particular, but overall I thought it was good.” Because what else is there? Start smugly goose honking like Chris Hedges? Seek academic sainthood like Noam Chomsky? Get ripped and fuck bitches because I am all that is man!? Act like I feel brotherly love and know how to translate that message like brother Cornel West? Buy it all like the rich kids of Instagram? Drink it all? Catch em all?

I’m nothing. I’m nowhere. In 2 days, I’ll be the QT/QTC microsecond data point from the ECG measuring what some pill has or hasn’t done to delay my heart. That’s why I went to college. That’s why I wanted to be an entrepreneur. That’s why the 180 degree reorientation of my life feels invigorating and definitely not manic because I no longer get to think someone else is the most important thing in my world. As if I wasn’t clued in to that self-inflicted drama years ago. Just keep swimming!

I’m a constant roll of the dice. Maybe I’ll wake up and you’ll all be gone. Maybe I won’t make it back off the highway. Maybe I’ll go bankrupt. Maybe I’ll get sick. Maybe the psychopath I pissed off online will find me. I’ll roll and roll and roll and only see two lifeless eyes fixed straight up affirming the only thing they’re good for.

What the fuck am I doing? My job clearly isn’t to keep close connections with like-minded individuals I met in school. It’s not to become some famous insightful writer, so full of RAGE and passion, Brava! It’s not to teach you fucking anything you’re not happy to dive headfirst into anyway. Or it’s not something I haven’t poorly reiterated from those on the ground or with photographic memories and a penchant for elegance. If I’m not here for anyone, I can only be here for me, and that’s the most depressing, horrifying, and life-ending thought I can come up with.

How to frequently resolve that without being suicidal? Or maybe I’m just incidentally suicidal, like in eating shitty food and breathing hours of basement air. Or in speeding on the highway and leaving my contacts in too long. Fuck my eyes, right? I’ve seen enough. Let’s not forget picking scabs. Nothing so on the nose than literally digging at yourself to pieces. It’s not that I’m just watching people “get by” and “make the best of it.” It’s not that they just leave this ooze I can’t wash off. It must just be me. They’re not killing themselves with my mirror neurons going apeshit. I’m just the only one that doesn’t get it.

So singular minded. So closed-off and resentful. I should broaden my horizons. Find the good in everything. Use my resources and thoughtfulness to turn this window into the world onto all that is good instead of icky knowledge of a nuclear holocaust, climate apocalypse, or rape porn. Which of those made you most uncomfortable to think about? It doesn’t matter! The world is filled with beautiful mountains and love and opportunities to be surprised every day! We’re all in this together!

[529] 6 Deadly Sins

I saw a model for social mobility in a sociology class once. It explained that, relative to where you were born in life, maybe 10-15% of people were predicted to move up in their class. If my memory is lacking, I know it wasn’t 5% and I know it wasn’t 20%. It referred to the U.S. specifically, and I’m fairly certain it was speaking to how that number goes down depending on race and how those numbers have been affected as we moved into the future. (This was 6 years ago I was in this class.)

A word employed, I think too often today, is “privilege.” One must check their privilege. They must apologize and kowtow to the unconscious hurt it causes everyone around them. There is no hard and fast rules for believing someone has acted with enough contrition. The standard for what constitutes privilege is constantly shifting. It’s less a cautionary vehicle for awareness as it is an opportunity for someone to pounce on what they perceive is any edge they were not provided.

Here we can find ourselves in another conversation about “raising consciousness” or claim some capacity to be “woke.” In my view, to do either is as much a sham as it is to foist someone’s life circumstances on their unconscious biases alone. Let’s elaborate with some stories.

I recently took a trip to the ghetto. A friend of mine organizes his uncle’s pills, runs him to the store, and just generally checks in to make sure the aging former Gangster Disciple diabetic is still kicking. The man’s grass was a jungle, he smelled like unwiped ass. He told, more like barely coherently mumbled, stories about how crackheads (or, rock stars as he hilariously called them) sneak into his house to do crack while he’s asleep. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he has a few mental health issues as well.

We can draw a contrast from that man’s experience of life to that of his nephew’s and mine. Me and my friend live within 5 minutes of each other and both grew up solidly middle class. The quiet, quasi-dead, banality of the neighborhood in which I’m writing this was something we were both born into. We’re both “woke” to the realities of poverty, him in his own family, and if only me because I’ve known him for so long, or watched what’s happened to my area as ghetto-like conditions started creeping in.

The dialogue about his uncle goes a few ways. Screaming accusations and appeals to personal responsibility happens often enough. “He should mow his lawn!” “Lock the door!” “Seek help!” Because the man “shopping,” at a store that doesn’t mop its floors, for pop to accompany the bread and leftover cake on his table, probably has a world-class health clinic up the street, right? You remember it was us that drove him to the store as well as sort out the 8 different pills he needed a day.

You can also go completely oblivious the other way. “He should be totally taken care of!” “We should create all the resources possible to make sure he’s living like a human being!” “If we only had access to better healthcare!” While my sympathies certainly lie more in this camp, it’s wholly oblivious to the realities of an impoverished culture. There is no plug and play fix to an institutional disposition. There is no amount of “education.” There’s not enough health clinics you can open. There’s not enough empathy bombs you can set off in someone’s mind to provoke a march and overhaul. In an extremely important wording and sense, “he” cannot be fixed because “he” is not really the problem. Many things went wrong before he got here.

It’s this reality that makes me, not want to blame and berate people of my or higher standing about their lives, but encourage them to talk. It’s why I wish they’d get over themselves. Without even realizing it, we’re quick to cry, kick, and scream about things that happen to us. (My future was tied to the girl!) More importantly to me, we’re quick to brag and boast about how picturesque our lives are, when of course they’re not, while we spend everyday pretending the realities of the ghetto don’t matter or impact us. We act like the institutions we middle-manage or wage-slave at don’t create conditions of a chronic illness. We think working hard, or more insidiously, “harder,” means we’re being smart or justified. We’re not.

This is what kills me whenever I’m told, “well we already know this!” about something I’m writing. I don’t believe you. I don’t believe the vast majority of people who grew up like me know the feeling, look, and smell of poverty. I don’t think they’re regaled with stories from their Uncle Tom grandpa getting soooo excited to be treated like white people. I think this because I’ve had people tell me, “I’ve had many racial interactions throughout my life!” trying to defend their not-racist street cred, as they doubted the legitimacy of Black Lives Matter or that the amount of people getting shot was accurate.

Do you know? Do you feel things in your bones and change your voice and actions?

Recently, I was watching a former NFL star talk on Chelsea about what a major payday looks like to you, as opposed to Uncle Sam, as opposed to your agent or your family. Managing that money and having those difficult conversations about why you’re not going to let someone invest in a barber shop in Tokyo are skills you don’t often acquire on your road through the sports world. It’s a kind of clash of civilizations in your own mind, as you often come up from less than ideal circumstances. For many of these guys, it takes losing millions before a stabilizing and wiser perspective sets in.

In other words, you can’t just throw money at it. If you’re going to my friend’s uncle’s house, you shouldn’t even bother keeping ten bucks in your pocket, or you’re gonna be compelled to lie to him when he asks if you have any extra cash. The kinds of changes that I would argue for aren’t simple shifts in monetary policy. They’re shifts in what we’re willing to put up with conversationally. They’re shifts in what constitutes “work” or a well-written or reported perspective on some area of life. I want humility and struggle against the system, not braggadocio and tired confessionals mirroring every other complacent or self-indulgent soul.

But how do you know I mean it? What makes me “special?” Why listen to my voice, sounding eerily like those bleeding hearts with pie-in-the-sky ideas that could never work!?

Well, I’m the one writing about my brush with actual poverty, you’re not. I’m currently looking for a spot to build an eco-friendly straw-bale house, because I didn’t get the “middle-class” lifestyle promised to me either. That’s currently, not “one day” after I’ve exhausted myself at some bullshit job, I very-well know is bullshit, but refuse to say so out loud because it’s so drab and depressing, blaaaahhh. “Not everyone can do drug studies, asshole!” No, but you can pull resources. You can shack up next or near each other and put away resentful naiveties about the capacity of your bootstraps. My living room and extra bedroom have opened up for at least 4 friends to help find their footing. You can try figuring out something new together instead of playing out the well-worn excuses and traversing the poorly-paved roads before you.

A sonder is the realization that everyone has a life as rich and complex as your own. I often think about this as I’m passing what feels like a hundred thousand cars on my way to take pills for more than most will make this month. Rich and complex? We’re all on the same road. In my area, we’re all wandering the same mall and eating the same food. We went to, about, the same schools. If we truly had any capacity for appreciating complexities, you’d think we’d introduce “simple” ethics regarding shared experience into the compounding equation before anything else.

Still, I’m provoked by the language of sin. We’re greedy. I want my toys and house and cash as much as the next person, but I won’t do it hiding behind my small donations here and there or even pretending blogs like this count for more than they do. We’re sloths. We’ll struggle to the ends of the earth to defend our “love” and our “rights” as long as we don’t really have to tackle what that means for our neighbor. We take undue pride in what I AND I ALONE, or at least, what my family nodded in support of, have accomplished. We envy those who can pull off the best Instagram picture or magazine depiction of a modern living room. We gorge ourselves on unsustainable food. We get insanely defensive and angry at people like me who perpetually point out the emperor is naked. When it comes to lust, I think people should be fucking considerably more often, so let’s say I think religion gets that one pretty wrong at least.

Everything in my life is a first-world problem and complaint. I barely discussed what happens in the ghettos of America. Tell that story to the perpetually bombed teenage Palestinians. You mean their house ISN’T reduced to rubble? Bling Bling! I don’t want to live like the poor and I don’t think I need to flog myself for aspiring to more. I do think I have an obligation to encourage, as often as the mood strikes me, a conversation that I think begets real change. I want the kind of conversations that drove me to drug studies and straw-bale houses, and investing in software that hopefully helps me respect the time I’ve spent reading about the details.

The conversation doesn’t get better when it doesn’t happen. Our “consciousness” remains stunted at whatever snippets we can remember from the half-read article before or after work. Our jovial polite impressions of one another, or stark raving lunatic screaming professions about one another, remain different extremes to the same end. Maybe not your end, in your little world, concerned with your little self. But an end that might terrify, or dejectedly relieve you, were the circumstances switched. The “government,” our “educations,” the “fix,” whatever you’re mad at or supports you are all what you’re choosing to do right now. Or, they’re all subjected to the unconscious whimsy of business as usual.

Am I trying to guilt trip you? Is asking for informed empathic conversation too much? Is working together not just unreasonable given proximity, but who has the time? I won’t pretend I know what your path or method consists of, but it shouldn’t be silence. It shouldn’t be judgment or anger. You should do like me. Be weird. Insist. Encourage. Try to do it differently and experiment. Talk for as long as it takes. Dive into what makes you afraid and uncomfortable. That’s where my friends lie and what I want to see the future consist of. Anything less seems pointless.

[528] Copy Cat

This may go a couple of “random” directions, but I at least know where I want to start. I often say I’m lucky. I’m lucky to be healthy. I’m lucky for the circumstances I was born into. I’m lucky I’ve figured out a way to grasp my decision making that allows me to carry on with a “mostly even” disposition. When I decide to write, I’m lucky that I realized I don’t really give much a fuck whether it’s received as I intended as much as it got to get the hell out of me. Thus, my focus turns to answering the charge, “you’re not original.”

Stepping back, one wonders what a true “original thing” could ever look like. Plato’s forms? Realistically, we’re all the mash-ups and remixes of our experiences, parents’ experiences, genetics, and pop culture shoved down our throats. The reason you can laugh at some joke I make about Pokemon Go is because you grew up with it too, not because, in my infinite wisdom, I created this new and awesome thing I thought it pertinent for us to work into our memories.

I don’t need to labor on about this level of criticism. It’s just so...well, unoriginal. Like every lazy person who thought they would step up and “criticize” me, it’s this limp wristed slap like “oh you! I think you suck!” where the word “criticism” doesn’t really apply. I literally had someone tell me, “the existentialists already exist and phrased things more deliberately and clearly than you. People can just read them!”

I implore you, point me in the direction of people who not only read, but colloquially reflect on the existentialists, and I’ll take my drivel to their front door. Yeah, he denied me an answer as to where those cool kids rock out as well. More to the point, since when is something done being thought about simply because someone got to it first? Philosophers are full of terrible ideas. If you don’t find a way to expound or contradict them, you’re not really putting this thinking thing to task.


Lazy. People are so lazy. Once more we need a reference from Waking Life about whether fear or laziness is the most prevalent human characteristic. I think it’s a trick question and they work in tandem.
When you’re not lazy you even bother to quote a line. You ask someone a question. You offer your opposing thought. Merely degrading someone doesn’t count. Lobbying adjectives and empty nods to your opinion about what is or isn’t worthwhile to read won’t cut it either.

It’s from here that it occurred to me that I like to argue. Some of you may be screaming, “DUH, MOTHER FUCKER!” The problem is that I separate argue from fight. I like to test my brain. I like having my positions challenged. In polite adult society, that never happens. So I go and pick at people once in awhile. I’m willing to “over” analyze some interaction or conversation because the odds are in my favor we’re doing a disservice to our potential for communication.

Just think. What could we discover when, as habit and history seems to speak to, we decide I’m not the enemy? What if we accepted that I’m “just” talking or probably making a joke, so when I question something or recall an idea, it has nothing to do with you personally? Oh, what a dream! Where could we go if I heard you sound as despotic as me as I’ve described the living nightmare of minimum wage work to nowhere? What could we learn about “love” and togetherness if you sent me drafts of your thoughts regarding the words or the “time and place” they should be considered paramount?

Every day there’s a dozen conversations I don’t get to have. I don’t get to learn about what you do, what you’re struggling with or have given up on. I don’t know how you’ve changed since college. I don’t know what you’re catching yourself saying or doing more or less as you get older. Random facebook chats won’t cut it. A few phone calls about the “nothing much” either of us is doing won’t suffice either. Whatever you pick to show the world through facebook can just go on ahead and lick a pair of hairy balls.

What’s sad is that I’m not even angry about it anymore. I’m going as dead to my conception of togetherness and friendship as our inundated existences taught us we should be. But, mine’s worse because it’s feeling like a self-preservation choice and not a taken for granted “truth” of existence. I came, I saw, I shit the bed and found myself complaining with an inability to clean it up.

So what, need a tl/dr right? If you’re going to shit on me, please do, but like, actually try. I certainly don’t hate you, but don’t ask me to define “friend.” And the proverbial “people” do as they’ve always done and here I sit pretending I’m justified or surprised. What else is new?

[527] Should Have Known Better

What a long strange trip it’s been. I feel I’m on the precipice of relief. Like the nail that’s been pounding away at my head needs one last good slug and I’ll go down. Maybe I can meander through a retrospective and piece the story together of how I got here.

I never knew any better. I think that’s a fairly broad yet understanding position you can attribute to someone, especially when they’re growing up. You just don’t know any better. You follow rules because they are there, or you’ll get hit, or you’ll get grounded. If your authority figure is particularly malicious, perhaps you’ll start to learn all sorts of bonus painful cause and effect lessons that serve to confuse you later in life. Instilled in you is some level of structure. If you’re lucky it’s healthy and informed. If you’re not, it’s a simple permutation of “try it, get fucked.”

As a child I didn’t know to what degree anything was a problem. I heard stories of my aunt getting beaten by her husband, but no one beat him up, and he still went to shake my hand at Thanksgiving without people making a fuss. You can form any number of childish conceptions about how badly you hate your parents for one reason or another, but 20 years later when your dad says, “Some people just should not have children, and your mom is one of them,” you begin to think you had pretty good instincts.

Your relationship to your parents can change or evolve over time. The entirety of that time, you can have no real understanding or basis for why you’re feeling or thinking one way over another. The extreme anger I held for my mom is now waterfalls of pity. Whatever I was made to believe about love for your parents or family broke into many different pieces informed by many different and contradictory stories of love. You’re just supposed to love them right? It’s that simple. Or it can be. Or it should be. Or what’s happening if you can’t? I don’t know any better.

Get into any relationship it’s the same thing. You don’t know how the other person or people will feel later. You were doing the best you could with your hopes and prayers. You believe because what else is there? You’re not trying to lie. You don’t mean to hurt anyone. But you didn’t know any better. You didn’t know how to cope or accept. You didn’t know how to phrase things or cultivate the patience. You didn’t know that a 3 minute walk around the block slows your heart and helps center you. You didn’t know what you even wanted out of it to begin with.

When you’re immersed in life it’s an obliteration event. You absolve yourself of otherwise intrusive thoughts with the day’s dealings or the routine. You bounce between impressions from hundreds of friends or acquaintances. You’re excited to show off what you’ve accomplished or is happening to you. You swoon over the perfect sunset that just seems to frame itself with your camera in mind. It’s the celebration at the top of an academic or professional mountain. It’s freedom. It’s boundless expression and garnering of attention.

And perhaps for a child, that’s precisely what we want. They’ve got time to know better. It’ll sink in soon enough. Let them play.

How do you start to know better? When do the decisions start feeling like yours and not incidental ones to stay afloat through crashing waves? For me, it was simply starting to write. I didn’t only have to be a ball of stress and questions. I could reach out and hunt for perspectives. I got random encouragement. I got people talking. When I said something particularly stupid, I had to try and defend it or modify or qualify it. It took a lot of work and time. It never got perfect.

In those periods of conversation and engagement, I thought I was learning something better. I thought I was picking up that many peoples’ minds are going as often as mine is. They share the same concerns. They have a hard time explaining them. Resolutions can be met when two or more people with honest perspectives pursue the dirt of whatever is being discussed. It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t slinging baseless accusations. No one was going to get hurt.

Then you introduce silence. People “grow up” and get “conservative.” They don’t want to make the same mistakes of their youth from talking too quick or especially making it public. As okay as it is for an impassioned teenage idiot to carry on about their first philosopher is how okay it becomes to basically never say anything regarding life as you get older. I’d consider both problematic, but the older person should know better. Or so I hope to discover.

At each layer where information is trying to be transferred there’s something of a battleground. You can refer to it superficially, “liberal verses conservative,” or egotistically, “rednecks verses academics,” or insecurely, “I actually think verses I want them to think.” And it’s not like we insist on only discussing things in one proper way. I’m sure I routinely switch tenses when I write because I’m trying to write as I think or speak, neither of which solidly reside in a strict relationship to a point in time. I start to ask myself, is there a “better?”

Am I better writer than when I started? I break things into paragraphs, which at least makes it easier for me to read. I say “fuck” considerably less often, but that could speak to personal preference. How would I know? It was only ever supposed to help me get rid of headaches. As long as it keeps doing that, it’s as good as it can ever get. It’s supposed to give me something to consider when I can’t pin down what I’m trying to consider. It is still doing that, so it’s still as good as it ever was.

“It’s just insecurity,” as internet doctors proclaim. I need to be loved! But only managed to pick the most grating and encumbered way and can’t appreciate my folly! “You just want attention,” those egging on the encouragement charge. Yes, please face this block of words, tell me to die, and then I win! They looked! They looked! “You’re not a secret genius,” as little do they know the whole point was to coax that sentiment out of them the whole time! 12 years and finally someone fell for my trap!

I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do in trying to understand things. I don’t know what understanding looks like without a ton of words. Without being exhausted of my questions or lines of reasoning, where am I going? What else would my words or feelings be in service to? Maybe it’s right here, when you ask yourself why the fuck you’re even bothering are you allowed to discover “better.”

I want the same peace for you that I either seek or find in my mind. I know I feel better without a slurry of headache inducing questions and anger. I don’t like to feel small. I don’t like being called “crazy” or “in need of a therapist” or “rambling” as if my brain has 50 different words I’d rather use in place of this sentence, and I’m just choosing to pick ones you think are totally shit. The peace of mind I achieve from attempting to explain myself is real. It’s as real as the boundless hatred I experience for bothering.

And it’s better. It’s better to give yourself time to not only take in information, but mash it up and see if you can spit it out in a way that helps you build. It’s better to have my struggles with free time than it is to adopt the ones handed down from systems of greed, consumption, and exploitation. Of course no one remains perfectly clean or perfectly free, but that’s not the point. I choose TV, reading, sporadic exercise, entrepreneurship, and wandering about the world and my mind every day because it’s better.

I can only speculate what you think is better. I can only draw from conversations we used to have. I can only cross my fingers that whatever sacrifices you make in service to your lives feel as “duh” as mine do for me. I don’t know what else to do. I don’t expect you to know what else to do. It’s not like you read these or we talk. It’s not like I ever set out for them to mean anything to anyone but me in the first place.

What I do know, is that I’m sick of the fucking hatred. I’m sick of the judgment. I’m sick of the imagination that can only be used to conjure the worst ideas you’ve ever had about someone. I know I’m better because my approach to fear and anger will consistently be this. I could “lose it” all day here and all you’ll get is more words. I can talk myself through the infinite insecurities that are projected onto me. I don’t ignore what you say and retort with empty things hoping to make you feel bad. I don’t tell you to die. I don’t reimagine and literally make things up to make you sound worse than I promise you already do.

Be the change you want to see. Every hurt feeling I want a trail of pages until it’s mended. Every flirtation with jumping over the edge I want a cushion of crumpled paper to catch you. Every baseless accusation I want met with analogy after analogy that ridicules and undermines. I want evidence of thought. I want patience. I want “tl:dr” to stick its head up its ass.

People that don’t know how to get better can’t see me. These words aren’t here. There is no guiding ethic or purpose to what I’m doing that isn’t a manifestation of their worst nightmares about me. I get that, and certainly don’t enjoy that. I hope to one day make peace with it.

[526] The Point

I think this is going to come across as very “judge-y,” but I don't want it to. The aim is to describe the working model of discussion that describes how we spend our time. Also, I need to attempt to banish any guilt I have for the amount of privilege I exhibit in my day to day existence.

How many jobs might we describe as “pointless?” I don't think there's a hard and fast ranking system, but if we attempt to make a number of comparisons, one might start to manifest. A comedian or doctor? If you had to choose, every comedian would be pointless. A lawyer or garbageman? Trick question, as both are about to be outsourced by machines here shortly. Does it sound weird to call a lawyer pointless? In a world that can produce a computer that can cite precedents and make better arguments than a human could ever manage, maybe not.

It's also important to distinguish the difference between the profession itself and the human desire or need of what it's providing. Comedy certainly isn't pointless and in fact is essential to well being and cohesiveness. Have we immediately contradicted the line of reasoning that would throw a comedian under a doctor's bus? Perhaps marginally. At the same time, it's hopefully becoming apparent how “loose” it is to talk about the merit of any one thing without a context.

A world without comedians would need one or many. A world entirely consisting of comedians would be doomed to fail. Is there a balance? Is there a compelling case for the amount of comedians we have verses doctors? Sounding like impossible questions to me. Questions that have to be approached very personally and from a kind of holistic impression. I've stated, at least, that the world doesn't need me as a comedian. I can cite dozens who are saying almost word for word the things I'd want to say. I've no desire to surpass or crowd them and will gladly share with you the joy they bring me. I'm happy to crack my own shit up or try to get friends to laugh.

The question of “pointless” activities is one that we're going to have to deal with in greater measure than I think we're even basically aware of. Of the jobs that are left not being done via modern slavery, the ones that employ the most people are rapidly changing for reasons well independent of anyone's concern for your place or title.

Anecdotally, I can describe how pointless I felt at basically every job I've been in. It's a hard illusion to see through that just because there's a structure of some sort, doesn't mean it stands for worthwhile or valuable reasons. I excelled at my jobs, either evidenced through raises, promotions, or a heaping of responsibilities. But I excelled at being pointless. School is a close analogy. I got the As and Bs. Nothing about those As and Bs meant anything to the places I ended up working for. And the tasks required of me certainly didn't lean on my capacity to “intensively write” about obscure legal questions or describe the paths of neurotransmitters.

My mind always shoots to jobs of leisure. Critics still blow my mind. Paid to love or shit on things. Have an opinion? Here's money! Sports follows in my thoughts mostly because nobody needs you to be the best (even if it means doping) more than they probably need to leave the couch more often. I think you're less often an example, more being abused as a scapegoat. Think of the amount of pride fat America is going to take from any gold medals it wins.

The more you really dig into any particular task, it feels more and more predicated on “because I can” or “because it kills time.” It becomes dignified because people tie it to the amount of money they're making or they describe it as taking care of their families or of course their amount of effort or struggle or knowledge holds some particular weight over yours. This of course is different from demeaning the amount of work or time it does in fact take to learn things or what you've personally overcome in order to do so.

I've been practicing instruments. I have so much time on my hands I can start to surprise myself with the progress I make in a relatively short amount of time. I still seem to reflexively shit on what I'm doing. I like music. I marvel at people who can do it professionally. But it still feels “pointless.” That is, I'm doing it almost like a show. When I can pick up an instrument at random and pull it off, that moment will validate the months of metronome beats in my head or canker soars. I care about music, but I can't make it “the point.” At least, not yet.

I've been watching TV. What I find I seem to insist on in any conversation about TV, is that I do it often sped up and via torrents. A 60 minute show is actually often 45 without commercials, and a 45 minute show meant to “empty-headedly entertain” is 22 minutes at twice the speed and more like 19 or less when you skip introductions, segment transitions, or musical acts you don't care about or already like. I can also practice on the drum pad, do squats, or hit the treadmill while Stephen Colbert is shitting on Hitler 2.

Mind you, I literally have nothing else to do. I don't have anywhere to be. I don't have anything that needs paid for. I'm not aware of anyone that needs my help. What the hell am I doing saving all this time, so I can have more time, to apparently complain about having too much time? It's less confusing than I've managed to phrase it there, but on its face, it seems kind of ridiculous, no?

Well, I also like to read. I also like to create software and want to build businesses. I'm also pricing land and have projects I've contacted literally every person in the state tangentially related to what I'm after. That is, I know what I wish could be “the point” at all times, happen to do everything I can in service to the point, and then am left to my own devices. I have money I know how to spend, but only have 3 or so ways I'd prefer it done so. I have time that I hope I can remain respectful of, even when I seemingly have too much of it. A sentiment I think no one over the age of 35 would ever dream of thinking was their problem.

I know what I want. My perception shows me that a lot of people, at least claim, to know what they're doing. It's anyone's guess if what they're doing matches what they want. I know what I want in conversation. I know what I want an argument to consist of. I know what I want in a partner or friend. I know what tools I want to use. I know what I want my house to be capable of. I know what I'll want to find the time to watch or play when I've finally created something that allows me to exercise “the point” instead of whatever else it is I find to do.

I also think I only ever discovered what I wanted because I gave myself all the time in the world to fall into it. I exhaustively explore what's on my mind and then consist of what's left. Hopefully, it's an informative and “wise” position. Hopefully, it allows me more opportunities to offer help instead of noise. Hopefully, it allows me to keep personal guilt levels at an appropriate place when the contrast laid bare of my life seems so strikingly different from yours.

My relative freedom is temptation. It's asking for trouble while you're waiting for things around you to catch up. Will you cope like me? Do you have a point besides waking up to take your prescription? Will the societal lid stay on the pot when huge swaths of humanity are trying to persuade themselves an “arts and leisure” existence is as worthy as the coal mine ethics they were born into? I doubt it.

Simply, I think it's important for people to face the true depths of their pointless behaviors. The hours spent in traffic listening to the same 30 songs. The hundreds of one line emails because neither of you wanted to take the elevator. The scrolling and scrolling and scrolling for any cue to smirk or like or become “outraged.” The minute to minute existence not burdened by the point because you don't have time.

In a primarily superficial sense is my life an easy place to be. I have the same luxuries as you, just the added time on top of it. A day doesn't go by where I'm not annoyed I can't “just do” the plans I have. Each comment I catch about thrown away money makes me sick; the fact that I'm reduced to my bank account. The fact that my purposeful and thoughtful self garners less attention or value from society than 30 failed presidential campaigns. The fact that there's millions of people who desperately need more attention and care than I'll ever deserve piles it on further.

We're a society of “unknown unknowns” who revel and take pride in it. For me, never will a personal story overshadow speaking and paying attention to our general health and awareness. Part of that health is taking back our time to re-learn what it is we should be focused on. It's to work it into our bones how to detect distracted from impassioned. I need to hear it in my every day speeches and interactions. I need to sense it from the average Joe. I need people to denounce, instead of actively encourage, behavior that attacks being thoughtful.

When I write, I try very hard to mean what I say. It's important for me to have a fairly prolonged defense for any lazy jabs. It means something to me, if not to you. I want to mean something to you, but won't be the whipping boy. This isn't a ramble. Your anger is unjustified. I'm not the enemy. If I were a betting man, I'd say you hate yourself for the same reasons I do. You're actively missing the point and resent the person calling you out. Learn to do it to yourself, and maybe we'll flirt with getting somewhere better together.

[525] No Future, No Cry

There's an idea that's been making me feel oddly reassured for the last few weeks now. And while I'm sure in one form or another I've come across the idea, the matter-of-fact way I happened to state it out loud had a particularly resonating feeling.

“Everything that has or will exist is happening now, we're just rearranging the pieces.”

I very much just click with the phrasing. Maybe you've caught blurbs of quantum mechanics experiments that show future events alter the past. Maybe you're someone who likes to remain present in a Buddhist tradition. Maybe an unbound hedonism and A.D.D. makes it hard for you to even pronounce “future” or “past.” The idea certainly isn't new.

I suppose it gives me a sense of calm when I'm baffled and hurt by how hard it seems to understand someone else. No doubt I can reach into my bag of psychology explanations. I can describe the environment. I can employ philosophy. But an endless string of potentially plausible, if not often correct, components isn't someone else's actual explanation. Just reading words or speculating isn't enough. You won't know if they're hurt or angry or merely confused. You won't know if they mean it.

I suppose as well that the phrasing helps me cope with loss. What did I lose when nothing is created nor destroyed? Sounds awkward and cold. What did I lose when the positives and negatives that created the situation were there before, during, and after? Perhaps just the willingness to focus on the positive.

For me, it's not so much about “getting somewhere” as it is expressing what I think I already know. When I played with blocks, I didn't want to build the “perfect” building, I just wanted to create something I hadn't seen before. When I collected Pokemon cards or Marvel Legends, I didn't set out to one day own them all, I just knew there was value in retention of what's popular. I think it speaks to the ideal in relationships. You both know the best and worst things about yourselves, is it possible the other will just let you be? Will you translate what you know about your feelings or otherwise in a way that works for both sides?

One of the reasons I consider myself such a bad translator is that I offer an insane amount of information. I do this because I think people are lazy. I do it to defy short-cutting. I think when it matters, you write until you're forced to stop. I don't think being thoughtful can be reduced to a meme, quote, or catch-all demonizing sentiment stated with folded arms. Information is deceptive. A number isn't just a number whether you're talking about climate change, your age, or the amount of people you've had sex with.

The only way to get underneath is to try and face yourself. It's to constantly struggle with the words. It's to take the thought you had in the shower and let it bother you all day at work, then keep you up at night, then remind you next week you haven't done it justice. Sometimes I look back on the sheer amount of words I've written and wonder where the hell it all came from. I wonder if everyone is going through the same thing and what's happening to them by not figuring out better ways of organizing it.

Again, I can always provide myself answers. They're voting for Hitler 2. They're getting married. (Interesting I thought of those next to each other.) Their facebook posts aren't just beautiful but fun and encouraging. They're living the dream! They're working that much harder. They're getting by. They're one generalized sentiment about life after another until they're drunk in private or something unexpected happens to them.

But you won't know a specific person's fear. You won't learn they're angry at themselves. You won't grasp the weight of their ties and responsibilities. Not through a couple pages like this or comments in a forum. You especially won't know those things the longer you wait to figure out what's plaguing your own depths. Without the right tools you won't even be able to recognize what's written in their tone, their face, or their body language.

It occurs to me that I never want to begrudge someone their happiness. At the same time, I'm so extremely wary of what they say makes them happy that I think it muddies the water about how I'm supposed to relate to them. I've noticed for all the encouraged Pokemon Go enthusiasts there apparently are, the hype has dimmed a lot and I see considerably less people wandering the neighborhood. Does the game make them happy? Are they content? I find the larger group psychology and popularity engine story more compelling and reliable.

Because when do you feel like a confident person with reliable opinions worthy of respect and contemplation? For me, it's in habitually couching myself in doubt. As well, I wait for it to be ripped out of me. My disposition isn't my worst days. My sense of self isn't dictated by my most incoherent or rambling blogs. My sense of friendship isn't bound by the number listed on facebook or the amount of ones that fail or degrade for reasons beyond my intentions and efforts. It's laughing when you're moved to laugh, staying up because the conversation deserves it, or politely declining because that's better than spitting it out.

How do you build your person? Certainly you can remain plagued by your starkest memories. You can be led by the nose from the charismatic. You can simply find yourself “still alive” and begin to believe you're not half bad at this “adulting” thing and therefore many of your opinions must be correct. My instinct tells me that's probably the most frequented, with the other two close in toe.

Even if I only ever feel like I'm building words, it's undeniable their capacity in helping me navigate the painful and, often fundamentally unreliable yet so damming words, that come my way. I so often want to blame you, but I so rarely know what you even consist of. I know your general earthly environment. I know snippets of our collective history. I know what it feels in the moment of elation and tragedy. But I'll always have a sinking feeling about how I never got to know you.