I think going to the gym is stupid
because it's making me think “clearer” and have more and more to
say before I'm able to go to sleep. Fuck, this is annoying.
The avid reader knows by now that I write for me. My head is a mess with words, and it's not like I'm writing a well thought out point by point case for something that seems particularly focused. I can already feel the waviness kicking in already. My head doesn't discriminate. The information or annoying thought or catchy song are just in one big puddle to be splashed into pieces. As such, I don't expect you to find the kind of utility or meaning in something I say that I might. I read these things over and over again over years. Different lines stick out for different reasons, hopefully because I learned something or stopped a bad habit. Things I wish I would have said creep in between lines that are 10 years old.
In approaching life, we either actively engage with and acknowledge that soup of confusion and competition, or we play along. It wouldn't be good for me, but it is within my capacity to just ignore the hamster scratching the back of my head trying to eat its way out. When you can't find the words, you try for a feeling. It's not hard to understand shit relationships, addiction, and every level of comfortable denial to keep away the sheer dread of it all.
I consider myself lucky for having the kind of disposition that always wants to shit on things. If I feel myself pulling away or doubting myself, I immediately think that's what I have to do. I'd just be an irrationally afraid pussy otherwise, right? The spite in my disposition isn't nihilism or pessimism. It's that I'm a soft stupid animal who's place in life grows more precarious with each day. Literally, I'm lucky enough to have been born to reach my “peak” as we're debating how “the greatest country on Earth” kills everyone for no reason and brings the rest of the planet down with them.
I'm always looking for inspiration. I want a line from that semi-popular TV show in the 90's to spur the next blog. I want to know how the books compare to the movies compare to Broadway. I read the forums where 18 year olds are claiming to make 4K a month “marketing” and “consulting.” It seems so easy that were you to pluck a “generalized goal” I've claimed to want to achieve in the last several years, I'd just copy their playbook. I'd just dropship, cold call, and freelance until I conjured my own little success story.
The thing is, I've been paying attention. I've watched my priorities change 3 to 7 blogs a month. I found my ability to retain interest in certain things completely empty. Something akin to, I don't care if there's an old millionaire too dumb or lazy to post cookie-cutter ads to facebook and is willing to pay me $20 an hour to do it, there's more at stake than the dollar amount. The nature of what I want to put into the world and how has changed. The reward is less and less about the dollar amount with every passing moment.
It's how I figured out how much I care about time. It's why I'll practice the trumpet or drum rudiments in between delivering food. I have a job where I retain the freedom to just leave when I get bored or start to feel bad. It's why days feel like months and why I can turn a few months of “no progress” into an ongoing saga of the drama and desperation of my intractable circumstances. My approach to my means, money, and motivation broadened. I'm not going to exhaust myself blindly in service to whomever I'm working for. I'm not going to pretend like my life has looked that different whether I had $500 or $15,000 in the bank. Work smarter, not harder. Or, figure out how to not make it feel like work.
It occurred to me that, given the amount of things I experience, it almost feels like a special feat in how much I'm able to ignore. I'm not plagued by the people making more money doing “easier” things. I'm not stressed out or jealous of the people who can play their instruments better than I can. I can attend all of the fake boardroom meetings in my head that I want, introducing something new I've read or want to experiment with, but the fantasy is a straight path through more delivered orders and more yard work than has currently been achieved. I don't want “a business” anymore than I just want to drink or go to “a party.” I want what I did to make the parties special to me, if no one else. I want to incorporate every little insight and every thing I've ever been fucked over by into the next thing. Everyone wants to tell you how it's done, no one invites you to work alongside them.
And that became a thing that consistently killed me. I don't need a life coach, your book, your TED talk or self-congratulatory story. I don't want to talk of “workers” and faux metrics of “well-being” with regard to the people I incorporate into my creation. I want partners. I want mutual taking up of responsibility. I want to provide you the chance to act as forwardly and intensely as me, and if that's not for you, you to choose and position yourself in a supplementary role or somewhere else. Anyone can get paid to do anything poorly. Showing people a path to believing in the same things you do is the real magic. You can do that with one person tinkering in your garage, or a billion dollar company trying to get to Mars.
I don't know if or when I've written about it, but I know I've talked enough about a sense of “inevitability.” While I certainly feel myself being passed between different universal dicks I wouldn't have otherwise chosen, I'm nowhere near as far away as anyone less than me might be. I remind myself everyday. I have land. I'm not looking for it. I have it. I'm still healthy. I have all the time people complain they wish they had when they were young and in their 20s or 30s. I don't have that much time, as you can see how quickly it escaped them, but my days feel like months. And I try to pack them full of experiences like I'm running out.
I think the importance of paying attention, the importance of right now, this moment, the one I'm writing in and the one you might be reading in, is that it's the only real comprehensive and most enlightening thing. Everything you do and don't understand becomes this sentence. Every hope or dream you've ever carried closely follows, but all existence at once in the same moment as well. Who you want to be, how you want to feel, memories of longing, aggravations, your grumbling stomach, itchy face, and sweaty balls are all right here. And you can do anything you want about it. If you don't feel that, if you're not paying attention, there isn't a single thing in life you could be doing that will make up for it. It's the only way to not get so persuaded by your distractions and obligations. It's how you can always be to blame and take responsibility. Your willingness to adopt the power of the moment is the closest you'll ever get to glimpse your eternal soul.
I don't believe you even truly have to bother with “figuring it out.” What have I figured out in pushing 700 blogs? To keep writing blogs. “Love” found me, I didn't dig it out of the pages, I screamed it back at itself. Responsibility for what I say and do reflects back on me, it doesn't bind me to unremitting law or morality. “My” words, way more frequently than I get credit for, are a parody of what I'm hearing or is rubbing me the wrong way. You're not “woke,” no one is actually “toxic” like poison, and if you could please tell me ad nauseum how I retain most if not all of the world's supply of “power,” I'd love to stop writing and be off somewhere being more useful. Seriously, I'll stick a battery up my ass, I don't care. What's it take?
I think this obsession with the moment speaks to my greediness. Why I want all of you, in one way or another. I'm giving my whole attention or choice over to things like work or the gym (particularly insufferable when every bead of sweat, piece of riding clothe, or stray hair is a bother), so I want everything in return. All the money I can make. All the hours of “pec” flexing. Let's party all the time, fuck all the time, be working together all the time, or drill down on getting the whole of media consumed, because we're right here. There's nothing else, this is everything, let's take it all in, all the quicker and happier together, because all we can do is reflect. When the world at large is a glaring dumpster fire, use a smaller mirror. Pay attention to each detail until they're perfect and deserve to be reflected in a larger way. That's you. Every inch you've fought for and fashioned into a badge people can see themselves in.
I want you to see the eternal flame of the moment. I want you to know, as fiercely as I do, that fortunes change in this moment. I can scream, “I'm stuck!” until I'm blue, and it will never be the truth. I'm where I need to be; not this couch, not this town, but on this line, in each breath, paying attention to what it is I really want and what it needs to feel like as I pursue it. Thankfully, right now it feels like I'm allowed to go to sleep.
The avid reader knows by now that I write for me. My head is a mess with words, and it's not like I'm writing a well thought out point by point case for something that seems particularly focused. I can already feel the waviness kicking in already. My head doesn't discriminate. The information or annoying thought or catchy song are just in one big puddle to be splashed into pieces. As such, I don't expect you to find the kind of utility or meaning in something I say that I might. I read these things over and over again over years. Different lines stick out for different reasons, hopefully because I learned something or stopped a bad habit. Things I wish I would have said creep in between lines that are 10 years old.
In approaching life, we either actively engage with and acknowledge that soup of confusion and competition, or we play along. It wouldn't be good for me, but it is within my capacity to just ignore the hamster scratching the back of my head trying to eat its way out. When you can't find the words, you try for a feeling. It's not hard to understand shit relationships, addiction, and every level of comfortable denial to keep away the sheer dread of it all.
I consider myself lucky for having the kind of disposition that always wants to shit on things. If I feel myself pulling away or doubting myself, I immediately think that's what I have to do. I'd just be an irrationally afraid pussy otherwise, right? The spite in my disposition isn't nihilism or pessimism. It's that I'm a soft stupid animal who's place in life grows more precarious with each day. Literally, I'm lucky enough to have been born to reach my “peak” as we're debating how “the greatest country on Earth” kills everyone for no reason and brings the rest of the planet down with them.
I'm always looking for inspiration. I want a line from that semi-popular TV show in the 90's to spur the next blog. I want to know how the books compare to the movies compare to Broadway. I read the forums where 18 year olds are claiming to make 4K a month “marketing” and “consulting.” It seems so easy that were you to pluck a “generalized goal” I've claimed to want to achieve in the last several years, I'd just copy their playbook. I'd just dropship, cold call, and freelance until I conjured my own little success story.
The thing is, I've been paying attention. I've watched my priorities change 3 to 7 blogs a month. I found my ability to retain interest in certain things completely empty. Something akin to, I don't care if there's an old millionaire too dumb or lazy to post cookie-cutter ads to facebook and is willing to pay me $20 an hour to do it, there's more at stake than the dollar amount. The nature of what I want to put into the world and how has changed. The reward is less and less about the dollar amount with every passing moment.
It's how I figured out how much I care about time. It's why I'll practice the trumpet or drum rudiments in between delivering food. I have a job where I retain the freedom to just leave when I get bored or start to feel bad. It's why days feel like months and why I can turn a few months of “no progress” into an ongoing saga of the drama and desperation of my intractable circumstances. My approach to my means, money, and motivation broadened. I'm not going to exhaust myself blindly in service to whomever I'm working for. I'm not going to pretend like my life has looked that different whether I had $500 or $15,000 in the bank. Work smarter, not harder. Or, figure out how to not make it feel like work.
It occurred to me that, given the amount of things I experience, it almost feels like a special feat in how much I'm able to ignore. I'm not plagued by the people making more money doing “easier” things. I'm not stressed out or jealous of the people who can play their instruments better than I can. I can attend all of the fake boardroom meetings in my head that I want, introducing something new I've read or want to experiment with, but the fantasy is a straight path through more delivered orders and more yard work than has currently been achieved. I don't want “a business” anymore than I just want to drink or go to “a party.” I want what I did to make the parties special to me, if no one else. I want to incorporate every little insight and every thing I've ever been fucked over by into the next thing. Everyone wants to tell you how it's done, no one invites you to work alongside them.
And that became a thing that consistently killed me. I don't need a life coach, your book, your TED talk or self-congratulatory story. I don't want to talk of “workers” and faux metrics of “well-being” with regard to the people I incorporate into my creation. I want partners. I want mutual taking up of responsibility. I want to provide you the chance to act as forwardly and intensely as me, and if that's not for you, you to choose and position yourself in a supplementary role or somewhere else. Anyone can get paid to do anything poorly. Showing people a path to believing in the same things you do is the real magic. You can do that with one person tinkering in your garage, or a billion dollar company trying to get to Mars.
I don't know if or when I've written about it, but I know I've talked enough about a sense of “inevitability.” While I certainly feel myself being passed between different universal dicks I wouldn't have otherwise chosen, I'm nowhere near as far away as anyone less than me might be. I remind myself everyday. I have land. I'm not looking for it. I have it. I'm still healthy. I have all the time people complain they wish they had when they were young and in their 20s or 30s. I don't have that much time, as you can see how quickly it escaped them, but my days feel like months. And I try to pack them full of experiences like I'm running out.
I think the importance of paying attention, the importance of right now, this moment, the one I'm writing in and the one you might be reading in, is that it's the only real comprehensive and most enlightening thing. Everything you do and don't understand becomes this sentence. Every hope or dream you've ever carried closely follows, but all existence at once in the same moment as well. Who you want to be, how you want to feel, memories of longing, aggravations, your grumbling stomach, itchy face, and sweaty balls are all right here. And you can do anything you want about it. If you don't feel that, if you're not paying attention, there isn't a single thing in life you could be doing that will make up for it. It's the only way to not get so persuaded by your distractions and obligations. It's how you can always be to blame and take responsibility. Your willingness to adopt the power of the moment is the closest you'll ever get to glimpse your eternal soul.
I don't believe you even truly have to bother with “figuring it out.” What have I figured out in pushing 700 blogs? To keep writing blogs. “Love” found me, I didn't dig it out of the pages, I screamed it back at itself. Responsibility for what I say and do reflects back on me, it doesn't bind me to unremitting law or morality. “My” words, way more frequently than I get credit for, are a parody of what I'm hearing or is rubbing me the wrong way. You're not “woke,” no one is actually “toxic” like poison, and if you could please tell me ad nauseum how I retain most if not all of the world's supply of “power,” I'd love to stop writing and be off somewhere being more useful. Seriously, I'll stick a battery up my ass, I don't care. What's it take?
I think this obsession with the moment speaks to my greediness. Why I want all of you, in one way or another. I'm giving my whole attention or choice over to things like work or the gym (particularly insufferable when every bead of sweat, piece of riding clothe, or stray hair is a bother), so I want everything in return. All the money I can make. All the hours of “pec” flexing. Let's party all the time, fuck all the time, be working together all the time, or drill down on getting the whole of media consumed, because we're right here. There's nothing else, this is everything, let's take it all in, all the quicker and happier together, because all we can do is reflect. When the world at large is a glaring dumpster fire, use a smaller mirror. Pay attention to each detail until they're perfect and deserve to be reflected in a larger way. That's you. Every inch you've fought for and fashioned into a badge people can see themselves in.
I want you to see the eternal flame of the moment. I want you to know, as fiercely as I do, that fortunes change in this moment. I can scream, “I'm stuck!” until I'm blue, and it will never be the truth. I'm where I need to be; not this couch, not this town, but on this line, in each breath, paying attention to what it is I really want and what it needs to feel like as I pursue it. Thankfully, right now it feels like I'm allowed to go to sleep.
