So the reason this is gonna be a killer blog is because not only did I write a status saying so, but because I've been contemplating how to open it for the last 2 hours, and you're getting the hottest off-the-presses words of what's happening in my head. Neat, right? If the roller coaster of emotion hasn't been puke inducing enough, imagine where the rest of the night is going to take us.
Let's plug what I've said before, which is always very important, and can never be said enough. One of my favorite things about me is that it's real. Right now. I'm typing exactly what I'm thinking, mildly drunk, and the things I recall aren't dressed up and filtered through a matrix of “civility.” I want to get whiny about my ex? Boom, shit hits the page. I want to repeat myself 7 times on a point simply understood that wasn't that strong in the first place? Best keep pressing on cus I gotta upchuck like the hiccups until they're done.
Tonight was a bit of a weird night. It was an “in between” kind of realm. I didn't get wasted. I didn't stay sober. I walked half the way home before capitulating to Uber. I talked to some people, but it didn't carry with it the “energetic agenda” I usually need. I think that's because I mostly talked to older (50+) people. I find them reliable. No matter what level I engage them on, they are actually there. It's not drawing back to see what “this fuck is doing here.” They ask questions. They contribute. They have real opinions on how they operate in the world. I'm never guessing on how to “crack” them.
I regard older people like this with a certain special respect. They're at the bar. They don't feel old. They're living the future I anticipate for myself. I've conceded I'm always and forever a child, and I wholly loved the time I spent in the party house. If I had a “mature” version of that which fit between my day job or other responsibilities? I'd do that shit in a heartbeat. I know very mildly drunk me is the best version of me. Every day I'm not living up to that is a real and tragic shame.
I think the most important thing to say has to deal with how things don't change. You are you. I am me. I am whatever memory you have of me 8 years ago. I am right there with you in some stupid scenario living out some truth of that moment. I truly do not believe people get this. They have “the past” as this thing they levy untold baggage onto. I don't. As long as I have the feeling and memory, it's now. I'm 10, and 22, and 29, all at once. And guess what? The science of my individual particles agrees!
I referenced Epicurus to a gentleman tonight. He knew who he was. He got it without explanation. I talked to 2 old dudes at the gay bar who were clearly intrigued by my explanation of how important one of their's study in math was, and how he should incorporate it into his writing about his life. I know, as fractional as my being is, there are those who've done it and are doing it, and it's my job to inflate. I still believe in things changing in an instant. Not when I'm “30 something,” and not when some tragedy has befallen us that the only desperate road forward is progress or death.
Given that I don't jive with the word “hope,” I'm absolutely too hopeful. I really fucked up. I really believed in you guys. I really thought we'd work on something, anything, that tried to do things differently. I thought you wouldn't get old. I thought you recognized that I'm that one in a million who actually does all that weird shit you only see in movies. I got that so unfucking believably wrong lol. I wish I could blame you more, but I can't. It's me. It's my responsibility to pull and plug you. I know that, but I don't respect it.
I'm 30 in about 2 months. Do you have any idea what a joke that sounds like to me? Because I'm 15. I'm a kid dicking around, being told what to do by forces I don't respect. I barely getting by, exhibiting the basest control over my emotions and reactions. I've watched nothing and everything change. I'm already dead. I'm a big dumb idiot who refuses to let go of the only idea that he knows which justifies his existence. A belief in something more. In something real. In the actual capacity stored in every moment to get precisely what it is you know you should. It's been at the tip of every sentence of every blog. It's here right now. It's laughing at me when I'm too drunk to use it. It's going to look down on me when I'm too old to see how to appreciate it. It has to absolutely hate me in my inability to send it in to overdrive for all of my blabber-mouthed professions of it's existence and utility. Double me, I'm 60. What the fuck was I doing the whole time?
What's becoming increasingly clear is how very tired I am. I retain all the enthusiasm in the world for doing new things and creating and fighting. I also just want to sleep. I want to stop caring. I want to be a Pew statistic that gives you a misleading view of my responsibility to the question asked. I want to forgo writing, of all things, to sit and roast in the circumstances of my incidental job. I want to be normal, in spite of my quippy texts and affectations. I feel the compulsion to be a “mere reactionary.” Let me take a news story on it's face. Who says I need to read every article written by the “reporter” and cross reference a Harvard review?
I'm bending. I'm bending and I don't hate it as much as I feel it warrants hating. I'll piggy-back Byron's' political bullshit. I'll navigate stupid emails and meetings for more of a paycheck than a Foxconn worker will see in 10 years. I'll eat my slightly poisoned unethical food bite by bite. I don't want to be the old raving lunatic who never “got it” to die quietly inside and out like the rest of us. I say that in this moment as a capitulation to what I perceive about the rest of the world, but I'm sure I'll rebel is some dumb-ass way. But the cloud will remain. I'll be the wrong kind of different. I'll be the easily dismissed.
Do I care? There's like 5 or so people I even remotely care of losing the respect of, and I'm not sure I would. The point is bigger and remains the same. How do I be me, at all ages, at all times, with every real feeling, and still “progress” along this line of “maturity” so described? I'm just not. I know the science on how the brain develops and attitudes over time. This is it. I'm not calling myself a teenager by accident. 10 more years slugging it out at pointless jobs and ups and downs of love and loss aren't going to move that needle that much.
Maybe I'm unfairly prepared to lose everything. Does my logic extend to a kind of social apocalypse? Is everything you were good for, or will ever be, just mine to perceive right now, and when you decide I'm too sexually assaulty or immature or presumptuous and naive, I'll scrape together what I can get and boldly proclaim it was only on it's way after all? Sound the trumpets, I guess.
It's still true. That's the line that keeps coming back to me. It's still true. A blog wrote years ago. A feeling I have towards someone I haven't talked to in months or years. A desire to create a space that brings out that I was doing at parties. An appetite to pick things apart until they're smallest details become boring. An unquenchable thirst to fuck over everything I actually feel and think with words to give everyone bothering to read an excuse to fuck off and feel good that at last someone's saying it.
You know, I'm stuck now. Now is me crying as I watched stuffed animals get gutted. Now is every best night I've ever spent cuddled up against someone I care about. Now is every ridiculous thing I've done on a whim out of boredom. Now is the fear and the anger and the excitement and the hope or the drunk and the confusion and the bleh. I have it all, right now, all the time. It swirls and informs and tortures. I have it all, but I still want it all. I want more of it all. I want to get lost in it all. I'm just a mouthpiece in service to the music of the time. I've got no one to play with.
