[740] Comes Crashing Down

I kinda knew I wasn't done writing after my sense of malice took over. Let's see what else is in store.

One of the things that persistently happens to me when I'm reading about the habits or methods of some Great Man of history, is that I think to myself, “Yep.”

Somewhere, at some time, I've worked some idea or assumption or methodology into my being that mirrors a ton of people I admire, or at least remain intrigued about. This could be sheer probability and easily calculable personality metrics, it could be baseless ignorant ego and self deception (I doubt it), or it could be an inevitable confluence of like recognizing like. The point being, the people I admire have built into their being things I've worked to build into mine.

Take the land. This godforsaken empty ton of work shell. It's an expression of potential creative freedom, a metric by which Chomsky says the “truly educated” are about. I want to discover things, not be capable of an endless mindless list of factoids. I want to create things. I want to figure out who I am as I'm working on it. Do task, get paid, play by rules has nothing to do with me. I don't think it has much to do with any individual really.

OH! I remember a thing from the biology torrent of information that seemed to mirror how I behave. Tit-for-tat, then tit-for-tat with forgiveness. I wait to be provoked or have justification. The most efficient mathematical models for behavior are often how I go about treating people in my life. I also tend to lead with the least efficient “trust first” position from people who don't regard the game they're playing as selfish. Every little “IS IT JUST ME?” quandary boiling down yet again to an infinitely played game with predictable outcomes.

I'm right that I'll never get shit done without cooperation. I'm right that the families that stick together, propagate (eyes wearily his backstabbing ridiculous bunch squandering what they've been given family.) I'm right in finding titles and money in and of themselves meaningless. I'm right for treating all people as equals. I'm so right about so many things I look for opportunities to be bad so I can bother to claim to be human. I relish the idea of “free will” and the improbability of everything and “my” moment in time talking about it. I almost feel like I'm searching for a route to “justifiable insanity.” Maybe I'll unlock the secret sequence of words that will let me flip the fuck out. Maybe I'll never undermine my position after one sentence more.

Do I want to be right? Sometimes I like to think that I was a disembodied “soul” who was allowed to program this individual avatar. I would get to borrow from my past experiences and try to make increasingly wise decisions about what trade-offs I'd want or the kind of life I'd like to lead. Have I already been famous? Because the trappings and pathologies there don't appeal to me in the slightest. I admire Jordan Peterson who says persistently he's always thinking any minute it's all going to blow up in his face. I'm certainly an attention whore, and I'd sign a fuck ton of autographs, but it's almost too easy. I mean, even Paulie Shore is still getting by.

So have I been abjectly poor? I must have. I'm way too comfortable “settling in” to the current perpetually ridiculous and oppressive moment. It's easy when you have nothing. I have a brief yet persistent “relief” that whatever was stolen is at least that much less I'll have to account for in the future. The vast majority of my mind begging to escape or be engaged is satiated with a TV, tablet, and phone.

Have I been ugly? That's almost too easy. If I was ugly, I'd only have that much larger an excuse to nerd out on things I already nerd out on. It'd be something I'd never think about losing. I might actually remember a significantly larger portion of character names from favorite series than I do now.

What then, of all the permutations and options and stats I might build into my person. What the fuck would make me pick me? Why be born to my parents? Why have the friends I do? Why learn lessons, lessons I pretty much figured out before I forced myself through them again, the way I have? What weird ass roller coaster did I set myself up on to glean that extra few points to add to the stats of my next iteration?

I see the potential utility in any kind of social behavior. That's a measure of the “relative sociopathy.” I've seen through childish superficialities that prevent me from taking action or feeling confident in myself. I eschew lying but for insisted upon ends to “get by” in some kind of working world pragmatic matrix. I risk money and time and spirit in pursuing the ground floor of the things I actually believe in, and sacrifice every speck of potential self-respect as I shit on myself daily for not figuring out how to utilize them as I imagine. Is the lesson that I'm alone? Is the lesson really to find some kind of “eternal patience?” For all the lives I could have ever lived, and all the metrics I could have improved on, the one thing that still hasn't sunk in is that it happens in “universe” time and not “my” time?

I'm not a mystic hippie type though, so all of that bullshit I just typed isn't fundamentally persuasive even a little. It's my metaphysic escape trying to understand why people can't seem to cooperate or try together to achieve something better. I went and explored the disorganized insecure hippies with expert levels of passive aggressiveness. Their indignant attitude to modern medicine or pretending it takes 2 people to harvest 15 minutes worth of food isn't what I need. I've tried playing games with townies who start to take themselves too seriously when it clicks this is the only thing they'll ever do. I'm not a child wandering home too drunk every other weekend anymore if only because my body would crucify me.

The handful of people I admire are either genuinely nice, or intelligent and verbose. I don't think I'll ever be nice, and your god knows I can talk, but we're hard pressed on whether or not it's intelligent. I'd like to be nice, but I don't feel nice. I don't feel a large enough portion of the world wants to be nice or sees the utility in it any further than I do. Nice is the waiting room labeled “waiting for an excuse.” Nice is something people grow resentful of if they're not a grandchild being fawned over by a grandparent.”Nice” tricked me into thinking the “group identity” I rolled with in college was anywhere near it. I'm nice in what I refrain from doing or saying. I'm “nice” insofar as I know how immediately willing and ready I am before staying my hand. So I must not be nice.

Should I just go spend $1000 on a lawn mower tomorrow, $150 on a battery, $50 on gas and see if my neighbor and I can get power out to the land? Will some good old fashioned retail therapy and grass cutting set me straight? I'd be doing it in a car with breaks that sound like The Wall in Game of Thrones coming down. I'd be doing it not getting paid until Friday and no way to get said lawn mower somewhere some new thief wouldn't be able to drive it away or defile it. Tell me world, my corrupted heart only knows how to move with the intermittently dramatic. What's remotely sensible in a world you've forgone assuming makes a lick of it?