[962] Own It - Again

There’s a dozen ways this could start. I’ll just speak to the first thing on my mind.

My neighbor told me he’s not crazy about me finding more pallets to bring to the land. “They don’t have the best curb appeal.” He also reflexively blamed me for a nail he found in the tires he bought because he saw me hauling things in the bed of my truck. He also told me about a plan for $50 a month rock plan that’s less robust and considerably more money than the $200 my other neighbor asked for. I really just wanted to come inside and go to bed. I moved to the middle of fucking nowhere so I could play with pallets and be left the fuck alone. If I wanted a discussion about curb appeal, I wouldn’t be looking at the series of broken vehicles and half-stripped RVs across the street, or the abandoned bus, or various array of animals and odds and ends my fucking neighbor has dashed about his property and RV.

A few things have been weird about today. There’s this incredibly enthusiastic prisoner who has created a lot of programs and holds his own classes. He talks and talks and talks. He has found his calling, and runs it ragged. He likes to compliment and try to reinforce people in their good habits. He’s also…you know, kind of a dumb prisoner who thought citing evolution as something to question was speaking to having a wise and individuated mind.

He, not half implored me, to consider continuing to work in the prison when I mentioned I will probably be moving on to somewhere I might do more of the job than navigate the broken personalities of the staff. He said something to the effect of, “If it’s your goal to touch and affect change in people, you’re never going to find a population more ready to do so than prison.” Little does he know, that’s not really my goal.

I feel like I’ve spoken to this before, but listening to him go on and on about the big wide world of possibility makes the insular and selfish part of me really want to shine. I want money. I want time. I want independence and self-determination. I will not suffer any and all stupidity or injustice just so I can [incoming social work cliché] “plant a seed” that grows into a healthier individual. I don’t mind helping people. I do get some kind of positive feeling in watching people grow and get a better grasp of themselves. But that feeling is not why I do anything.

I do things because I hate. I do things out of spite. I do things because I am my own worst enemy and challenge and if I don’t push against something I conceive of or deem worthy, I’d just sit here watching TV indefinitely. I get more gratification taking an aptitude test that tells me I scored in the 95th percentile and should be considered for the job of lawyer, analyst, or CEO than I do most anything else. I like screaming from the rooftops the idea that I both deserve more responsibility, but when given the keys won’t do shit like buy fucking Twitter.

And I don’t feel bad about that. In recovery, we’re always telling people to put themselves first. They have to be in charge of their recovery. You can’t do it for your kids or wife. You have to do it for you. I do shit for me. I’ll find better jobs for me. I’ll find a new battle for me. I’ll write the narrative that explains each step I’m taking and why. I’m not getting carried away on the hopes and dreams of the gang-affiliated maybe white-ish-supremacist persuasive talker who also happens to empower a lot of other inmates. I would employ him though, because that mother fucker does get shit done.

My “power,” or whatever you may conceive of it comes from owning my shit. My shit behavior, my goals and dreams, and my aberrantly whorish intent. I feel good about how mean I am. I want to tell the dumb junkie coworker cunt, “See you on my caseload!” on my last day so she knows what I think about her battle to find this job and stability after her struggle with addiction. It doesn’t matter, actually, if I’m smart or decent looking. It doesn’t matter how many things I own. It doesn’t matter how well I perform at a job or how many friends I do or don’t have. What matters is I own it all, good or bad, the display of cards as they’ve fallen.

I know if and when I’m prepared to do the work to change things. I own that capacity. I know you have to practice the directions you want to go. I want to continue in the direction of owning my own business. I want to continue on the pursuit of more of my time. I want to keep playing with whatever wood I find and put it wherever I deem suitable.

My capacity for insanely selfish behavior isn’t this thing that’s just constantly running into every layer of my interactions. It feels as though that’s precisely what I’m navigating from others though. Why am I a good listener? Because you’re always fucking talking. Why am I content to do my own thing and take whatever I can cut out? Because I can barely convince people to acknowledge they have their own things they want or wish to do, let alone to do them. The only time people have a strong opinion they’ll even pretend to fight for is when it’s in opposition to whatever the fuck it is you plan to do.

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It’s the next day and I’ve made a run to pick up some of the free pallets. One of my new trailer tires was flat. I still managed to get there, get them back to my house and unloaded without much issues. I’ve picked 4 ticks off of me, at one point was covered in ants, and I haven’t eaten yet today. I haven’t eaten since last night, and most of that was puked up last night because even a little drinking and then excessive head-banging and moshing means significantly worse stomach than I anticipated.

A few lines have been ringing in my head. “If you don’t have the time to do it right, when are you going to have the time to do it over?” With regard to the things out here on the land, I never have the time. I will never, without an insane amount of money, have the time to digest the career’s-long information that goes into building things amazingly well. I won’t have the time to take classes. I won’t have the time to watch dozens of YouTube videos that are only nominally relevant to what I need. I won’t have the time to sit and talk with my neighbors about their opinions about how I should have done it.

I’m not trying to do it over; I’m trying to do it different. Different looks different. Different feels different. Different is asking a different question and presenting an answer you haven’t heard before.

Also ringing, my neighbor made it a point to tell me how much he was cursing me for having things in the back of my truck, intent that it was me who let the nails loose on the road. He then went on to offer the “advice” that I get a small loan to get the kind of privacy fence I’m wanting. His wife came out briefly to get something from the car, and their tone of voice towards each other suggested to me his opinions had little to do with me. And for the record, I never offer words, to any of my neighbors, about what they are or aren’t doing on their land, even when his dogs are shitting all over mine. It’s something my fence will eventually address.

I consider a certain aesthetic a degree of heightened privilege. I consider it almost excessive. I already live in a somewhat regal manner the broader you conceive of humanity. It is so much money for things to be “pretty” or “proper.” It might cost me $200 in gas in all of the back and forth to get these pallets. It will save me thousands in the equivalent amount of wood. It’ll be hours and experimenting and sweating to turn them into anything remotely useful. It’s already a workout. It’ll be a learning experience. It will be an exercise in creativity. It will be a sustainable practice. It will be a litany of things that aren’t the baggage of “a small loan” to get a fence. The decadence that bemoans an aesthetic is a naïve and pathetic state of mind. Feel free to create and buy nice and pretty things. Keep your fucking attitude about it away from me.

While it might not sound like it, I’m in a pretty great and comfortable place. I’ve been seeing some amazing shows, found a new great burger place, and should likely get this job where I’ll still only work 4 days a week with 2 of them at home. I’m playing my guitar a little more, I’m getting back into the swing of salvaging things as the weather improves. My debt is “good” or “inevitable” debt like car fixes, taxes, and food way more than indulgences and I’m still perpetually 3-4 paychecks away from it being settled up again. These rolfing appointments have been an absolute dream loosening me up. I’m walking better and my posture is correcting. I’ve gotten over my initial enthusiasm bump at the idea of new girl to hang with, so I can stay mellow with banter without my brain acting like things are more complicated. We’re still pushing to be in business for ourselves. I’m bowling every weekend. Like, the next time you hear me complain too sincerely, I’ll be in a particularly bad mood.