[1022] 2nd Gear

I continue to return to the word “stuck.” If you want the most comprehensive reason I would buy dozens of tickets to things well in spite of whether or not I “technically” had the money, it’s because in the quiet times, the “in-between” space, I feel stuck. I think this is a more universally felt thing than I ever hear about. Notably, I just heard it from my best friend, but we’re not ruminating on “stuckness” more than we’re pivoting what might otherwise be depressive anger into dinner, video games, and in his case, smoking.

I think to myself often, “If nothing else.” It’s why I have supplemented TV in for so much of my time. If nothing else, a show, perhaps an infinitely obscure and outdated one, can fill the air. I’m not drilling my guitar in that space. I’m not diligently reading through and notating my books. But, if nothing else, I can have access to an easy series of thoughts or opinions about whatever pops up next. If I don’t get in shape, more practice in, more workable usable knowledge, well, at least I’m digesting something or building in my self-care process this mindless no-stress activity I can do all night and alone.

I have every reason to believe the biggest things I wish to achieve will fail for a series of infinite reasons that have nothing to do with me. I was born to a particular time and place and given a narrative that I believed about my value, capacity, worth, and what I should expect. The “universe” whispers more and more each day that I should break. The suggestion is that I should just keep this state, this miserable, barely alive, just above water space, and disregard the larger ambition. I don’t live in a country that cares about its people. I’m not going to get paid unless you’re able to pay for yourself. This country doesn’t produce companies that want people with a voice and vote. I’m not going to find agency and leadership that aligns with my values.

It’s not in my nature to give in. That is, I tend to find little reason to not continuously try to get what I want. I’m not persuaded by, “I’m too mature, too tired, too busy” cliches. I can always defer to “the bigger picture” and relent in fighting for a T-shirt at a concert, particularly when I don’t want to look like an asshole in front of groups I enjoy. I have “buckled down” and learned how to work for “professional” organizations without feeling as though my eyes and ears are constantly bleeding. I can’t shake the notion that I am the world and the world is me, though. Conceding to dumb shit from “out there” is a 1:1 justification for stagnant self-destructive behavior and dialogue “in here” in my head. I’m still not the suicidal type.

I need things to do. That’s just how I’m wired. Whether it’s the simplicity of watching the TV show, or staying awake for the drive to the venue, I’m the kind of person who will do damn near anything before I’m doing “nothing.” Do I like the shows I’m going to? Sure. Would I go to half of them if I had a family or more friends? Would I spend more for an “Owner’s Club” experience over 4 days than I did on a car if I had something to plug into with dozens of people I enjoyed all working towards something that mattered? I’m running from my pathetic amount of work responsibilities, not running towards music. I barely pick up my instruments. In old blogs, I’m excited by the prospect of coming out here so I can be as loud as I want in the middle of nowhere and middle of the night. Not too long ago, my creepy fucking neighbor told me he could hear my piano practice, and the illusion that I was alone and free further shattered.

I’m tethered to the practical realities regarding my ambition. If I want to build, I still need a fair amount of money. I’m currently living through a period where we’re pretending “inflation” is responsible for corporate greed. My house will need repairs. Projects take nails. Cars take gas. At bottom, the “problem” in the chain to me continuously getting what I want is making myself functionally free in the exercise of my time and getting money under less and less restrictive circumstances. My current snap shot is maybe working 15-20 hours a week, driving to the office 1 day (supposed to be 2, but fuck em), working 4 days a week, and making if not precisely, a hair’s length above inflation-adjusted minimum wage. My job figured out how to not pay you what you’re worth by divvying out convenience.

In any given moment, I don’t know how to move ahead without continuously campaigning for a fully-remote role, continuously looking for new roles, or I have to go up against the difficulties and feelings related to getting my business started that, every day, reminds me is practically impossible in this country. I can’t drop out. I’m not trying to work manual labor, adding to the time taken away from even TV, let alone inclinations to work outside again. I’m not so uncreative that I can’t attempt to parlay my trips into the office into other “productive” activities like hitting the gym or grocery store. But the questions keep begging. Why am I bothering? Who is this for? What do I “really need” to find the focus and intention to read, play, and watch while I let the rest go?

People constantly encourage me. I get consistent good feedback from people who perhaps over years of counseling will thank me for caring and trying and holding expectations or putting people to actual work on themselves. Where do they factor into my calculation about the impact I’m having? Where do they register on my “job satisfaction” or story of my value and worth? I view it a little like being a child of my mom. She was obligated to feed us, house us, and keep us barely alive. Maybe that’s all she could do with her capacity and lack of tools or awareness, but I’ve never given her special points or a sticker for being nominally responsible for the people she brought into the world.

The tools I have are lent just as basically. You want to give me a hug because I’ve parlayed my intelligence or interests into a form of advanced cheerleading? Cool, I guess, but it’s not the work I need to do to make me better. I’m in it for the money that enables my indulgences, and hopefully enables attacks on bigger targets that undermine the notion of what it is we’re doing altogether. I’m not trying to be cold or disparaging, but I’m not here for you, you need to be there for you, and the clearer you get about what you want and need, the more we’ll be able to determine how to really help each other. I want to live as though there’s considerably more to enjoy than heedlessly “work” on. I want us all to share a basic sense of stability and self-worth. I don’t want to keep talking from a place of either privilege or hard-fought insight that stems from a wholly inaccessible universe to onlookers.

We’re about halfway through the experiment. There’s plenty of sacrifices and points of discomfort from moving out here, but I’m watching my indulges evolve. I’m stuck in significant ways just being the only one out here, but also in the form of moral support. I remember one day I was reacting to my ex’s nervous energy after I’d worked that day and just wanted to sit down. Instead, I rushed to try and weld my truck rack. I did a shitty job, immortalized the shitty job with an Instagram post, it broke a few weeks later, and my effort was not celebrated or recognized or felt as a point of solidarity in the heart and mind of who I was reacting to. Even when you’re convinced you’re sharing something, you’re on your own path.