[1077] Fate Fell Short

Stuff's kicking around up there again.

There comes a point when the kisses aren't real. This, at least, is in my experience. At some point in a relationship or even in the middle of fooling around or flirting, the kiss is missing whatever drove the initial thrust of it. Things get familiar. Many new things take priority to focus on besides lingering an extra few seconds or taking in a breath. Maybe you get stuck, and the kisses become procedural, performative, or polite. You're no longer checking for evolutionary compatibility and firing up the procreation engine.

To find someone who even "tolerates" feels like a faraway dream to someone like me, let alone someone who genuinely likes who I am or what I'm about. I've been given considerable feedback over the years that "people" are "definitely not about" doing this lol. A friend of mine just sent me a picture calling a discarded baby doll leaning up against a fence "creepy." I said it'd be way creepier if she took it's head off and put it in its lap and drizzled jizz around the neck. That's what I'm about; saying shit like that at every conceivable moment is like a quarter of why I bother to stay alive at all.

I like to paint little professional connection maps in my head when I watch comedians and who shows up in their sketch shows or is in their credits. Michael Che is contributing to me reflecting on the "introspective" types of comedians like Sam Jay or Godfrey. Whether or not something is funny as you're introspecting is, oddly, almost secondary to the task of "saying something about it at all." I found myself chuckling at Che's sketch show. I appreciated the different way to go about it. 

I've seen both Sam Jay and Godfrey live. Sam was funny. Godfrey was…angry? Insecure? Resentful? Sam was writing jokes and showing an appreciation for her circumstances and growth. Godfrey seemed to be high on his own conspiratorial supply. Both were approaching the artform with meditations on the state of the world and identity.  One was more comedy about it, the other obnoxious tragedy.

I return to the idea a lot that I would entertain the idea of doing stand-up, but I hear my voice across so many already. It wouldn't be "my therapy." It doesn't call to me anymore than being a musician does. I think I can craft jokes, am confident enough that I've made people laugh throughout my life, and can avoid saying "ya know" and 'ummm" or "like" 36 times in between every joke. But I don't think it's where I necessarily belong or that it's going to give me what I need. It would be one more thing I've added to a list and checked off.

It's important to me to have some distinction between "comedian" or "stand-up" and "did some comedy." I want there to be a meaningful distinction between being a "writer" and "blogger" or "self-righteous piety" and "professional" or "journalism." Are you funny, or desperate, dedicated, and/or lucky? Are you being "productive" and "driving towards" something or bored and occupying your time with distractions and coping mechanisms?

The overlap regarding sincere kisses and thoughts on comedy runs through my head when I think about how immeasurably driven I was as a teenager. I didn't just have a crush, I was bold and confidentially asserting my "love" and feeling the rush and motivation to do and say ALL THE THINGS. This without the remote inclination that it would have been influenced by a degree of autism. I was running with ankle weights through theaters. I was convinced I would have some thriving business and be functionally retired by 30. The spirit of what drove me as a teenager ran through what became of the party house, the coffee shop, and in ever-humbled attempts to flourish out here on the land.

It's not irrationally driven anymore. I recall Byron remarking before I cut him off that he was, again, considering plans to maybe move out here. I had zero reaction and was pretty dismissive. I've heard that bullshit from everyone forever. It's my clients telling me they'll reach out after I switch roles. It's "I'd love to, but" when it comes to seeing a show. It's the basic human disconnect between a real kiss and what you're supposed to do or say as you feign enthusiasm for the task or situation presented.

Notably, nothing about life has become palpably "harder" than when I was desiring my high school crush, running the party house, starting the coffee shop, or from day 1 of trying to get my house in order verses today. It's been hard or shitty the whole time, but my disposition about it has gone through many shifts. My concepts of "romance" or "love" or "passion" or "drive" I liken to a 70 year old woman, still spry, 3-time divorced, dressed comfortably and confidently asserting her opinions. She's seen it all. She's not broken and despotic, but she's accepted and measured as to how much or whether she's going to invest in anything after herself first. You've met this woman. You want to be more like this woman.

She seems to have a certain lightness about her that I don't think I've achieved. I don't know if that's an innate disposition thing, guy vs girl thing, age thing, or something else entirely. I've certainly tried to be lighter regarding my approach to my professed goals. Some have sat semi-worked on for years. I stopped huffing about debt. I now take as many as 15 months to politely explain in different ways how my idiot-proof high-enough paying job is actually a Huxleyan trap gnawing at my soul and self-respect before I leave with a deep suspicion I shouldn't put them down as a reference.

I don't want the things that distinguish me to be merely about checking boxes. Yes, there's gratification in doing so and collecting and gaining whispers of a perspective on everything I can get my hands on. I'm not alive for the sake of a bucket list or the nicest version of the story I can tell you about the things I've spent money on. I've enjoyed nearly everything I've gone to this year. It's not going to stop me from telling you if I wasn't concurrently in it for the gains in perspective, seeing Godfrey would have been a waste of time and money. I want first hand experiences, and I want them to translate in my ability to communicate or connect.

Yet, I spend almost all of my time alone. I go to most shows alone. I live alone. I work on the land alone. The times I include people into the things I enjoy I often gather a measure of stress or their mind is elsewhere. No matter how much I do or learn about, that has nothing to do with what people care about, practice, or obligate themselves towards. 

When I entertain the idea of joining whatever it is others are doing or say they care about, it sours almost immediately. I might want to keep playing the fun informal Ultimate games? Oh, well, now they want to turn more serious and conduct drills and travel around playing. Ok, how about softball? Everyone is smoking and drinking as they play because it's about the idea of athletics and health, not winning or improving. Let's join the town band! Oh, you don't want me to copy or practice the music, and when I try, an old guy will place his hand over my instrument. Let's join a maker's space! Oh, people abuse it and you'll easily spend a quarter of your time there picking up after them or disproportionately paying extra to have what you need. This also assumes the hours when these activities take places are conducive to whatever job I'm working at the time or the fees aren't needlessly exorbitant.

If you're "passionate," or just ambivalent, about the details for anything or anyone you might obligate yourself towards, you'll lump things into a "cost of doing business" idea that lets you choke down getting taken advantage of. That's what I saw in social work across the board where naive or broken do-gooders spend obscene amounts of their emotional capital, time, and money like so many teachers in a neglected school system. All abuse relationships follow approximately the same pattern, interpersonal or otherwise. There's a slow creep and endless ambiguous responsibility-deficient language. It's kisses at 90% for 3 months, 88% for 4 more, 75% the next 6, each period retraining your concept of "normal."

With so many "new rich" comedians or room in the modern era to attempt to capitalize on the endless connectivity or resources not available in the past, many discussions are about the ebbs and flows of professional careers. Fame happens differently for different people and depending on the mediums from which they rose. The landscape is in constant motion and whether it's podcasting or tik tocking, there's a way to put "whatever" you want to call your voice or brand in front of people. "Your audience"  begets your status as an "entertainer" or "personality" or "influencer" and whether or not they can discern the value of what you're putting into the world, it's only ever been that you're watching in the first place.

I believe that speaks to why I intuitively keep my shit on facebook and blogger and don't sincerely attempt to court elevated levels of attention. Do I think I write "well" or that any of this is "good?" I have no fucking idea. My only metric for success is whether or not I can get rid of headaches or be persuaded to move on with my day that's otherwise hindered when my brain is clogged. Much as you hopefully are able to shit when you need to, if you took a picture of it each time and congratulated yourself or sought likes for its size and texture, we'd be right to be concerned. I'm a blogger who writes obnoxious shit, not a comedian or philosopher writing for the best-seller list or booking agents. When I got the 3rd most followers on that Sondry.com site, it was a clue that what I was writing vibed with people (213 followers!) but it's a niche group that joins a budding blogging platform that could go defunct, and did, at any time. Aren't I supposed to start a Patreon and ask for $5 a month as I release audio versions of each 1 or 2 times a week? 

I don't trust anything that gets popular that is unconcerned about the means in which it becomes so. Money subsidizes abject corruption and laziness as a matter of routine. The "hype machine" ensures certain bands or TV shows get on all the right platforms. The consequences of endless spamming bullshit from right-ring batshit factories are ever dire. If one of my chief persistent complaints is feeling unrecognized, how perverse would I need to become to consciously decide to weaponize that resentment? How cynical must I become to "go through the motions" that translate to a particular brand of cunt who controls the purse strings or recognized roads of success?

I'm not even an anarchist or necessarily anti-establishment. I'm extremely anti-willful denial. That's it. If you can't honestly say you do a bad job and collect more money than you deserve (thinking specifically about my professional environments measured by the amount of people they keep afraid, dependent, and away from their stated goals,) I can't work with you. If you can't be bothered to even fight for the job you are doing, resentful that I would have any expectation that you defend yourself, go fuck yourselves. You reflexively occupy my posture when you dip into unfair judgments about how someone else conducts themselves. Whether it's the person who cut you off in traffic, or the one who spends their  money in ways you would never. Intuitively, you demand an explanation or seek a means of swallowing your discomfort. When invited to the table to talk about your own bullshit though? Perish the thought. Where do I get off?

So much of me trying to start a business is just spending money and box checking. It's not fun. It's not gratifying in any way. It's me talking myself into levels of debt to try and play along just enough to capitalize while maintaining the vision and dignity to, maybe, one day, do the work in ways that register as genuinely and accountably better. I'm not giddy at the prospect of paying the bills for these free lancers. I have less than 0 interest in spending the next 2 days reading about and applying to become a non-profit. I'm trying not to hate myself at entertaining the very real practical concerns for having any source of money coming in from a new work environment bent on mangling me further. But that work, patience, will, and dream is how I hope to define myself.

I've been to 125 "fun" things this year, with 9 left on the calendar. I celebrate the working vehicles that got me safely to each one and back. I celebrate the good meals I got before or after them. I celebrate the clips I took and go back and watch after uploading to Youtube. I like that I can include my perspective on all of those things in anything I talk about going forward. I like knowing where to park, the good places to grab a drink, and where a seat in a certain spot is worth the money. I like learning that I'd rather go to a dozen $20 "small venue" shows and own too many t-shirts than over spend on "VIP" and try to drink to make up for it over a 4-day festival, excellent company notwithstanding. I like doing an insanely large amount of fun things and knowing what it costs so I can budget if I want to do it bigger another year. I like knowing I can experience that much in less than a year. It makes me feel like there's so much room in life.

You can't take my experiences from me or persuade me that the hell of your office life, small town, or shitty family is where the best perspective lies. 25% of my expenses have gone towards "entertainment" in the last 2 years. That's gas, parking, flights, AirBnbs, 2-item minimums, some tickets for friends or my dad, a couple ridiculous VIPs, and more clothing in the form of band t-shirts than I've bought for myself in life so far combined. 2 years. What can I do with a little more room, a little more time, or combined with someone who recognizes just what it is I'm trying to do and am, in fact, doing?

What are you working on? Is it nothing? Is it that you're not proud to share it to the last few people you know are really watching? Is it what keeps you from coming along to whatever I'm doing? Do you even still like whatever your lips are pressed to?