[1164] Buzz

I feel like the last few times I've gone to write, the essence of the "randomness" in my head is not breaking through. I feel like I'm only taking quarter or half shits. There's a dozen lines or insights from the things I'm listening to that never make their way in. There's moods and observations skipped right over. I really want to rectify this. As I type, if you feel yourself understanding, you might be having a stroke.

Hasan Minhaj speaking to Mike Birbiglia talked about being all-in when it comes to comedy. As you're coming up, you differentiate the people who happen to take to the stage sometimes, and those who put their whole ass into this being the path and lifestyle.

This is a familiar feeling I get when I observe people. This distance between me and whomever I'm looking at who has clearly chosen some path. It doesn't have to be something particularly showy or grandios. I'm somewhat flabbergasted by the plumber just as much as I am the known performer. I've never wanted anything to the degree that I would put my whole life and sense of direction or intention behind it.

We can look at the things I've done the longest. Writing is the far and away winner there. It's the one thing save basic survival behavior I've done for 21-ish years now? And it's more of a "have to" kind of thing because I don't want to hurt myself or others. I've heard comedians discuss their careers in those terms. School comes in second, which again was more or less compulsory. I was in a relationship for 5 years, but depending on how in the weeds you want to get there, you might only count 2 or 3 of them. The longest job I've had was my first, at the theater, for 2 years and 8 months. DCS was second at a week shy of 2 years. Aside from growing up, where I live currently is the longest I've stayed in one place, about 7 years.

The gentleman training me at the factory job I quit today had been there for 22 years. Before that, he was at KFC for 25. Talk about whole-assing.

Him, and the other people on the lines at the factory, I have to stress to remind myself, are all people. They don't look, feel, or sound like people as they're silently repeating actions on plastic car parts for 10 to 12 hours a day. But they're people. They're people who are getting exploited, even if their circumstances have been greatly improved working there compared perhaps to where they are from. I found it fascinating that way more than you'd think couldn't speak basically any English. The "excitement" of stupid-fascism snapped into focus in that environment.

I would put money on the fact that none of those people are the types to come home, write a big reflection on their experience of their job, dig into the politics of the moment, and play with the spreadsheet of their wages. It's not to knock them. It's to discuss, fucking dramatic, differences in types of people. I already stick out amongst the ones you'd think would be more my ilk, but holy shit. Put your head down, repeat, stay as long as we tell you, take what we say is fair in pay, do it for years? If you can wrap your head around that, you've got something I don't.

There's this chasm in talking about things trying to match the feeling language with the "reality." You might clock perfectly well that there's something rotten about the existential circumstance that cobbles hundreds of vulnerable people together to hock Subarus. You definitely clock being hungry, or the worries and obligations towards your family. At that juncture, I, hopefully not too hastily and cuntily wonder, are you really living?

I worry about this question constantly. I'm not under the impression an afterlife is waiting for me. I'm not super keen on martyrdom, slave-value-esc sacrifices, and choking shit down because "one day" it "gets better." No the fuck it doesn't. It just stays "like this." Every day. Every single fucking day is exactly like this, and sometimes you'll snap your fucking truck mirror off trying to be polite to let your neighbor pass on your country ass road, and sometimes you'll be gifted a vehicle that helps you escape many dire circumstances both real and self-imposed. I had tape in the truck, so, like most things in my life, it functions, but it'll never be pretty.

I've been writing music. I've got a song that I started out not liking for all the stuff I would have done better, then each time I listen to it, probably past 100 by now, I like it more and more, even though it's still definitely fucked up and could be re-recorded, but why? There's this interesting thing that happens where all of the most melodramatic and ridiculous feelings get almost mocked in their condensed form to make a song structure. As someone who has written out so much of his complicated series of swirling bullshit thoughts, when I can just be like "maybe I should just die" in a disquieting upbeat tone set against a dissonant background, it does so much of the same work in a different way. I'm both a better and worse singer, piano player, and drummer than I ever thought I could be.

That's one of the things I got to do today not going into the factory. I had a few lyrics hit me as I was helping my friend pick up a water tank. You can't use your phone on the shop floor, or have to disappear to the bathroom. I think any amount of words put to music are more important than a Subaru fender. You can disagree or decry apples vs oranges, and I'll call you a cunt, and we'll depart not as friends.

I felt such relief Door Dashing today. It's a weird thing to think about. All of those "side-hustle" companies have just as many issues as any other. But you know what? I was listening to podcasts. I signed off and on when I wanted. I made enough money to let it sink in that it's a viable way to hit my floor so I don't have to stress as badly. I don't have to think about driving 4 hours directly to Chicago to catch my next show, Whitney Cummings, from the factory because I couldn't come up earlier.

I've become, still incredibly mildly, invested in this phone videogame Last War. I have a team that genuinely tries to beat other people. I don't think I would like or get along with nearly any of them in real life and most of their chats upset me. It's just incredibly awkward 30 to 40-something women in the leadership positions who have all alluded to their upper-class lives and basic-bitch tastes. It's the closest I can come to embodying "factory-type person." I click all the bubbles, calculate rewards, and do my little schoolyard version of Starcraft building and strategizing. When I first entered the alliance, I was dismissive and condescending to one of the leaders saying I did not intend to treat the game like a job. This, in response to her awkward ass energy having a whole ass conversation by herself, like 15 texts, after I blocked her. I discovered said texts weeks later after a cooldown period and unblocking that helps bring coherence to the group chat.

It's getting colder, and it's another winter in which I've neglected building a wood-burning stove. Every year I pretty desperately need it for a good portion of time, and every year I spend money on literally anything else. The overall desire to build out/on my land has dwindled dramatically. I spend most of my time right here, just as I did when I was in apartments and other houses. I'm either in front of my computer, asleep, or not home the vast majority of my time. Every extra room is something new to clean, fix when I inevitably build it wrong, or act as a drain on my already massively inflated electric bills.

I'm gonna stop for a while because my eyes hurt.

It's a few days later. The Whitney Cummings show was alright. I got to spend most of the weekend with my friend. We watched another Marvel movie and got wine drunk. I (she pays me) cleaned her house, car, and garage. I was unable to Door Dash because the gifted car immediately broke down, but I've learned this morning it's back up and running. After my session with a new client tonight, I'll go and pick it up and dash a few hours.

I listened to a couple books while I was cleaning. The Elephant in the Brain discussed the performative games humanity plays to fit in and signal all the right things. It wasn't anything new information wise, but it's nice to know other autistic-adjacent people like Coleman Hughes and the author are resonating with the same themes of my experience. In the book, a discussion of this bird who spends all of its energy creating a human-sized display struck me. Is that not my whole existence out here? Except the momma birds in that species don't expect dad to raise the kids.

When I go to Chicago, I fantasize a lot about owning one of the apartments across the street or right above the venues I go to. I have to drive 4 hours, get parking, be awake and sober enough to get back home. Or I have to be on time and directionally aware if I take the train at least into the city. When I look up how much it would cost to live across from The Chicago Theatre, it's minimum $1500 a month, more likely $2000 to $2500. I'm assuming this leaves out utilities, garbage, or anything else the city or an HOA inevitably tacks on. My property taxes, electric, and internet for the year still don't go above $5,000.

It makes it easy to "kill the fantasy" when I consider how much I would have to work to keep my little box with all of its rules, noises, and neighbors so I could "conveniently" walk to and from a show. It also wouldn't be mine, like my land is. I also, never, have someone coming up to me asking for cigarettes or change, and I keep off weight not having the world's best food around every corner. But, I love Chicago, and were I rich, I would get an apartment there and try to immerse myself in it deeper.

I think about my ex-friend's uncle who killed himself. The last time we talked was at Christmas a few years ago, and he talked about how he has so much money, time, and he's never been more sad in his whole life. My counsel at the time was to focus his energy on a problem worthy of his status. If you have money and time, what are you working on that matters? Matters to you, at least? If you don't set and reset goals in an ongoing way, you get stuck reflecting on all the stuff you've surrounded yourself by that has transformed in meaning. It's not the thing you're striving for anymore. It's not a reason to get out of bed. It's not to alleviate a pain. It's just there, mocking you. My home, like Chicago, like every individual life, is a complicated series of thousands of decisions and circumstantial happenings that require constant attendance and reorganizing.

It's why I'm never done writing. I'm seeking a peaceful-enough platform to continue engaging in decisions that never feel that correct. I can build confidence into them, but I'm staking an existential claim with each one. This is what I want. This is who I am. I can intellectually accept that I am constantly changing and any kind of static statement is illusory. But shaking a persistent feeling? I still feel, in some ways, like I did as a child. If nothing is really permanent, what do you make of that? Perhaps it can never be accurately articulated, but it's a force, impression, hint, echo, something that I don't think can or should be ignored.

I've been thinking more about stealing. I mean in the context of music or creating things with my woodshop. I think way too damn hard about what to do with my time or days, and it leaves me feeling lazy and paralyzed no matter how much I actually get done. I can knock out every errand, help a friend, build something, retrieve a car, work, and get home like "You fucking cunt, 3 hours went by, and all you did was more TV?" I worry about the costs of experimenting with some new side-quest that I hope makes me money. I hit certain, pretty foreseeable roadblocks, when I jump into one of my dozen land projects. I get bored before I begin to even bother grinding through the next videogame.

But I like the idea of like, learning how to craft or make little trinkets in tribute to the things I already like. Can I make a fun wall decoration of the hand grenade heart? Can I resurrect split-up bands or celebrate my favorite songs with things I could churn out from scrap wood, but still make look cool? I've thought about crafting something I could give my favorite comedians, especially the ones coming up. Even talking about it like gives me a sense of vigor and excitement.

I can feel the order of operations in my head at all times. I need to secure (x) amount of dollars first, which entails maybe door dashing for 2 to 5 days morning to night. Then it's make peace with locking myself down and not wasting money on gas. I gotta make sure to get all my laundry and food shopping done while I'm out. I need to submit more applications and job search. I need to plan for what I'll need to do more projects for my friend in rehabbing her house. Then, I might "have the time" or secure the headspace to spend a few hours learning how best to go about making little gifts for the people who make me laugh. If I don't do it like that, I'll undermine my ability to get any piece of that train done.

I understand this is the nature of my irrational compelling feelings. I can refute it. I can choose differently. But it will take a lot of energy and constant redirection. I don't know if exerting my energy that way is necessary. I do know that this is the exact nature of how or why people do or don't change with regard to literally anything in their life. There's an order of operations, almost never articulated, that steers the ship independent of the reality of any given moment. I can watch a woodworking video right now, but it's not where my head "feels" is "correct. " I can change that feeling.

I've been setting myself up for failure looking for the same kind of desperate rush and hyper-focus of my past. Nothing is going to invigorate me like the naive story I was riding about my potential and future. I've lived too long, met too many people, worked on too many things to "believe" anything. I see the structure. I recognize the luck. I understand the need for having something you can sustainably do constantly that crashes into enough people until you can properly plug in. I recognize the road to fame and the road to business owner. I don't have an adequate daily practice, and that's informed by years of daily practices being aggressively undermined, ignored, or exploited.

What do you practice when the nature of practice turns suspect? I think my instinct about giving things I create to people who give me what they're creating provides an answer of gratitude or appreciation. I never stop practicing writing. I never stop practicing learning, from how to record music now to what small woodworking things I've done recently. I think you practice flexibility, from me doing squats to mental flexibility in thinking about what I might have to do to escape stupid-fascism and entrenched enshittified moral calculators.

I don't need a religion, but I do need to belong. I don't, in so many ways. I do, kinda, sometimes, here and there, when I'm up for the performance. Whether it's fair to the people I'm closest with or not, I can't shake the sense that I'm one day going to fuck it all up or see it destroyed? It could be an ongoing childhood trauma response or just a reflection on how pressed up against my chaotic nature I really am. If fundamentalists of any stripe are even fractionally afraid of that sensibility, it makes sense the amount of shit they would swallow and holler about in order to maintain the faux sense of order.

In 30 minutes I'll hold a session with my new client. I need to eat. I need to find the will to dash. I also think I'm going to utilize my white board to try and draw out a big mind-map of the different little tasks I want to explore for making money. I genuinely feel like this entirely different kind of existence is just around the corner. I have so, so much, potential, so poorly organized. You could not ask for more tools, time, or things to constantly learn about and experiment with. What's the nature of the challenge worthy of that/me? Do I exercise the discipline, or pretend I need to roam around the woods until I find it? I think I'd prefer to belong in the cage I build myself than the ones I find myself trapped in.