Sometimes I view my life as a giant
bowl of water swirling around and around. From the top is a pitcher
that continues to add water as some of it inevitably splashes out
along the edges. The swirl is a sea of potential. No single point on
the bowl is more or less likely to have the water splash over it. You
knock on the bowl from one side, water will fall just past the
opposite side. You keep knocking on that side, more and more water
will slide over and splash below.
It is unknown how large the pitcher supplying the total amount of water you'll ever get in your bowl is. The water can symbolize your life or maybe just your attention. Always swirling, waiting to plunge over a cliff into the unknown. Certainly, amused with the colors the water reflects or the shapes the water creates, the bowl can't be left alone. People are constantly trying to pick it up, play in it, or knock it over, spilling everything that you could or will ever be in any direction.
Some people turn their swirling bowl of water into a carnival game. They circle the bowl with other containers to catch the drops that fall. As each container fills up, they win obnoxious prizes that require wall spaces and guest bedrooms. If they bought the same containers or cups from the same store as their neighbors, they each raise them in a toast to their mutual prosperity. The cups come with titles and perks that float to the top as they catch more water. The game's difficulty comes from never being sure when the cup is overflowing.
I think of the water like my attention. When I watch too much TV, I can feel it in my eyes, my shoulders, budding headache, or in the growing patience to adopt a new frustration like the delay my keyboard is experiencing in trying to type this. My TV cup runneth over. The same happens when I spend too much time reading about how dumb the world is or talking to a 20 year old about “soulmates” or “the government.” Kids splashing about in my bowl like needy actors screaming, “Look at me!”
I think about what has taken the largest portions of my attention. Being a lovesick child was a solid portion that rolled over seamlessly into a years long love affair with the “science vs religion” discussion. I'm clearly obsessed with myself. I tried to be overly-concerned with my friendships or the formation of a “chosen family.” And I can usually manage to work most of the day, every day, for several months before the kind of pain there is no words for starts to scare me a little too sincerely.
This question of my attention though deserves more. I consider it a modest source of pride to be able to name the dozen regions of the world having a considerable worse time than me. I watch myself greedily suck down an above average amount of red meat each week. I look for reasons to focus on my small and selfish desires when the people I think might give me a call absolutely won't. I pretend late night talk show hosts and the newest generation of writers are taking my mind off of the horrible time I'm having at the gym. I pretend there are ten minutes in the day I'm not trying to write myself out of the tight little room behind my eyes.
Attention increasingly feels like something that needs to be shared. Everyday we seem to live in mockery of that idea. Upvotes, likes, shares, raised consciousness, “woke,” viral, Snap, Insta...different words that all spell distraction. I don't think it's innocent. I don't think we ever bothered to find the words before we worked so hard to work them out of existence. To share your attention is a work you take for granted when you don't have other options. But today? You have infinite options. Not, in reality, but in how your lack of attention can be labeled as something worthwhile, meaningful, or normal.
My attention is fixated on a specific kind of feeling. To the outside perceiver, it usually only registers as contempt and discord. I crave, bottomlessly, a kind of security and self-expression I've only gotten the smallest taste of. I imagine someone hearing that and thinking the “security” of a good job or loving spouse sounds glorious, and they'd be in a different universe than what I mean. I want that security that provokes you to step over the line, but keeps you wise enough to not do so. It's the money to always be able to pay off the ticket or repair, but not enough to provoke you into 200 mph. It's the suave and self-satisfaction to endear yourself to countless women, but never give yourself over into thinking they're anything more than human. It's filling the void with endless creativity, but never allowing yourself to believe it's anything more than what it is; an exercise in maintaining sanity and a provocation to death.
I find TV a pretty amazing analogue the more it occupies the majority of my waking life. Thousands of shows, millions of hours uploaded daily. So much “content.” Saying...what? “Look at me.” Look how crazy, look how funny, look and buy, look at my version of this recycled plot, trope, and structure. Look how many hours I put into making the dragons look real. Look how much I clearly am just writing for this show until Tina Fey discovers me. Look at my latest attempt to root myself in this world as an actor, as someone, no, as an artist, whose story deserves to be told and needs representation. Look at me begging you, I'm not ashamed to say it, begging you to attend to my commentary, my perspective, and my short time here on Earth. I live for the applause, the awards, but dare you ever step beyond telling anyone it has anything more to do than with my passion!
Different shades of desperation march along as self-confidence and hard work. That doesn't mean people aren't confident in what they do. That doesn't mean they don't work hard. But the desperation comes first. The fight and the spite made the biggest splashes. Taming the waves into something “personal” or “Emmy worthy” we force ourselves to believe is about the individual more than the machine. We need the “standards” of stars and heroes. We need to flaunt the idea that our attention was spent in the same ways theirs was, be it in allegiance to products or preferences. We want to belong to what everyone is paying attention to, because if we don't...
I see the rest of my life, so I'm already dead. I'm maybe seeing people I cared about once or twice a year. I'm always months behind on something that literally only takes 2 days. I'm scrambling to fit in weak stabs at eating better or working out in between shows I can barely distinguish and exceedingly lame get-togethers with Byron's child friends or the ballsy acquaintances from online social groups. I let the little push to write something long and ridiculous for birthdays die. I get doubly good at saying “for sure” for the amazingly empty conversations I've gotten so good at I don't die inside joining anymore. I don a permanent headache and scowl I'm way too enthusiastic to put away whenever I'm called out on it. And I watch, every minute of every day tick by as I save money to get nowhere for no one as all the things that require more attention than I can give happen instead.
And I'll write. I'll write like I'm the most forlorn and tortured soul that's ever existed. I'll watch more of my hairs turn gray, and ponder the deep questions like how a fun sized Snickers can add 2 pounds. I'll scroll through unanswered texts and check the date showing last year was the last time we both reminded each other we were working a ton. I'll forget whatever it was I thought we had in common. I'll forget to even bother texting on those drunk belligerent sentimental nights. And I'll hear through the grapevine that you like your new job or partner or your parent got sick and you're helping out. Then it's off to bed, something important to do in the morning, but it was great catching up. And none of it will mean anything to me. I'll erase the idea that anything ever had or should. From my just-right middle-class amenities and armchair, I'll reign.
It is unknown how large the pitcher supplying the total amount of water you'll ever get in your bowl is. The water can symbolize your life or maybe just your attention. Always swirling, waiting to plunge over a cliff into the unknown. Certainly, amused with the colors the water reflects or the shapes the water creates, the bowl can't be left alone. People are constantly trying to pick it up, play in it, or knock it over, spilling everything that you could or will ever be in any direction.
Some people turn their swirling bowl of water into a carnival game. They circle the bowl with other containers to catch the drops that fall. As each container fills up, they win obnoxious prizes that require wall spaces and guest bedrooms. If they bought the same containers or cups from the same store as their neighbors, they each raise them in a toast to their mutual prosperity. The cups come with titles and perks that float to the top as they catch more water. The game's difficulty comes from never being sure when the cup is overflowing.
I think of the water like my attention. When I watch too much TV, I can feel it in my eyes, my shoulders, budding headache, or in the growing patience to adopt a new frustration like the delay my keyboard is experiencing in trying to type this. My TV cup runneth over. The same happens when I spend too much time reading about how dumb the world is or talking to a 20 year old about “soulmates” or “the government.” Kids splashing about in my bowl like needy actors screaming, “Look at me!”
I think about what has taken the largest portions of my attention. Being a lovesick child was a solid portion that rolled over seamlessly into a years long love affair with the “science vs religion” discussion. I'm clearly obsessed with myself. I tried to be overly-concerned with my friendships or the formation of a “chosen family.” And I can usually manage to work most of the day, every day, for several months before the kind of pain there is no words for starts to scare me a little too sincerely.
This question of my attention though deserves more. I consider it a modest source of pride to be able to name the dozen regions of the world having a considerable worse time than me. I watch myself greedily suck down an above average amount of red meat each week. I look for reasons to focus on my small and selfish desires when the people I think might give me a call absolutely won't. I pretend late night talk show hosts and the newest generation of writers are taking my mind off of the horrible time I'm having at the gym. I pretend there are ten minutes in the day I'm not trying to write myself out of the tight little room behind my eyes.
Attention increasingly feels like something that needs to be shared. Everyday we seem to live in mockery of that idea. Upvotes, likes, shares, raised consciousness, “woke,” viral, Snap, Insta...different words that all spell distraction. I don't think it's innocent. I don't think we ever bothered to find the words before we worked so hard to work them out of existence. To share your attention is a work you take for granted when you don't have other options. But today? You have infinite options. Not, in reality, but in how your lack of attention can be labeled as something worthwhile, meaningful, or normal.
My attention is fixated on a specific kind of feeling. To the outside perceiver, it usually only registers as contempt and discord. I crave, bottomlessly, a kind of security and self-expression I've only gotten the smallest taste of. I imagine someone hearing that and thinking the “security” of a good job or loving spouse sounds glorious, and they'd be in a different universe than what I mean. I want that security that provokes you to step over the line, but keeps you wise enough to not do so. It's the money to always be able to pay off the ticket or repair, but not enough to provoke you into 200 mph. It's the suave and self-satisfaction to endear yourself to countless women, but never give yourself over into thinking they're anything more than human. It's filling the void with endless creativity, but never allowing yourself to believe it's anything more than what it is; an exercise in maintaining sanity and a provocation to death.
I find TV a pretty amazing analogue the more it occupies the majority of my waking life. Thousands of shows, millions of hours uploaded daily. So much “content.” Saying...what? “Look at me.” Look how crazy, look how funny, look and buy, look at my version of this recycled plot, trope, and structure. Look how many hours I put into making the dragons look real. Look how much I clearly am just writing for this show until Tina Fey discovers me. Look at my latest attempt to root myself in this world as an actor, as someone, no, as an artist, whose story deserves to be told and needs representation. Look at me begging you, I'm not ashamed to say it, begging you to attend to my commentary, my perspective, and my short time here on Earth. I live for the applause, the awards, but dare you ever step beyond telling anyone it has anything more to do than with my passion!
Different shades of desperation march along as self-confidence and hard work. That doesn't mean people aren't confident in what they do. That doesn't mean they don't work hard. But the desperation comes first. The fight and the spite made the biggest splashes. Taming the waves into something “personal” or “Emmy worthy” we force ourselves to believe is about the individual more than the machine. We need the “standards” of stars and heroes. We need to flaunt the idea that our attention was spent in the same ways theirs was, be it in allegiance to products or preferences. We want to belong to what everyone is paying attention to, because if we don't...
I see the rest of my life, so I'm already dead. I'm maybe seeing people I cared about once or twice a year. I'm always months behind on something that literally only takes 2 days. I'm scrambling to fit in weak stabs at eating better or working out in between shows I can barely distinguish and exceedingly lame get-togethers with Byron's child friends or the ballsy acquaintances from online social groups. I let the little push to write something long and ridiculous for birthdays die. I get doubly good at saying “for sure” for the amazingly empty conversations I've gotten so good at I don't die inside joining anymore. I don a permanent headache and scowl I'm way too enthusiastic to put away whenever I'm called out on it. And I watch, every minute of every day tick by as I save money to get nowhere for no one as all the things that require more attention than I can give happen instead.
And I'll write. I'll write like I'm the most forlorn and tortured soul that's ever existed. I'll watch more of my hairs turn gray, and ponder the deep questions like how a fun sized Snickers can add 2 pounds. I'll scroll through unanswered texts and check the date showing last year was the last time we both reminded each other we were working a ton. I'll forget whatever it was I thought we had in common. I'll forget to even bother texting on those drunk belligerent sentimental nights. And I'll hear through the grapevine that you like your new job or partner or your parent got sick and you're helping out. Then it's off to bed, something important to do in the morning, but it was great catching up. And none of it will mean anything to me. I'll erase the idea that anything ever had or should. From my just-right middle-class amenities and armchair, I'll reign.
