[1024] Lay It On Me

Let’s keep fishing. It’s precisely 1 AM in this illusion of time. I decided to stay in bed until approximately 11:30 AM this morning. I picked up my, still silenced phone from the shows on the weekend, to discover I had missed a meeting. The meeting was one I’m not entirely sure was asked for by the person it was supposed to be with. The meeting was confirmed via email, but with no calendar indication. The meeting was to discuss – I don’t know – It was just supposed to be about how a person who sick with both HIV and cancer is still sick with those things and might be about to die. Superficially, you might think I approached the chance to be a part of this meeting with too much ambivalence. If you’re me, you’re heavily suspicious and question the wisdom of insisting upon and presenting the meeting to me in the first place.

There are many things that would have not happened. I wouldn’t have said some measure of encouraging thing that would make him better. I wouldn’t be able to offer medical advice. I wouldn’t have been able to show solidarity in tears or psychological war stories of empathetic horror. I, by all accounts, would have had an immense opportunity to make things worse in being unable to mask my relative indifference to a situation that I can’t influence in a direction the person involved or onlookers would say, “It was good you were there.” Knowing this at my core, I believe I stuffed any remote idea that I might attend so far away from my active consciousness that I immediately calculated whatever negative opinions I might garner by not showing would be preferable, indeed better, than starting my day indulging the façade to that degree.

Much more simply, I just didn’t bother with thinking about work until I wanted to. There’s every reason to think the previous paragraph is true, but if the slightest conditions had changed, like me hearing my cat start to heave before vomiting, I could have been up and on the call and played along, and none would be the wiser about my growing ambivalence towards my job and antagonizing anxiety slowly creeping into my desire to “do” or be polite.

I’m writing again instead of doing notes. There’s 6 of them. They’ll take approximately an hour if I don’t focus. I even rearranged my furniture so I could establish a little desk-like area so I’m not fumbling with a drum pad resting on my ankle as a mouse platform. I’ve watched a fair amount of TV. I’ve played the piano I questioned the wisdom of owning two days ago. I’ve eaten store bought food and only left the house to pee as I’ve still not fixed my water.

But I’ve been a little on fire. Allowing myself to access that ambivalence has provided more focus and intention. I can tell because when I was playing the piano, I wasn’t struggling to play the piano, I was just playing. I’m feeling the intentionality grow behind fixing the water and cleaning up around my property, and just generally getting a touch more organized. It doesn’t make a lot of sense to me as to why the harder I genuinely neglect the thing I don’t care about the more I find a desire to do what I do care about, but then, of course that’s not true.

My first group for the day we readdressed what it means to be honest. People are always free-flowing in their shares about what they’re lying to themselves about or how they know they’re lying when it comes to what they “need to do” or “hope gets done” or “should be doing differently.” You don’t have to be smart to recognize when you’re full of shit, and you don’t have to be an emotional genius to know when you feel guilty or empty and stuck after expressing some familiar hopeless sentiment about how to improve your life. People were focused and looking into the camera. The lie is so loud and all-encompassing and we’re staring into it with little trust or clue on how to best it.

I feel as trapped or stuck as anyone else. I might externalize the factors and fight to demonstrate otherwise, but my heart-of-hearts isn’t appeased. I get flickers of hope when I see how others acknowledge and describe the same condition. I get chills, routinely, in how some people describe their circumstances and the efforts they’ve made to improve and how they’ve noticed the difference. I started this year speaking to how I recognized a need for more structure. I’ve taken to “structuring” my weekends and off-time with shows. I’ve been contemplating how and whether I could go to music camps to redevelop practice habits.

The structure I need is of a broader cultural one. I need more than is on offer. I need a senator who isn’t a literal fascist. I need a job that is willing to pay me what I’m worth, not what they’ve deemed is fair. I need to feel like I can get body work done and check-ups without sacrificing weeks to months of my life earning the privilege. I need to see a string of things that make consistent sense to combat the abject nonsense of advertising infotainment feeds and errant ignorant commentary. I need to be working with a crowd focused on problems that transcend the here and now.

I have such gripes with these “conscious collectives” or pretentious hobbyists who all seek the same kind of detachment from the broader picture. They’re like bizarro religious cultists who feel entitled to a particular language expressed in a particular self-protecting way, but the way they deny the broader suffering is through less blood-drenched imagery, drug use, and spending mysteriously high amounts of money. Mysterious in that it comes from places just as dirty and implicated as they would otherwise rail against if they weren’t born on the right side of it.

It's weird to think that I’m never gonna “get it.” That I’ll be doing some version of this for the rest of my life I find incredibly baffling. That’s something easy to believe given, well, I’m 34 and practically nothing about my relationships, professional environments, living situation, educational opportunities, general conversations, or people I’ve looked up to have coalesced into something I regard as healthy, persistent, remotely understood and confident, or even basically honest and accountable to their own nature let alone how it operates within the game at large. I’d be a fool to maintain anything but the most tepid conception of the future and my place in it provided “things” continue to go precisely as they have or people stay people.

So then what? How do I give a fuck about a few thousand in debt or upsetting a norm or expectation of an otherwise crippling work environment? What stops me from just paying the minimum on the credit card for the next 10 years as interest piles much higher than the fucks? This broad view of television I’m getting has people like Stewart Lee offering the burnt-out ironically critical takes on “the world” and “culture” as observers have been doing since we developed eyes. Speaking critically, ironically, or hilariously about it all isn’t going to shift the nature of things. If anything, it’s going to help instantiate them further as we chuckle “the pain away” from any genuine sense that something can, should, and will change provided we actually do something.

If I spent half as much on the things I’ve mentioned or thought about doing around the house, committed to them in all of the time I have between groups, my off days, and hours before concerts, I’d be done in 2 weeks. Knowing this is a big reason I find myself hung up so often. There’s a catch in being goal-oriented. I, at least, know certain projects can be done, done quickly, and if not “comfortably” at least within the budget I’m freely spending to go to shows. I’d rather be in debt to see a comedian or band that could tragically die at any moment than pretend I care or wish to speculate on whether my neighbor’s mood would be improved after I turn the pallets into a fence. Then what? I go back to TV? I buy an expensive guitar or computer? I fuck off to Europe for a week?

It's all ever-present and here now. It doesn’t matter what I pick. It doesn’t matter if I can ascertain the “truth” of how or why I’m doing something. It matters that it feels and represents me actually choosing and feeling the consequence and empowerment of that choice. I feel incredibly dejected when I have to buy a totally necessary piece of equipment to fix one of my vehicles. I will drop the same amount of money in a heartbeat at the prospect of driving 3 to 5 hours away to see a show. I will lament the idea of having to do my incredibly easy job for 3 more months, a job I get praised and thanked for routinely, and then drive myself into more debt for trinkets and toys as though I know I’m trapped and only through buying and the little rush of being naughtily click happy is the best I can manage to cope and feel alive.

I’m going to do these notes, at least half of them, and it’s going to be pushing 3 AM by the time I’m done. I have one group at 11 AM tomorrow. If it’s not raining or freezing, I might immediately go outside and see how many pallets I can break down or things I can shuffle about to make it look less like I’m keen to express my half white-trash origins. I’ll have my phone turned back up and on me in case someone wants to reach out to me about a problem I can’t fix, don’t care about, and they’re not really interested in solving.

[1023] Waiting For My Wake Up Call

Something’s not right. It’s not “wrong,” but it’s definitely not right. I can’t seem to figure out how to get moving. I can’t seem to find the drive to push the outer limits of the experiment. I can’t find the fucks to give and barely discover the focus. I envision what I might otherwise be doing or what will happen when I arrive, and instead, well I’m doing this, this time. I might just as well go to sleep, start a show, or find myself vacuuming spider webs that never bothered me for the last 9 months they’ve been there. I’ve been keen to theorize this has something to do with “undiagnosed ADHD.” I’m beginning to suspect there’s something darker and more insidious going on.

I just returned from a comedy show. I saw another one the night before with my dad who came down the 3-hour trip to visit. At the show tonight, the audience was very chatty. Although Joe Pera was encouraging answers to questions he posed to the crowd, one woman took it upon herself to share a mini monologue during a punchline. I’m absolutely fascinated by the complete lack of self-awareness when something like that happens. More to what I think is echoing in the back of my head though, her doing that is almost the norm. It’s an abysmal and disrespectful norm, like so much that modernity has presented for us to choke down, but you don’t really know if you’re going to hear the person you paid to see more than the assholes they’ve attracted to the room.

I feel like I hate this in an outsized way because I was not the person going to 65 shows a year. I might have made it to 2, more likely 1, if any at all. I didn’t have the expendable income to just write off a negative experience. I might have saved and sacrificed for a while to get a ticket at all, let alone one with a decent view. Then I get drunk bitch chiming in? Her selfish interjections stealing my invitations to connect and laugh? I might lose my goddamn mind, especially if I haven’t felt like I was connecting to myself or anyone, artist or otherwise, for a long period of time.

I’ve griped about having to tell idiots to shut the fuck up in every 3^rd movie. The people at the show yesterday weren’t any better in terms of staying quiet or paying attention. Literal conversations going on all around. Drunk over-blasting discussions about the bill. It’s fucking trashy and embarrassing and it’s this kind of stuff I think portends the end of man.

I don’t know if I’m more dangerous when I don’t know what I’m doing or believe that I do. I don’t have any real and proper compulsions, but I can savor a moment that registers as an excitable opportunity for change or chaos. I have so many tasks and chores and dreams that feel like so much plodding and errant hole digging. “Any word on the counseling business?” The refrain from onlookers after I get tricked by the word “paid.” I don’t know, I can spend money to build a website and offer text-based super-low-priced counseling. I can spend money and look for a lead generator. I can spend money and outsource outreach or access pools of people. Or, I can wait until the only seemingly remotely feasible way to get paid, even meagerly, long-term is being contracted.

It all feels like wheel-spinning. Meanwhile, I have a job allowing me to live as close to my “extravagant” lifestyle as I’ve dreamed so far, but it’s proving as unfulfilling and incomplete as I always knew it would. Just because you win the lottery doesn’t mean you have a purpose, and I’ve won many lotteries. As the parade of “general audience” members continues to suggest, even the notion that I might “escape” into the world of persistent viewer/laugher/analyzer is a farse because the attention will always be drawn back to the loudest cawing asshole in the room.

I feel myself get tired when I get home. I don’t want to do 10 minutes of notes. I don’t want to fill out another reference survey. I don’t want to put the paperwork together to apply for another empty well-wishing not-so-promise that some organization “loves what we do” and “wants to work with us” but won’t be available for a year to “maybe” pay and only if we meet “specialized criterion” that will change with the wind. I don’t want to get up and drive to Bedford tomorrow to be rushed into conversations about nothing to nowhere. I don’t want to do anything right until the moment I do, but can’t. The weather was brilliant today. The first time I’ve felt I wanted to break down the pallets since the last time when it, of course, rained indefinitely weeks ago. I was on my way to Indianapolis. Even if I wasn’t, I haven’t fixed my water, so when I get immediately sweaty and grungy, I get to sleep in that and take it to work? I get to drive to Bloomington for Planet Fitness fresh-shit-in-the-air showers?

I’m feeling more tired in the way that has nothing to do with the physical. I watch as too-driven Hussain tells me he’s not sleeping and repeats “this has to work” with regard to the counseling business because he, like all of us, has his own debt and bills to pay. I gripe about 2 to 4 paychecks of debt as I spend freely to rock out and laugh, he’s 200K for school, has a mortgage, and a wife with a decent desire to spend. He said recently that he was experiencing heart trouble as he’s constantly stressed out and arguing with the school or companies he works for. He’s like me when I started the coffee shop thinking 20 steps and years ahead, and letting what hasn’t happened act as a weight or unrealistic anchor on the future.

I feel like I’ve never really wanted anything that complicated. Before I had the opportunity to be infinitely humbled, I just wanted to work. I wanted to work and get recognized and rewarded for all the work I was doing. School led me to believe that grades indicated something special or important, saying nothing about the safety it afforded me at home. When I thought I had a friend group, the goal was time together. That turned into an endless series of resentments. In relationships I feel myself occupying that “How can I help?” roll, whether it’s spending money, physically working on something, or just there to listen indefinitely to what most often amounts to a problem that’s not going to get fixed. I don’t know what to trust most of the time, and it’s leaving me very disoriented and dispirited.

Work ethic doesn’t mean just or persistent reward. It means exhaustion, exploitation, or maybe hurting yourself. When you connect with so many “friends” you have to run that experiment for 20 years before you maybe luck out and find ones who haven’t succumbed to their mental health disorders or fallen in with all manner of crazy on planet Also-Alone while left to their own devices.

What was the point? I find myself constantly asking. I look at all the crap I have in my little house. What was the point of buying these books I’m not reading? Why do I have a sewing machine? Why do I have 4 guitars and seven other instruments? I have woodworking equipment I’ve never opened. I have cooking tools I’ve used once or twice. I’m existing in this persistent fantasy where these are all tools I’m able to use in a consistent and convenient way. You know, the future where I’m meal prepping and have counter space and water that’s more water than copper silt. The future where I’m playing my instruments with nothing on my mind than the subtle differences I need to make to get my fingers right and next set of chords memorized. The future where I’ve loaded up on sewing material and spent all day watching videos until I start making custom bags and pockets for the crap I have.

Instead, I’m watching TV. And even with that, I’m not getting all of the episodes renamed so I can continue to build my channels and lists. I’ve gotten so far, and am watching what I’ve gotten. As though completing the task would leave me with too arduous of things to do next and I want it lying in wait as an excuse. You know how I bought a weighted-keys piano? Just so I could learn “A Thousand Miles” about 90% correctly, forget most of it 3 weeks later, and now stare at the piano literally at my feet as I occasionally turn it on to confirm it’s still plugged in and ready to go.

I’m sick. I’m stuck. I’m floundering, hard. I made it real and started flying around to see shows. Oh, shit, well I confirmed that airplanes exist, people are people wherever you go, and you’re gambling if you fly cheap. I’m incredibly happy and thankful I can do and say that, but it’s only a small part of the puzzle. I think people go the other direction and try to make their families or their jobs account for the whole of their puzzle. No one’s got money or time to come with me to the show most often, but they’ve got all the family time, talk, and obligations you could ever ask for. They don’t need me as a friend in the same way that I don’t need a hug from the kids I don’t have.

Maybe I’m an addict. I must be addicted to something that persistently finds the runaround discussion about what I should or could be doing, but can’t seem to be invested and intentional about changing.

[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.

[1021] Tribe

I did absolutely nothing to prepare myself for getting back into “work mode” after my trip to Phoenix, so now I’m finding it a bit of a struggle to pull it together to knock out my handful of tasks. I had many times I wished to write in the last few days. The last several times I’ve written it registered as annoying and wasting time and effort repeating myself. A few major themes arose this time though I wish to explore. A general recounting of the trip I also want recorded.

Again, I found myself on a plane. It felt a little less “enlightening” or “liberating” and more “routine” than the one earlier. Flying is fascinating every time, but like all things, you can habituate and take for granted what’s happening. I needed to get to several somewheres for this trip, driving wasn’t going to cut it, so quick trip across the country, and now I’m back home.

“Tribes” came to mind. Bill Maher talks a lot about the tribal nature of the country and our politics, but I don’t know that I let it sink in as deeply as it felt on this trip. We want to belong so deeply. I was listening to some of the people’s conversations around me, and it’s always striking when they talk about the band members like they’re friends. They just use their first names like they’re talking about a brother. They talk about their lives as though they aren’t experiencing them through Instagram updates. There’s this deep connection, seemingly less about whatever band, than just the desire to feel like these people are representing something much more than themselves through their music.

When we talk about “politics” and whether or not our message is “inclusive” enough, I think we somehow completely miss the notion of the tribal identity. Who feels like they belong in the narrative around speech policing and identity games? It’s eggshells and resentment. You know what resonates with tribe members? I, me, mine. “Protecting” whatever abstract notion of things like “freedom” or “the unborn” that you can slap the designator on. Anger and hatred are felt across all tribe members no matter what their political compass might tilt towards. Who do you really feel is on your team? Who’s angry at the same things you are?

Do you know your enemy? When we’re trying to explore what or whether it’s worth getting angry about, things get complicated because we’re not taught to look for a soup of causation. There are many ingredients in the mix that speak to the overall taste and expression. If you want to be indefinitely incensed by abstract “isms” and “ists” you’ll never get to the heart of your issues. If you want to bemoan “poverty” or “injustice” or “inequality” you’re not giving people the specific tools to address how it’s manifesting, not just in their lives, but as a measure of their perception of their lives.

A poor person who grows up poor doesn’t think they’re poor. A rich person who grew up rich doesn’t think they’re selfish and entitled. Dumb people don’t think they’re dumb. Hippies don’t think they smell. It’s never enough to offer soap, “educate,” bemoan what’s “fair,” or talk in terms of a “minimum wage” when it’s all an infinitely abstract and individualized series of perceptional markers. “Hate?” “Hope?” Those win elections. You personally hate or hope for things. You get on the ground and validate, you win.

I don’t care how similar your experience sounds to someone else’s you experience it in the confines of your individual mind. You can get help in how to identify similar trail markers or environmental stimuli, but you have to recognize and choose to walk the path yourself. If you have a strong notion or set of experiences and evidence to suggest how people find that path, your wisdom and insight means nothing if you can’t recognize the nature of the road they’re currently on.

I saw Mest, Zebrahead, and Unwritten Law. The venue was excellent if only because the doors were opened between sets to cool down the room. The crowd was energetic and respectful. There were mosh pits, crowd surfing, free things thrown and collected. I had good tacos at the restaurant portion of the venue. I was first in line, front and center at the stage, and I got there, to the AirBnb, and the airport in timely and safe ways. I had breakfast at an award-winning nationally recognized spot. I got to familiarize myself with a bit of downtown Phoenix and Tempe. It’s about as good of a trip as you could ask for.

I then came up against the ambivalence and disregard of Frontier Airlines. I’m still embroiled in what will almost certainly be a civil suit for the return of $200 they’ve effectively stolen from me. I come off a great trip with a 10+ hour delay keeping me stuck in the Phoenix airport, overpaying to eat, and searching for a way to stay comfortable and plugged in until my flight that was supposed to arrive at 12:30 in the afternoon now ensures I’ll get home at 11:30 PM. I had a decent amount I planned to get done that day, all still pending and contributing to the mental backlog that is preventing me from moving on to my work obligations. The stress of the situation was 5% being made to wait, and 95% the attitude and posture of Frontier.

My tribal principals regarding what’s fair and who should be accountable have been violated. I’m not driven through a persistent uncontrollable rage to try and get my money back, and were I to “let it go,” when I don’t need or want to would functionally enable the continued taking advantage. I didn’t eat enough yesterday, given my wonky schedule and headspace, so combined with the stress of arguing with Frontier, I started getting light-headed and feeling generally “off.” I forgot my keyboard at work, and even drove to work in the first place intending to use the many hours before my first group to do everything I’m hoping to achieve when I get done writing today.

I have the practice and self-awareness to know when, and over what, it’s worth calling it quits. I sent $150 to a guy whose shitty car I was going to buy. He’s poor, excuse-making, and full of shit. I tried, nominally, for a month or so to politely explore how he might return the money for the car that was sent to the junk yard and never received. It’s extremely unlikely I’m getting that money back, and weeks ago I deleted the chat bubble on facebook that was our only means of communicating. That’s a different kind of stupid and impoverished situation. He doesn’t know how poor and dumb he is, nor how badly he smells. I knew I was gambling. I’ve heard the song he was singing from hundreds of similarly situated clients over the years.

The second we stopped bothering to police ourselves in service to the wrong kind of entitled and selfish claims or ownership and self-expression is when we forgot how to dutifully and justifiably punish the obviously objectionable. It’s most frequently a story of “they did” verses “I can.” It’s reflexive and fluid. “He manipulated me! They control the narrative! They’re the ones with the most power!” As though you don’t have a brain or agency. Well, you don’t. You’ve donated it to the dialogue that keeps you disenfranchised and at the lack of mercy from whatever’s not really thinking about you in the first place.

Wherever you go, you can overhear a conversation about a person’s sports team. Mest is from Chicago, and their lead singer spoke of the Bears’ first draft pick for doing so terribly. He’s as much in his punk-rock tribe as he is his sports team’s tribe. The bouncers were discussing the fate of, I forget what teams were competing in the playoffs, but I think they were close enough to Phoenix. The trivia nerds playing on the patio outside of the venue overwhelmingly answered that Larry Bird played for The Lakers. We’re constantly indicating what tribes we do and don’t belong to. Even when we’re wholly not part of it, we know which one is closest or what we’d default to if cornered. We’re disinclined to access that which unites independent of our familiarity or preferences.

I wish I had a bigger tribe. I wish I had more in common with people than where we were from or that we saw the same TV show. I wish I had people who I could dedicate my effort to enabling and they were inclined to reciprocate. Instead, we all generally get walled off into our own worlds. I’m not downplaying or denying the impact the friends and connections I have in my life, but I see it in our dynamics as well. I’m very lucky to ever get someone on board to come to a show. I’m almost never called to come join whatever someone else is doing. They’re either not doing anything, or we’re just not in that kind of tribe, if we’re really in one altogether. I’m not suggesting they aren’t “maintaining their family” or “defending their stability and status quo,” but I talk to enough people in a regular way who make literally no time for themselves to enjoy, indulge, decompress, or even acknowledge there’s a world beyond the bounds of their stress and obligations. I would literally invite everyone I remotely liked to everything I ever do, just as I did with the party house. I’d be right back here whining about how they’re all too tired, busy, poor, or more into “their tribe’s music” to enjoy anything about the show we might head to.

People in my tribe might be kind of bored if invited to a football game, but would recognize an opportunity to drink more or make funny comments, people watch, and spend time with their friend. People in my tribe are looking to build and experience. That’s the prevailing character trait of Hussain, Byron, and Hatsam. They’ve contributed to growth and building things up or creating something new. Where others talk, they do, or did. You make the best of the ongoing shit sandwich of life or your options. You acknowledge the absurdity, dig that much deeper, and come out mangled but self-assured about what you’re capable of. I can walk to the top of mountains. My former tribe apparently plagued by the idea of how I must not be enjoying myself.

What are you using your tribes for? To self-validate like a basic politician getting you to agree to what you already agree with and stay blind to the consequences of their votes? Does your desire to belong lead you down paths that I tripped all over in trying to befriend the wrong characters? Do you pretend your favorite team or band feels connected to you and your details like you might in hoarding and reciting information about them? You’re just a person first, and they’re just a player. Are you capable of recognizing what they’re playing? Are you willing to see what you’re playing at?

[1020] Missed You

I hope I can take my time with this. I had a lot of fun and helpful ideas on the drive home, but I don’t know that I’ll recall them all. First one is easy. I’m allowing myself to use the word “hope” again. I haven’t found a good substitute, and I think I’m aware enough to not allow hopes and dreams to supersede any amount of work it would actually take to get something. I think I’m fundamentally a hopeful person, but that always felt like a kind of shameful notion. Fuck hope, work. Why bother hoping if you can do? And then as you pay attention to so many things you can’t do anything to help or fix, the desire for them no less antagonizes, and you’re hopeful, if not still helpless.

I almost posted a tipsy status saying something like, “I want to do big things.” It’s a stupid statement. It’s the first pass of an idea, vague, nonsensical, and empty for its very “hopeful” sensibility not backed by any tangible commitment or sacrifice. I felt like it bubbled up as a reminder. I want to make a discernible impact on the whole of experience. I want to shift “things” and demonstrate an awareness or capability with power that you can measure independent of opinions. That hasn’t stopped being true no matter the seemingly infinite series of humbling scenarios I’m meant to swallow with regard to my budget, time, or energy.

There’s a chance for a role at work to be fully remote. I want it, but of course I don’t. I want it so bad that I continue to work to create my own business, again. What kind of “exotic” locales could I be in while I conduct my groups? How much “freer” would I feel if I could literally plan to spend more time with friends located much farther than 20 minutes from me? I bet I spend less on gas to and from the airport with $9 a day parking than I do driving to bumfuck Bedford.

Today has been weird. I haven’t felt anxious in a bit. Once I figured out it was my righteous “fuck you” impulse that spoke to my difficulty doing “easy” notes for work, I pretty much mellowed out. Then, ex-girlfriend comes back into the picture, and I’ve just been off. It’s not even confusing or complicated to me, but I’m in this observer state. I don’t feel seen by her. The last time I reached out, I was admonished, and it was made clear to me that if there was going to be any kind of “friendship” going forward, it was going to be on her terms and at her pace. Umm, great, but friendship is an exchange. What do you have to give to the person who can’t see you?

She suggested we walk around a trail at the dam near my house. I’m tired, don’t give a fuck about trails, it’s cold, and I’ve been less than adequately active for months. It felt like an analogy for our dynamic on the whole. I was just along for the ride. She spent a year or so discovering more about herself and finding the capacity to apologize. Cool, good for her. It has nothing to do with me. You want to spend time with me and have a “low key” or chill environment? Come bowing or let’s get food. That would suggest you have a remote inclination about what I’m into or would put me more at ease with you.

And I could just say “no.” I could just be like, look, I don’t trust you, I’m not angry at you, but you don’t make me feel good and I don’t want to have a dumb forever non-conversation about what it takes to look and feel like a friend, but I appreciate your effort or the direction you feel you’re trending. What does that get me? I couldn’t begin to pretend to understand how that might register to her. So, instead, I’ll be tired and complicit in my own caricature, walking along the forest path small-talking like I’ve recovered from the severe blow to my hopes and dreams come back to manifest as a perhaps more self-aware ex who confidently dictates the means by which we might relate.

Whatever.

I both enjoy and am a touch worried about how much I’ve learned to shut the fuck up and let things go. I’m literally too old. I’m 34. I really don’t need to say anything most of the time. I’ve seen it before. I see you coming. I’m not lacking in confidence or direction. I’m not an insecure or proud know-nothing powering through idyllic fantasies. I just want to hang out, build some shit, laugh, watch my shows, and not entertain too deeply the thought that were my plane to go down, I’d be getting off easy.

I’m taking more planes. I’m barely in less debt than I normally am, and I’m being way more deliberate about booking the flight, getting the place to stay, and just manifesting that “do shit and see people” ethos I wanted to be at 10 years ago. I don’t care about the debt. Even if I have money in the bank, I’m still in debt. There will always be utility bills and property taxes. I’ll always have to eat. My car…is a car, and I have 3 of them. So, debt? Oh well, at least I visited wherever, saw the band or friend, and get to talk about it again in whatever blog comes next.

I’ve been refreshing myself on different philosophers lately too. So many seemingly concerned with finding the best ways to live and think about things. Meta questioners by default mostly folding their arms after a quasi-circular reasoned thing registers as a novel way to state the obvious by the onlookers.

It's two days later.

I’ve been listening to Philosophize This! segments. I’m reminded in simplified ways that the vast majority of remotely “novel” insights I’ve ever infused into my perspective are pieces of what stuck from classes in college or reading. Each philosopher answering and undermining and substituting their words and versions to help explain just what it is we’re made of and why we bother.

I’m here at the beginnings of the last couple days where faint anxiety has started to creep back in. For a while there I was pretty smooth, working out why notes were such a chore and resolving myself to work at my own pace and/or in advance. My stomach still drops a little at the prospect of working each day, but it registers as an insult to the idea of suffering to bother mentioning it (over and over and over again). I feel bad I missed my friend’s text. Part of me heard my phone 2 hours ago, but a larger portion of me was in my own head. I put on a cheesy movie from 2002 and proceeded to play with sewing a pair of pants I’ve been saving for several years for repair because they fit so well. They deserve a person who actually knows how to sew or with the patience to watch more Youtube videos.

I tried to go to the gym today. My body was reaching that odd state of discomfort that knows it needs to be pushed in a way that I haven’t in a while. I thought I had the clothes packed and discovered otherwise in the parking lot. My plan was to use the energy working out tends to give me to come home and work some notes in advance. I act as if I’m not going to be up until 2 or 3 anyway. I’ve been fighting the temptation to maximize a level of debt to spur myself into more movement. At bottom, I know I need to move, I just rarely seem to identify what that’s supposed to look like each day.

For all of the different schools of thought and means of describing the same restless-human-syndrome, I find myself drawn towards the “everything at once” and “all is connected” sensibility. I think it’s why writing persuades me in a persistent way that it’s actually working at doing something. It’s an analogy for the perpetual process. The words can be infinitely translated and reinterpreted. Every time I return to them, they mean something just a hair different to me than they did before. They’re an embodied “form,” mathematically described, yet perfectly abstract and inaccessible until you activate your machinery for determining meaning. It really is a fascinating “thing.” When I’m dead, they get to act as different reincarnations. In summary of everything I’ve written, you might gather I’m rather angry and don’t like jobs.

It’s the next day.

I’ve just gotten off another dumb interaction in the world of sales. I find it fascinating there are people who have been in business for decades selling crap to idiots with cliches and soulless imploring who don’t have the persuasive skill and coherence I intuited at 15 fucking up your credit with Target red cards. I’m too sharp a weapon, man. I need to take your kids or go at 35 felons at once. I recognize my capacity to make “instant-friends.” Why can’t I get introduced to ones with money or influence lol? Is there truly nothing of value that needs introduced to someone who could use it? It’s always got to get gross and kinda forced or hidden under the corporate-speak that doesn’t let you engage with thoughts about how you’ve abused their ignorance or sold your soul?

I have to end this thing at some point. This week already feels incredibly long and I have a party I was invited to Thursday, Louis C.K. Sunday, and didn’t realize I’m off on Monday. I’m caught up on notes.

I say often how I’m lied to dozens of times a day. I think people mistake this as though I feel I’m somehow on the receiving end of deliberate attempts at deception. No no, it’s the colloquial language lies. It’s body language lies. It’s professed standards and competencies with no discernable measurement or distinction worthy of holding. I’m awash in lies and they make me extremely sensitive to when there are attempts to cajole me with them. I find commercials often psychologically tortuous. I hear on repeat the “wrong” word like “opportunity” you’re calling the cold-calling bait-n-switch “sales” job. Your acronyms and mission statements mean nothing to me. All the hyper-insisted upon “I’m sorry” “I don’t know” and “good luck” sentiments fogging your mind and air.

If I’m a philosophical cliché in being ever-restless and striving to individuate or manifest my power as described in dozens of works and religious traditions, so be it, but whatever I’m after I’m wholly convinced is impossible to achieve while under the spell of so much bullshit. If nothing else, no matter how obscure what it means to exist may be, you don’t do it better lying. You don’t do it better calling those lies “pretending” or “professional” or “mature” or anything that helps conceal and disguise the intention to hide.

[1019] No Accounting For Taste

Oh boy, I’m back home. I wasn’t gone for terribly long, but long enough to register the contrast between feeling perpetually “stuck” and “waiting” otherwise engaged in responsibilities and less-than-fulfilling thoughts and exercising the illusion of freedom with a friend over drinks, mini golf, and delicious food.

I come home to a stained bathroom. I broke the handle on my sink faucet when it was frozen before I left. When it got warm, eruptive chaos ensued. It appeared to Byron who came upon the mess that the flow of water was dangerously close to the space heater I had running in an attempt to ensure the cats’ water stayed unfrozen. I get to imagine whether it would have simply shorted out and blown a breaker, or burned everything down.

 

The GFCI outlet that popped, wisely insisted upon by Jim, housed the series of extensions that power my refrigerator. It was off long enough to have many sticky things melt, leaving a mess that I haven’t even entertained the thought of when to bother addressing. The spewing water drenched the cat food and isn’t suitable to drink, so today I’ve been finding puke and shit leaks on various parts of the floor. It’s all feeling a little Final Destination-y.

 

My friend Brandy in Orlando is perhaps the easiest person I can talk to about an array of topics that have nothing to do with social work. I had to pause several times and point out how much I appreciated that we were able to talk about shows we’ve seen or when music and musicians have found us at different periods in our lives. She’s a doctor and teacher, so I got insight into college students from freshman through grad school, as well as university politics. We fluidly made reference to dozens of authors, speakers, thinkers, and creatives and didn’t miss a beat with those awkward dead/polite faces you catch from people who don’t independently seek out new information or interesting things to learn about.

 

She’s one of those people who are so smart it’s easy to feel crazy and ask yourself too many “how” and “why” questions because you can’t quite wrap your head around the general ignorance and depravity of the world you’re made to navigate. We’re able to speak freely regarding our relationships and perspectives and how to pragmatically achieve greater happiness and stability. She’s as powerful an example as I could have asked for as far as reminders that we’re never really stuck, and when you’re willing to assess and move on your situation, you can do an immense amount of work, emotional or otherwise, in short order.

 

It’s New Years Eve. We’re prompted to think about the past year and what we want going forward. I want more structure. I am in less debt than I was last year. I am in an easier job. I’ve got more things already bought and on the menu book wise and by way of entertainment. I’ve got more things to fix and pay for regarding my home environment, and a more concerted effort to tackle them. The things I’m doing by way of indulgence still register with a degree of superficiality. That is, it’s great that I can afford the concert, but I’m still in regular need of Byron’s or Planet Fitness’s shower. I bought a car off Hussain that added another 2 weeks to my “have to work” narrative. My health insurance is about avoiding fines, not insuring health.

 

I put together a list of people to cold-call regarding looking for clients. It’s 800+ numbers long. Flying from Indianapolis to Orlando, it was another nice visceral reminder of just how many people there are. Thousands you can see at once along highways. City-centers lit up. Every single person is a world unto themselves and they are connected to everyone else in big and small ways in an infinitely changing and dynamic landscape. I thought to myself about the power and impact of music and celebrity when I looked over the landscape. How many of those little dots have never heard of Adam Sandler or Tom Hanks? If I blasted “We Are the Champions” from the plane, I bet everyone could sing along. There’s a universality that you can bolster your behavior with to access that which connects everything. It’s why fascism will always be an option. “Hate” transcends every little point of light. The work you can do with the ambiguity towards the unknown remains the same.

 

In the span of a few hours I went from a beautiful day with great company and an excellent meal to the rain and gray and psychological trappings of Florida’s insecure twin, Indiana. Florida has all of the same stores, but also higher-end and better ones. It has the same people, but the crazy is more diverse. You need distance from what you’re used to as often as you can get it. The things that need to remain true and what you’re really after need to shine brightly and be just as obvious to you as it should be to clean up where the cat took a shit outside the box.

 

I know who and what I want to trust and why. I know that if I’ve been led to hell through someone else’s negligence, ambivalence, or malice, it wasn’t because I lead with a judgmental or spiteful attitude in my attempt to connect or build. The friends who I can continue to engage in the mutually assuring and uplifting exchange massively outweigh the baggage of the ones who can’t be bothered. It’s a state of perpetual mourning when you think about how vital that is to your well-being and how callously it’s been rendered mute or worthy of resentment.

 

I’ve never wanted to be the person who’s like, “I’ve got A-level friends, B-level friends….” Etc. I’ve discussed being “on the level,” to be sure, but that’s about an awareness and capacity more than how much or whether I want to bother with you as an individual. I clearly don’t need friends where we have much in common besides work or a shared disposition even if I’ve been starving for years to talk to another encyclopedia. I’m going to keep doing things. I’m going to try to return to a kind of deliberate enthusiasm for more grindy type of things that will hopefully make me feel more stable.

 

It occurred to me that I had the energy, and probably still do, to give and receive from considerably more than most are prepared to. This analysis prompted some by the various pathologies associated with those in the poly community. I don’t “need” anything I’m unwilling to work in order to achieve for myself. I’ll fly or drive to the friends that are worth it. I have an incredibly robust understanding of the character traits I respect and need to see reciprocated in order to thrive. I draw a deep and resounding enthusiasm from the opportunity to spend time with them. That’s not something to be squandered and begged for. That’s not something to be afraid and ashamed of as though some petty slight or pithy detail, floating above so many ant-like figures from a plane, should be the governing rule.

 

What I can’t fix, at least yet, is people recognizing for themselves the same potential freedom and what the work looks like to orient as though you’re not at the mercy of your circumstances. You’re too busy? You’re too tired? You don’t have the money? If you’re reading this, you have at least one friend who has the proclivity to create worlds where the opposite is true. But what’s that really mean if you’re not friend enough to yourself to even recognize what’s being offered?

[1018] Eat Equals Valuate

I had a one-off thought a moment ago; I want to see where it goes. We’re not supposed to rank and judge people. It’s as robust an ingratiated cultural sentiment as you could ask for. If you’re religious, we’re all sinners, it’s an equal playing field that you will eventually reap what you’ve sown. We establish laws that are, very theoretically, supposed to give us a chance to evaluate and discern the guilt or innocence of someone through an indifferent lens. We’ve infused our conversational landscape with language that tries to understand people not so much as a measure of their choices, but conditioned behavior as a result of their environment or trauma. We do this unironically as we cheer for our teams to win, celebrate records broken, and seek endless opportunities to passionately self-actualize.

A certain shame has gotten attached to regarding yourself or your achievements as something worthy of distinction. You seemingly can’t be “better” more than you’re part of an infinite sea of “different.” I think this is a significantly more powerful influence than we give it credit for.

As I think about how or whether I’m able to “counsel” someone, I’m up against personal and cultural forces. Part of what allows me to not take things personally is my awareness of how many things are working against some ideal “progressing” state as it pertains to the management of emotions or addiction. If, just like in the movement to cease “body shaming,” we’ve drifted so far away from the facts, ethics, or truthful acknowledgement of what distinguishes a positive or healthy direction, the conversation gets stuck in a loop of disingenuous self-gratifying, but ultimately unhelpful, notions.

I’m constantly judging and evaluating both myself and the people I’m made to engage with. It’s the thing I tried to consciously suspend in service to “friendship,” thinking my otherwise manipulative nature would unfairly reduce their agency or be “unfair” to the dynamic. I tried to do the exact opposite of what we seem to crave. We want “our spouse” and “my children” and “best friends” and so many other distinctions by way of trophies, certificates, or sobriety chips. Maybe we just want to do “better” than yesterday. Maybe we want to hold the value in ourselves today we couldn’t recognize while overwhelmed and enmeshed in drama, insecurity, or naivety.

Judging, and knowing how far your judgment can or can’t go, is a measure of wisdom. I know, forever and always, I’m just one person with one small window into the world. I have the language I was born with, the people who have influenced me, and the tools I hope I can understand and utilize to help myself or others. I’m never right just because I was the first to say it, loudest, or only one to bother to keep speaking. The moment I get something even half right, new information can swoop in to humble or disprove. This is my running license to speak with confidence or assertiveness, without a defensive ego that needs whatever I’m saying to be the “most true” or somehow infallible an inaccessible to your judgement.

If you don’t operate by the same principles, you’re always going to be afraid to speak. You’re going to seek out friendly company so you don’t have to defend yourself, or repeat the incomplete and incoherent place you’re coming from until it feels as disorienting to you as it’s made someone else. I was reading a comment from an old friend on a blog who filled her response with what I would describe as cliché and empty truisms regarding “human nature,” and a lot of empty speculating catastrophizing if anything but her narrative was to prove true. I’m thankful any time someone has the balls to comment (I do implore you often), but just like I open myself up in sharing these, you get opened as well. It’s enjoyable to me to organize the weeds, you often think I’m threatening or arguing with you I guess in bad faith.

I think it’s better to act like me. I think it’s better to try and get more refined in where you’re coming from. One of my members, a better one, who should probably taper and find a program more appropriate for her level of work and awareness, told me she wished she could phrase things like me. She thinks the same things, often enough, but can’t find herself relaying them like she routinely hears during our group. I reminded her that if I’ve come to speak to anything with any remote coherence, I’ve probably written about it dozens of times. Most of where I’m coming from is bred in these pages exploring the minutia of my experience or single sentences that stick and I stay curious as to why. I’d rather look stupid and un-informed with a positive learned-from failure mindset than find myself dying on so many hills.

We’re not equal. I think a lot of “conservatives” run with that idea without the wisdom and lack of ego. Their deepest sense of inequality isn’t in their wealth or faith, it’s their insecurity. They know one step outside the bounds of their insular environment undermines their entire identity. What’s “country livin’’” in New York? The naked cowboy caricature. It’s a thousand cookie-cutter songs referencing beer and your truck. Yellowstone is a romance with melodramatic sentimentality oozing through God’s country like a spring you’d die to defend from a commercial development. It’s a stolen valor and deliberate downplaying of the historical and circumstantial reasons behind your so-called success or station in life.

A whole language develops to dog-whistle and code to draw out the class and culture distinctions in terms of pride and nobility instead of merit, measurement, or material impact. The faithful have numbers! Don’t get me wrong, and money flows everywhere within the confines of the flock. It’s the same condition of the radicalized Lefist. Moral pontificating steps in for data. Self-righteous “safety” is sought instead of accountability. It’s the same insecurity, same ego, and same underlying fear that how you think and feel isn’t up to snuff, or isn’t worth acknowledgement from those whom you think have the power.

Whether or not we internalize and warp our self-conception based on other’s judgments is a difficult choice to discover. And, regardless, we’re feeling the impact of their judgment. It’s certainly been decided that I’m not someone worth talking to by the vast majority of people I would have at one point considered myself closest to. I am generally alone and not in conversation with “old friends,” after all. There’s an infinite list of reasons and excuses why, but we can be confident it’s not because I *haven’t* been evaluated as not meaningfully contributing to how you would prefer to converse about and understand your life or feel during the day. You’re judging. On the basis of, and in service to what, one hopes leads to serving more than taking, but I doubt it.

For what it’s worth, I don’t feel as though I’m particularly “better” at anything that I’m not practicing, and more to the point, with intention and to the best of my ability and awareness, than anyone else. I’m better at emotional regulation and mindfulness because I write, and that, combined with the whole host of failures regarding healthcare, is why I get to occupy the role of “counselor” and people are willing to exploit my capacity to pay themselves considerably more than they ever will me. I’m not an addict, or depressed, or anxious to the point of interrupting my ability to lead the life I want, or otherwise impaired disproportionately internally against conditions externally. I think I’m better at evaluating feedback and incorporating many disparate threads of information. Tests tell me I have the general intelligence to occupy almost any role I choose to put my mind towards, and I try to keep myself from getting complacent around what I “know” verses what I can lend evidence towards.

It’s been my persistent desire to find people who help enable and round-out what I do and don’t have. When I reflect on past relationships, I think the average person would colloquially say something like, “I couldn’t make them feel loved/special/beautiful” etcetera, and retreat to a commitment to make more overt displays of affection to a future partner. But this side-steps any conversation about whether anyone, including yourself, can feel loved, special, or beautiful independent of their partner. This acts like the dynamic isn’t being driven by mutual insecurity verses mutual appreciation or exchange; as though one person could be expected to account for everything missing or tell anything but a one-sided story.

I want you to trust your judgement. I want you to like yourself in a way that let’s you see and talk about the same things I try to. I want you to judge yourself accurately. I think I’m lost and stuck and lazy and wanting for a deeper connection to something meaningful or transcendent. I won’t allow that feeling to let me glom on to mythological thinking, whatever group happens to be closest, shitty familiar “friends” or coworkers, or a dialogue dripping in faux pride and moral certainty. I’m not going to pretend to like things I don’t or ever decide to “fit in.” I can’t go back, right? I can’t start lying to myself or you. I can’t unsay the things that informed your judgment. I can continue to ask if you think yours is better than mine, and what that means for either of us.

[1017] Sweet Nothings

Oh wow, it’s that rare morning blog because I fell asleep at 6PM yesterday and have therefore been up since about 2AM. I need to rush this and get moving as I still work today and get to see The Punch Brothers and Bela Fleck this evening.

Yesterday, two of my clients were in crisis. This is one way of describing their negative experience that was imploring me to help or fix. One seemed to be flirting with suicide after his recent relapse doubled-over on itself the last few weeks, causing his wife to leave him. The other was in a horrific accident, breaking several bones and requiring multiple surgeries and plates to repair. Both have been without their medication.

When I said recently that I didn’t know what I was built for, I can’t recall if I alluded to working the sensitive power dynamics of DCS, but the situations that arose today are analogous. People, literally begging, me to be the only one who can help them. You stay patient as they cuss. You hear the hopelessness and exhaustion in their voice. You find the words to downplay the insistence that they consider you a “friend.” You make sure to not enable the self-pitying dialogue that feeds escalation.

And on an entirely different level, I’m just turned off by the whole thing. The frustration I think a lot of people have with addicts is that, when times aren’t so dramatic and out of control, the actual work of getting better gets ignored. Then, a crisis hits, and it’s not just bad, but it’s almost perfectly situated to target and try to tear down those who are trying to help. No one can do the work for you, and sometimes the work is finding the civility to suffer as though you have any respect for how you can make others do so.

I feel angry when people who have, seemingly dozens of reasons, to better themselves or push and try harder, fall off quicker than I might in service to something “dumb” or “simple” like amassing “fuck you” points or engaging in some other form of indulgence. The amount of effort and energy it takes to be a dramatic whirlwind of chaos that sucks everyone else up into you would be impressive if it weren’t a disaster.

This is where I think people so unfairly pigeon-holed me in describing my “negativity” years ago. What did I do with all of my negative commentary or sentiment? Show up, work, build, and look for a way out. I invited the conversation still no one wishes to have. I didn’t destroy myself with an eye towards bringing you down with me. I say a fair amount of forlorn and angsty despotic things, but I hold no genuine pity for myself or situation until I’m incredibly sick. I’m always looking for the way out, the joke, or the opportunity to genuinely address or fix whatever the problem is.

And I don’t know how to conceive of that propensity as anything more than a choice first. If an addict is simply someone who can’t conceive of themselves as making choices, it’s perhaps more innocent when the behavior reaches aberrantly destructive and hateful places. One then must wonder if they are capable of choosing their apologies, choosing the occupations under which to work themselves to death, or choosing to “reduce harm” in signing up for a program that has a remote chance of obligating them towards practices that enable mindful choices.

The “saints” and “I couldn’t do what you do-ers are hailed for their patience and compassion. There’s a routine “thank you for your service” kind of pageantry when people learn that you’re in counseling or other forms of social work. People know, deeply, how much they’re their own kind of addict or infinite excuse-making and selfish being, and that core belief prompts a reflexive burst of “thank you!” or “good on ya!” guilt management system response. So many in the field have been victimized themselves, and whether they actually know how to or not, they want to prevent others from going through what they had to, or give them tools that worked for them.

But there’s a mismatch. People have to go through, in a most important sense, things alone. You have to discover what it means and feels like to choose something. You have to own your pain and feelings. The “tools” for doing so manifest as you exercise the incorporative and corrective behavior. I’m practicing patience and processing and “coping with anger” as I write this. Waves of calm or resolution wash over me when I finish something that needed said. When I want to break, I say so, and like “magic” that breaking point turns into fuel for the spite engine or clarity that allows me to go eat or start my day.

This is work. This is at least the 1,017^th time I’ve worked on my patience, anger, angst, judgmental attitude, and perspective that makes me want to burn everything down and pretend something “new” is in fact that or worthwhile. I don’t just recognize there’s a difference between my mirror-neurons reaction and my choices, I’m literally practicing the differentiated nature of my being as I type.

The social work field is a place where you have to exist in the suspended state of your uneven clients. They don’t know who they are or what they’re capable of. They have strong conceptions of what they can destroy, lie about, or how power can only work against them. And you have to press right up against them and whisper about the thousand competing narratives and opportunities every moment a mere choice away. When they swing so wildly the opposite direction, it’s hard not to think less of them than you might your pet. What kind of wild animal doesn’t just charge its caretaker, but does so as a matter of routine or pride? What kind of animal kills itself?

How many of you have occupied a role in which people have begged you? I remember begging my mom not to gut my stuffed-animal friend. I associate that level of helplessness with one of the most severe trauma-inducing moments of my life. I was also like 4 or 5, and the argument about how helpless I genuinely was could hold up. Is that what these situations ask of me? Am I to reduce people to helpless children in how I conceive of what I might do to “help?” Does that not feel incredibly perverse or egotistical?

No one resolved my situation but me. I talked about it. I joked about it. I wrote about it until I no longer had an emotional response when thinking about it. I feel the hollowness and echo of how cold the world can be, and arm myself with the knowledge that it’s there and ready for when I need it. I don’t operate from a place that everyone I meet is ready to kill me or my friends. I don’t pretend like isolated horrors tell a comprehensive story of my being or humanity. This, again, begs the question of what to make of any individual’s awareness and approach to their addiction or “addiction” broadly as a concept.

I conceive of most people as addicted to bullshit. They can’t help but abscond with the truth; they do it fluidly and reflexively. They lie like they breathe and then lie about others’ ability to see it. They’re addicted to silence. It’s the first clue you’re full of shit when you can’t talk about everything right or wrong with you. Or, more insidiously, you only talk about what’s wrong with you as deep cover for bullshitting yourself about the responsibility you won’t take to do better. The endless rehearsed reiteration of all the past drama gets stuck on repeat. “The only reason” you do this or that pretending to be reasonable. I feel most powerful in the moments you betray how full of shit you are, and it’s why I have almost no respect for authority. It’s incredibly rare to hear someone talk with measured qualifying statements verses proud pontificating of “the rules” or their righteousness letting ignorant dictums do the work instead of practicing accountability.

I hate conceiving of the positive things my clients tell me as lies. It’s annoying to hear “I really think you make a difference” from someone contemplating suicide 2 days later. I don’t want to be texted “Why the fuck did I leave the house just to not get help” from someone 2 hours ago saying “I’m glad it’s you who called me.” I’m over the, “You seem like you actually care!” sentiments from people who don’t seem to care about themselves. That is, they don’t practice the things I tell them I do to care about myself and that we’ve learned scientifically can foster care and investment in yourself where you previously couldn’t. Jesus in Jesus Christ Superstar screaming in my head, “Save yourselves!”

[1016] After Ours

Don’t bother.

There’s the thought keeping me from writing. Don’t bother reiterating. Don’t bother wasting more hours of your life pretending you’ll arrive at some “conclusion.” It doesn’t matter. It’s not worth it. You don’t feel enough of anything to justify more empty words in service to your ingratitude and impatience. Fuck you, sit down, watch another one of your little TV shows. Clog your gut with more pink Starbursts.

I don’t want to be useless and mediocre. I think they go hand in hand. A thing that’s not useful for whatever it is you’re doing with it is, by definition “of only moderate quality; not very good.” “Moderate quality” seems like a contradiction. Are you having a quality time, or not? Or is “quality” one of those disguised useless terms that infuses the real description with nothing information? Is it a “quality” piece of clothing? Is it expensive? Is it keeping you warm, comfortable, or dry feel like the relevant pieces of information.

What is the “quality” of my experience? I just got home from a Straight No Chaser show. I’ve never been to an acapella show before. My first instinct on most acts I’ve seen online, confirmed ever more in person, is awkward Christian summer camp energy. Do you understand what I said? Did I have a “good’ time? Did I like the songs? I only knew a couple and I had no specific complaints. Would I see them again and again? Was it “worth the money?”

The whole of where my experience lies seems outside the realm of this line of questioning. I went for a small book’s worth of reasons, all of those and more will inform if and when I go again to them or any other band. I wanted to experience “something” remotely novel, affordable, and that would occupy my time I’m not otherwise in front of the TV, fast food window, or work environment.

Why am I parsing through an abstraction on awareness and time expenditure? I was asked by my boss if I’m “happy” working at Groups. This has caused me several days of ongoing mild panic. I genuinely want to “snap” at questions like that. I feel at once so many things. It’s, “Does baby have to boo boo?” from a doctor meant to be investigating a twisted bowel. It’s, “Live, Love, Laugh!” on the wall of the suicide hotline office. It’s limp. It’s pathetic. It’s shallow and shitty and fuck her for asking such a bold and fucking ridiculous question.

I got asked because I’ve been increasingly introduced into the drama between my office managers. I, again, drive an hour and a half at least once a week to sit in an office to do a remote job. I come face to face with overworked and underpaid secretaries who get regularly screamed at and threatened by our drug-addled population. As they get more burnt, it translates into how/whether they handle our people in professional ways. This spills over into whether anyone takes the program on the whole seriously, which they already have enough reason and ways to not do so anyway.

Am I happy about that? Do I like that my office managers’ leadership has deliberately and consistently removed herself from solving anything they’ve brought to her? Am I happy I waste gas and time driving to the office to plug into the failures and drama? Do I like working for a company paying me a fraction of what they’re billing my service for? Am I happy I have a schedule so scattered that I literally can’t be more efficient? Am I happy that I’m not challenged or driven to do anything but the bare minimum? I NEED MONEY! That is the only reason I have ever occupied any role ever. Money. Always. Whatever other perk or privilege is a thousand years removed from “money, please.” Happiness has NEVER factored into it. Am I stuck or placated? I’m probably still at the job. Am I out of debt? I find myself showing up, waking up, and shutting up. Fucking happy? You fucking cunt!

I’M NEVER FUCKING HAPPY. It’s probably a good summation as to why I don’t have friends. I’ll stick with the over-statement because it depicts a larger truth. I don’t want to be friends, colleagues, or concert-going with someone fucking miserable and oblivious enough to think any of this is about “happiness.”

I’m not happy bowling because I wish for more instruction and consistent practice. I’m not happy building on the land because I need more money, more time, and better weather. It’d be great if every time I took out the trailer a tire wasn’t flat. I’m not happy reading because I’m either learning more about what I can’t use or fix or feel like I’m mocking myself in trying to desperately “escape” whatever circumstance I’m in. I have so many books I’m genuinely interested in reading, and I can’t. They’re like my instruments. I don’t have the freedom. My mind is not available to “just play” or “just read.” I have to keep furiously scratching a compulsive itch to worry or reflect or mindlessly vibe through TV shows and Candy Crush levels.

I’m not happy and I’m not free. I’m play-acting all the fucking time. I pretend to be professional. I pretend to care. I pretend to be polite. I pretend I have anything figured out in terms of indulgence and ownership and the perks of being “hood rich.” When I do my budget I constantly, and I mean constantly, remind myself “only 5 paychecks and I’m even” or “Only until February…if I can just sit and do nothing.” Then you know what happens when you tell yourself that long enough? Insurance needs to be renewed. Property taxes are due. Contacts run out. My air conditioner will break. A tire needs replaced. My cats get fleas. I get sick. Someone needs a loan. I get bored and indulgent and spend too much on another ticket, drive, and pair of cocktails.

It’s stopped feeling like a climb or “requisite sacrifice” to get anywhere. It feels like a miserable slog through layers of shit, deliberately laid or otherwise. I was driven to create the coffee shop and throw the house parties. I was driven as a kid to do well in school. I was motivated to connect and share and try to build and celebrate. Now I just wait. I just wait and bitch and share pictures of musicians and comics living their dreams. I wait till you’re free or maybe return a text. I wait on insurance companies and for the next opportunity to piss away another 25 minutes inputting redundant information. I wait for the meeting to be over, the month to be over, and the payment to hit.

I don’t want to be present in most of my moments. I want to be with my TV shows. I struggle sometimes to watch them while I’m otherwise waiting, sitting at a bar until the show starts or at the restaurant eating alone. Until the comic is starting or the band starts playing, I’m just around disease vectors and people who seem mostly together because they match heights and looks. Do I want to feel my feet and back ache in the standing-room only venue? Do I want to huff your vape runoff or farts? Do I want to watch a band I enjoy through your hair? Does it make me happy to freeze outside for an hour or more in order to get an appreciable spot to witness what’s happening and costing too much due to monopolies and greed?

I fuck up and listen to smart plugged-in people talk about their accomplishments. I hear people talk like how my brain works about their areas of expertise. They get hyper-detailed. They know the subject has a dozen layers and it’s not going to make sense unless they find a way to speak to them all and tie them all together. “When I was writing my first book…,” “When I owned a pharmacy and was doing what Mark Cuban was doing 8 years before him…” So many bands remind us how grateful they are that they “get to do this for a living, and it’s because of you!” Whether they’re selling out the venue or not, there’s a culture, direction, and presumably sense of purpose that I lack. They don’t need 2000 words per song or joke. They don’t need $1400 every two weeks. They need to load up the van, move to the next gig, and play.

Why can’t I just play?

I don’t want to be useless and mediocre. When I think of playing, I think of children. If you drop obvious sentiments, they epitomize uselessness and mediocrity. I don’t really remember the last time I felt like a child. I have memories of going to the park and playing in playgrounds. Playing implies that you’ve nothing else to obligate yourself towards but that free self-expression. You have energy, so you run. There are other kids, so now it’s a chase or a thing to throw rocks at. I feel obligated. I feel responsible for living a certain kind of way that conforms with my best approximations or what might be derived from what I write.

I’m trying so fucking hard. I’m trying to be the constant cheerleader. I’m trying to understand the “reasons” verses miserable excuses I can or can’t move in some direction. I’m trying to derive layers of meaning from the shows I seek and artists I invest in. I’m trying to not lose sight of the veritable miracles I’ve been able to pull off so far. But there’s a healthy dose of suffering in each moment. The stakes and pressure are real. I’m running contingency plans. I’m mourning previous conceptions of dreams and myself. I’m tired and anxious not because I don’t have energy or anything to worry about, but because the fight feels less and less worth fighting and I’m exactly the kind of person who can carry out dramatic reflexive course shifts in spite of the consequences. I’m daring “the universe,” embodied by my supervisor, to keep asking me if I’m “happy.”

I’m embarrassed, ashamed, annoyed and restless. I’m fucking angry as fuck that I’m so angry it’s the same deadness-as-self-preservation I felt growing up. I’m lost. I’m first-world-poor. I’m distracted. I’m alone. I’m bored. I’m unfulfilled and meandering and eating like shit and spending money on so many wet bandages ill-suited for open wounds. I’m as full of hate and despair as I can imagine anyone with less impulse control and perspective can be before they hurt themselves or others. I don’t want another superficial interaction. I don’t want to dance around. (But fuck do I miss dancing!)

I need to disappear into a hole. I have from the 22^nd until the new year off. I dream of either reading a dozen books, or getting a lot of yard work done. If it rains, I need to stop myself from just wasting away, waiting around my dad’s house until dinner or thinking to myself I can get through several layers of each channel’s first episodes! Did you catch that perk? I get all that time to contemplate how much my job cares about me and makes me comfortable. That’s so nice of them. Way better than more money, a stake, vote, or sense of ownership and belonging to a mutually instantiated and protected culture of health care and accountability. Aren’t I “happy” to have the time off? Don’t you wish you had that time off?

I feel like I’m somehow lost or the only one acknowledging the broader context. Byron has increasingly said “Black people are the canary in the coal mine,” with regard to the slow-moving coup and creeping fascism. It’s beyond fucked Hershel Walker even came close. If that’s not scaring you to death in an ongoing way, you seem absolutely insane to me. If you can’t imagine striking, unionizing, or ever remotely speaking to your “authority” or “representative” about the detailed shit of your circumstances, we’re not on the same planet. What do you think is in store for your kids? What do you presume insulates this ignorant country from collapsing like any other? Are you “happy” to just not think about such depressing things? Are you all just making wildly more money, enjoying your time, and figuring out this life thing better than me?

[xx-24] Attended Shows of 2022

Theory of a Deadman Feb. 11th Indianapolis
Sister Hazel – Feb 18th Indianapolis
All Them Witches, Swell Fellas Mar. 9th Indianapolis
Steve-O - Mar 20th Indianapolis
The Maine, Charlotte Sands Mar. 26th Nashville
Hawthorn Heights – Mar. 27th Indianapolis
Wolf Alice – Apr. 5th Indianapolis
Itzahk Perlman – Apr. 10th Cincinnati 
Gang of Youths, Casual Male – Apr. 22nd Indianapolis
10 Years, VRSTY – Apr. 23rd Indianapolis
Okilly Dokilly, Steaksauce Mustache – Apr. 29th Indianapolis
Badflower, The 86, Brknlove – Apr. 30th Indianapolis
Neil Hamburger, Major Entertainer - May 4th Bloomington
Beach Bunny - May 7th Indianapolis
Michael Ian Black – May 28th Bloomington
HAIM – June 1st Indianapolis
Jeff Ross - June 10th Indianapolis
Motion City Soundtrack – June 11th Indianapolis
Thrice, Bayside – June 14th Fort Wayne
Dina Hashem - June 18th Bloomington
Josh Groban – June 23rd Noblesville
Stephen Lynch - June 24th Indianapolis
Barenaked Ladies, Gin Blossoms, Toad The Wet Sprocket – July 1st Indianapolis
Jack Johnson, Durand Jones & The Indications - July 3rd Noblesville
Third Eye Blind, Taking Back Sunday, Hockey Dad – July 7th Indianapolis
Earth Wind & Fire – July 8th Noblesville
Andrew Rudick, Josh Gondelman - July 9th Bloomington
Halestorm, The Warning, Lilith Czar – July 12th Indianapolis
The Black Keys, Band of Horses – July 16th Noblesville
Chicago, Brian Wilson – July 20th Noblesville
Anberlin, The Sublets, Truss, Ophelia - July 21st - 23rd Cleveland
(33)

Cedar Point - July 23rd Sandusky

Kyle Kinane - July 30th Bloomington
Dashboard Confessional, Andrew McMahon – Aug 4th Indianapolis
Marc Maron - Aug 5th Indianapolis
Andrew Bird, Iron & Wine – Aug 6th Indianapolis
Jack White – Aug 17th Indianapolis
Korn, Evanescence – Aug 24th Noblesville
Taylor Tomlinson - Aug 27th Bloomington
Wu-Tang Clan, NAS, Busta Rhymes – Sep 1st Noblesville
(8)

Cedar Point - Sept 9th Sandusky

Ohio Is For Lovers Festival - Sep 10th Cincinnati
Riot Fest (MCR headlining) – Sep 16-18th Chicago
Bill Burr - Sep 30th Bloomington
Sam Jay - Oct 1st Bloomington
Foxy Shazam - Oct 5th Indianapolis
Mother Mother, Vundarbar – Oct 7th Chicago
Otoboke Beaver, Spread Joy – Oct 8th Chicago
Dulce Sloan - Oct 15th Bloomington
Better Than Ezra - Oct 21st Indianapolis
Beth Stelling - Oct 22nd Bloomington
Joe Satriani – Oct 23rd Nashville, IN
Piff The Magic Dragon - Oct 28th Indianapolis
Bert Kreischer - Oct 29th Indianapolis
Ismael Loutfi - Nov 5th Bloomington
Caitlin Peluffo - Dec 3rd Bloomington
Jay Mewes - Dec 10th Louisville
Straight No Chaser - Dec 11th Indianapolis
Bela Fleck, Punch Brothers - Dec 15th Indianapolis
Shane Torres - Dec 17th Bloomington
Nutcracker With A Twist - Dec18th Indianapolis
(22)

[1015] Don't Funk With My Heart

My head feels about to burst, so let’s ironically discover I’ll be out of things to say after 2 or 3 paragraphs. I had a meeting today. My normally scheduled supervision was superseded by a regional director, HR, and compliance person Zoom calling me to discuss how I might elevate concerns I have. This is the kind of thing that happens to me semi-regularly in “professional” environments. For some gosh-darn reason, it does not sink in that I’m supposed to, by default, defer to the people perpetrating whatever I think might be the issue. I stay vocal. I provide reasons, in writing, and until I’m psychologically at a happy place, and if you keep inviting me into the conversation I don’t wish to have a dozen times, you’re going to hear what I think is fucked up.

I call this being a responsible adult. I know, deeper than most things I might know, the consequences of staying silent. I know being too pliable and compliant or matter-of-fact in your cliches about how much you “care” or want to “help” can literally, and regularly does, get people killed or otherwise destroy their lives. I will challenge even the fucking hint of complacency or downplaying of concerns related to behavior that spells a recipe for catastrophe. I can wiggle if you can testify and assert the personal and developed data that says drinking alcohol plus taking Suboxone is better than not. I will fight tooth and nail if you tell me you “believe” it’s best and we should all shut up and keep pumping out the drugs as we admit more and more severe alcoholics into a program that looks like it might “oopsie!” your death, but feel pretty okay as long as the documentation was there.

Before I got on my call, I’m talking maybe 60 seconds after it officially started, the ladies were laughing and discussing their favorite vacation spots. It reminded me of when I first started at Lifeline and many of the people in the “leadership” did the same thing when brought in to discuss their various roles. It’s like a habit or class signifier they can’t help themselves from engaging in. Oh? We have literally any amount of dead air? The cold weather makes me long for Cozumel! I’m headed to [insert warm place] for my vacation [insert time period always somehow within the next 2 months.]

It’s another reminder of class. People of a certain income and preoccupation they pretend is their occupation aren’t operating at the level that has to be actually concerned with real lives as such. They have to be concerned with optics, whistle-blowing problem children, and keeping the capitalist ship running. By analogue, at the State, you’re looking to protect an infinite paycheck. When someone dies, they’re a tragedy, not a name and history and series of small decisions and circling-around-nonsense email chains. The party line, “We care! Some level of service is better than no service!” will do all the heavy lifting, just like “I care about children! I want them to be safe!” justifies lying on paperwork and aggressively threatening scared parents.

Literally every realm where something, besides the individuals involved, hell, even the idea that there are individuals involved, is the priority, you see the same dance. How many lies do you have to tell yourself to protect your fanciest notions of “family?” How many dicks do you swallow to assert the presumed pride behind your job title or paycheck? There’s no knot the route to the most money won’t tie itself in. And all along the way, you have people occupying entirely different worlds in their perception of what’s happening, their responsibility to it, or remotely grasping what the end game really is.

One of the office managers was apparently “uncomfortable” when my discussion with another office manager turned to the idea of collecting evidence of negligence and sending a letter to the, dogshit, attorney general. It was explained to me that, while it’s perfectly within my right to discuss who to talk to, they wanted to make sure I knew they were there. You see, there’s internal mechanisms for this kind of thing and a chain of command. Much better to rely on “leadership” and discuss whether or not I feel “supported” than to heedlessly escalate my problems to a realm that could threaten the whole machine.

Yeah. Go fuck yourselves lol.

In an extremely practical and small sense, I’m accountable to the entity signing my paychecks. In the larger scheme of things, I need to sleep at night and trust my perception of this posture inclined to downplay the reality it wreaks.

So I made one of my groups’ topics today about trust. I trust myself to talk out loud, often, always, about what I think is fucked up. I trust the vast majority of my clients to not take themselves or the work it takes to incorporate addictive behavior seriously. I trust that their ambivalence combined with corporate greed and chronic conditioning is a story of an ongoing unmitigated disaster. At any level in which I remain in human services at the behest of an outside entity, I will be nominally complicit, but especially if I don’t bother to say anything about it. And especially if I don’t bother to say anything about it to the people setting the shitty standard and pretending to give a fuck about rules of human decency when there’s so much money to be made.

This idea of occupying different worlds has been a compelling one for a while. Watching The Crown has given me an infusion of thoughts about it. The institution, the system, of monarchy subsumes any individual desire. The intransigence of their divinity is a noble distinguisher, not a mark of shame or antiquity. Do you want your god changing the rules every few thousand years? The language of that institution is of a “keep steady” realm. Youth and modernity want change, inclusion, and growth. The “conservative” has the argument that, “Well, we’re still here, so obviously something has worked or is working.” The enlightened ideal is that you will forever reach a happy middle ground through ongoing open and honest debate and reasonable concessions. Ha.

The monied bureaucrat does not speak the language of the working-class moron. The exhausted temporarily-embarrassed aspiring rich person pretends to speak the language of both. Rarely, if ever it seems, do you find someone that wants the same thing. Do I want to go on vacation every year? Not as much as I want to feel as though I’ve earned a vacation through meaningful work. Does my concept of “meaningful work” ever match your story of what feels and sounds meaningful? Hardly. I also have no interest in protecting any organization that sees me as lesser than anyone else in it. I wish I had a savings AND could enjoy indulging myself with fun self-care things AND have adequate health, car, and home insurance. Right now, I get to pick 1, pay down the debt it still throws me into, and refamiliarize myself with poor-people habits that include excess alone time with TV or books.

What can you make of “trust” in that environment? If you’re me, you default to the “trust people to be what they are” sentiment. I know what each class and style of person is likely to do, so I do what I want both in anticipation of and in response to. It’s not an accident I’m open, honest, and ongoing about shit that pisses me off. It’s deliberate practiced habit. You’re going to come at me sideways dancing around “the issue,” so I’m going to assert the issue in as many words and languages that it takes to teach you I’m not the one to play your stupid fucking game with.

I don’t identify with the characters in The Crown. I have no institution or tired parochial standard to defer to. I have myself and anyone else willing to continuously poke at the disingenuously and incidentally powerful. I have all of the capacity to carry the pretensions and expectations of someone who pretends there’s a “proper” way to exist independent of mutual acknowledgment, celebration, or solidarity. I’m not so blind as to genuinely believe any catchphrase or edict I conjure to desperately mask my intentions usurps common decency and sense. No, I don’t feel supported in this endeavor to maintain certain sovereign conceptions of dignity or accountability for their own sake. I do not trust the institutions I feed on like a baby suckling a drug-addled mother. It knows not its plight, but I do.

One of my office managers is struggling with her boyfriend being “almost” a cheater. In her words, “I don’t care if you want to fuck someone else, just tell me about it! We’re basically in an open relationship as it is.” He was on Bumble and I guess doing other sketchy things, generally hiding it from her. He’s reignited wounds from her traumatizing past related to infidelity. They’re 22 and been together for a year and a half. She regularly discusses her general hopelessness for the future and the difficulty of even conceiving of herself in a stable and healthy place financially. She’s lived in Bedford her entire life and is deeply burnt out by her social work responsibilities often very unfairly imposed on her. She can’t trust her country, the company she works for, her boyfriend, or even the woman sitting next to her. Where do you think she’s going to find someone that wants the same things in life anymore than you or I can?

Who’s speaking the language of the aggrieved with any real capacity to do something about it? Who has the emotional awareness and salient argument that compels deliberate open and honest exchange? Who is “managing the best interests of the company” with any remote clue how an individual is actually experiencing said company? Richard Wolff remarked that facebook is laying off 11,000 employees after a disastrous miscalculation about shits the world has for the Metaverse. 11,000 lives, plus families, plus the communities they’re plugged into, because a power avatar gets to gamble where none of us can.  Choosing to gamble, verses being forced to, are entirely different universes.

Our lives are not guaranteed in the same way that there will always be an eager demigod looking to preside over them. We adopt their language and set our expectations in ways they deem fit. We insulate ourselves from the precise ways we would otherwise criticize, as getting too exacting would betray why we find their influence necessary and regal. The illusion of stability and order is preferable to observing and owning our inherent chaos. Now, you don’t just occupy a realm of social strata, you deserve it and belong. You’re entitled to protect the money, your small cut-out caricature of a worthwhile existence, or anything else you like provided it doesn’t disturb the god from which you all draw power.

I will continue to cause calculated chaos.