Hey. First things I remembered to come forward on.
I’m new to the practice of just being a straight up person addressing through a digital vacuum of which anyone may not be on the receiving end, let alone new to how the crud a website works, let alone to this thing I’m just going for here. I also just got out of the way the fact that I write not necessarily unlike a cocaine addict who would be teacher to generation after generation of dropout 5th/ 6thgraders. Which honestly is great cause the fact that a lot of smart people psychologically aren’t accustomed to the English language being wordplayed and deliberately messed with via a general rejection of commas convinces me I’m onto something.
Of course where I meet in the middle is if I want anyone to actually maintain an attention span that transcends 16 seconds I gotta gauge to what degree editing is needed. It’s the best compliment I could receive from a creative hero that they see the traits in their works also in mine; that it includes a quest to reconcile when and where to edit makes me genuinely grateful. I unequivocally acknowledge and agree with the legitimacy of thoughtful editing; nothing of what I do or don’t do will change that. Which roots this all to what I know is a dichotomy of my existence and the effects I have, whether maybe-good or clearly-horrifying.
Whether I filter or not, whether I restrain or not, whether I disperse via come-in-peace wagons or homicidal downhill wheelbarrows—the latter analogy I should come back to many times that Dan Barrett shared—whether I write in actual blog post-dosages or just self-servingly mic drop one novella after another, every choice pretty much determines who I get through to. And when I haven’t straight up messed and turned off those who would’ve listened to my neuro-divergent neuroses, it would be a poser’s perspective to expect a legion of followers the size of which mostly only spawns if you’re directing a freaking Marvel movie or you’re a little shit who’s really adept at making squeaky voices to ADHD fast cuts. And yes I’m also sure I drive away even legit good people with the tragically compulsive need to discord through pseudo-rap battle.
Uuuuh [scrolls up] right yeah so it’s probably gonna be clear to someone fast saga if this is their thing. Now why am I doing this… Immediate impact. Reverse to instant gratification, making that clear. My mission does not serve me personally at all other than peace of mind, so there’s no gratification for me to circus-canon towards.
Look as far as it goes to being a non-frontline worker making any actual difference, in my case the most useful thing I can do at this moment in history is not go outside and commit domino-effect-homicide. With that said, my question is—what does my existence mean now, and will mean by the time I’m extremely dead? AH FOOLED YOU, aaw nah I’ve contemplated that my whole life… But in light of affirming more than ever how practically useless my physiological existence is to the human race, so to not damn myself and start listening to Radiohead and only Radiohead, I gotta ask myself how to be useful. And here’s the thing too, I’m the first to advance-call out every pretentious prick who thinks going through an isolation that was literally not born of their own sense of agency will result in them becoming enlightened. Like I can already picture a storm of post-corona new wave art where every posh hipster who only had to not make the situation worse will try out-preaching one another as to who’s the deepest, though really it’s just the latest way to get laid. So I definitely can’t even be that cause I’d have to not have lived life in the ghetto makes east side sign and thunderkicked the first all-of-my-existence through a system that privileges posh pricks.
And this is where I get to the acknowledgment all the same that much of my existence as it’s actionized now is based off my reaction to the pandemic. Not just pragmatically, but existentially. And I give myself the benefit of my doubt, cause all the things I think about right now I’ve been thinking about this whole time. I didn’t aspire myself to be useful like a firefighter before the lockdown and I don’t consider it now either. So unlike those who lose their shit or come out going “i’m seu deep and in-toon”, this feelingonly recalibrated of what will my actions amount to. Put short, if I want to be the least shitty person possible and make any difference through creations, then a planetary pandemic helps as far as urgency goes.
Cause if there’s anything any excuse for any humble human from any part of earth can learn from all this, it’s to admit when you’re wrong, when you messed up, and why you should’ve been better to one another. And as it’s exposed more than before—cause it’s always been there, we just need to be mortally threatened to pretend to care—any of us could die a morbid, hopeless, and poetically valueless death. And when it’s not directly one’s own fault, a lot of it’s just luck-of-the-draw—where you’re placed, when, and who wasn’t there to let you know someone noticed. I can play the long play and prioritize a 10-year plan of where this is all going, but the longer the play, the more time you have to die, regardless what a dumb james bond movie thinks.
I think about what really can only be possible with time of which Don’t Die Before Then, and then the things that you could actualize earlier. What I ultimately want vs. what I could give now. The world as our lifetime hosted is burnt toast, and regardless how I dealt with my perspectives and values before, it’s fair game how outdated they could be in the face of humanity v.2020. It’s like things such as equal empathy for others, self-accountability, and general humility will be increasingly vilified like a microwave would react to metal objects. And I have no clue if and how long my disunion between compassion and rage will last when I am again on the battlefield. I can’t pretend that a life of martyring myself as some voice for the pained and perpetually alone is not a life that is constantly on a doomed trajectory. And if I’m really for real about my ambition, then I have no reason to possibly welcome a simple, h a p p y, loving life.
But that’s the problem; I do. I am another human, as embarrassed as I am to be part of the species. It doesn’t matter how humans got to this point—from being monkeys who made it very clear to just wanna fuck or kill cause they’re not fucking, all the way to people finding such elaborate ways to get fucked that there is an m&m building in times square. And by non-comparison it doesn’t matter why the half of me that isn’t occupied screaming “You fools” will so long as I am conscious want love just like the next asshole. Hell I wouldn’t be surprised if the urgency of my life’s work hinges on something that obvious. As someone who to a spiteful degree needs to exclaim how different he feels from others, I would welcome the irony.
But I think I would tell you if I suddenly got this profound… [ ]. If there’s one trait I have non-arrogant pride towards it’s that I am who I am. I can’t seem to hide or repress that even when I’ve tried. Through better and worse and all the times it’s sent things meteor showering down and reconvinced me that I will very much die a zero-hope-and-romanticism death. Until I con myself otherwise or run out of things to say, this will be where one more existence goes. And with that one more life anyone might somehow relate to.
If you’re reading this—if you get anything out of this—then you’ll have been witness to a loner paradox. One where you may or may not in your own parallel way feel just as alone as I do. And by that we will never come together. Because were I there with you I wouldn’t have written this and you wouldn’t be reading it. And to me it genuinely feels like I’ll stop existing if it were any other way.