Good ‘ole Unedited Self-doubt
I guess I've been tossing the idea of writing in my head for awhile. It's been so long since I actually wrote something. It has been even longer since I tried to write something well. The truth is I've seen a lot of interesting things in this life. I'd like to get them down and out before I go. I'm not a natural storyteller. My stories, as an ex of mine pointed out, rarely last more than a few sentences. I have bits and pieces of so many things rolling around in my mind, but I'm not sure how to string them into a narrative. Besides, seeing my thoughts on paper reminds me of how actually unintelligent and childish I have been.
An arts journal is hiring writers… it sounds like a good gig. As far as reviewing art events for artists… makes me kind of nauseous. The only thing I'd care to write about is why the art world is such a joke, the scoop of incompetence and triviality in this silly ass sphere. Everyone who works in it already knows that, hell the general public already knows that. And the people who don't have idealism and naivety on the brain, I'll just be a "hater." A negative snarky person.
I suppose that's what I am, a negative snarky person. I can see why no one would be able to form a solid bond with me. I used to have the energy to pretend to be a little something more, hold out hope for… something, I'm not sure what. There always seemed like maybe there was something more to life, and I'd hit upon it at some point. All the love and respect I always dreamed of would rain upon me and my life would finally be validated.
There exists no such validation, as I seem to learn over and over again, only I continue to live my life in that way. I can fool myself and my peers for somewhere between eight months and a year and a half before I hit a serious depression and lose whatever it was that I thought I had.
This time: love of my life (one every few years), my current mission in life (improving the culture of my city), my health, my financial stability, my good looks, and my general sense of well being, oh, and friends. I really thought I wouldn't find myself here after taking medication. I remember when I first took it, it was like gaining a superpower. No matter what, I wouldn't get depressed enough to completely crash, completely lose the things and people that I love. It doesn't seem to have worked this time. I just got the most dark look from Sarah I've ever seen her give. I abandoned her once I felt abandoned, and that's not fair to her, she has been really kind to me. More people have been far more kind to me than I have to them. The truth is I'm a despicable and loathsome person.
I have not felt like a real person the vast majority of my life. Every so often, I feel like I am. This last stretch in general was probably the longest of my life. A few months or so.
So, now I'm at my non-profit arts job, pretending I am working because I finished my work 3 hours early. I need the hours though, I need far more than the hours if I am to get enough to pay rent.
So… my boring problems, my boring life. It all depends where you see it from. No one actually knows all that's happened to me. I've jumped so many ships, and blocked and denied so many years of my life, who knows the vastness of my shame and loss. My heart maybe, but to put it to paper? For who's sake? My own? Some people seem to like how ridiculous my moments of complete klutziness are with women, or grown situations. I suppose maybe there is some value in playing the clown. I'd like to feel like I had a value to society.
I thought about it recently, what I actually do for the world. I make newsletters so artists around the city know where to hang around and be seen, and what opportunities they are expected to pursue. I hang people's pictures and mirrors in their place of business and at their homes. I built and help maintain a place where a bunch of kids can play their music and feel important for a night. And I sell books for a slightly cheaper price than a competitor somewhere else in the country. If all of that isn't enough, I'm not sure why playing the clown for other people's amusement and pity would make me feel important.
I'm not sure what would truly make me feel satisfied. Loose ideas like respect and admiration, money, women, etc. I feel like those are time sensitive, as in: how long will that satisfy me? I already get some respect from the venue, and a tiny bit from my other endeavors. I think when it comes down to it, the thing I want most in life is a solid and fulfilling relationship from a woman. There are so many reasons why that won't be possible for me for more than a short time.
So what is it? Why do I still hang around? Part of that answer is that I don't want to hurt the people that are close to me that much. The truth is that I do hurt them every time I get depressed like this, maybe not to the extent of death, but I don't know… On the one hand, people are strong, especially the people that I know, and they would survive. It's just such a hateful and extreme act to do to other people, very selfish. And I know how self-absorbed I am, though if I let myself feel how much I am I would probably crumble.
On the one hand, I feel some kind of hope, that the vast universe that is myself has a perspective so valuable, that it's worth something to the world. That I am worth something to the world. On the other hand, it's a biologically inept kind of awareness. I am over-inflated in my self importance, that not much would be different without myself here.
I feel like I've heard the advice from every angle, the multitudes of platitudes that really don't quite understand what it's like in the moment. You don't even understand it yourself in the moment. To not to be able to trust your own mind? You try to build something from that. Build hope, build stability, build a path from chaos? Next to impossible, and constantly shifting. My ex taught me one very important thing, despite all that and even understanding that, you can't have a personal relationship with a person like that. No matter all the attempts, she burned me out, and I have burned her and dozens like her out. Either through overburdening them, or ignoring them so I don't overburden them.
Anyway, same same, it would be the same any of the ways. Same since I was a child. Tiddlywinks, zen koans, inside jokes, and secret kisses. I miss them, but they never saved me. And I never found the strength to do anything, but putting one foot in front of the other. Falling, breaking legs, crawling, stopping for awhile. Where the fuck have I been walking towards? Existing… I can't remember what I really ever wanted except childish dreams of things that don't really exist. What exists to keep me here. What can I do to justify my existence? I envy people that don't need to do that. Existing is enough of a reason.
Clearly I'm a broken man, and the truth is, I've always been broken. Each piece I put in the right place breaks three new pieces. Stupid pottery.
