I started writing this stuff because I had to, in this blog. It was a voice in my head that didn’t let go, ringing in my ears, nagging me, language singing the same refrains over and over. So I did something about it.
It’s okay to find your own project unsettling. Even unpleasant. It’s okay that the truth or an aspect of the truth can be ugly as much as freeing.
I don’t know what the final destination of this particular project will be and that’s fine too. At the very least it needed a break. I changed careers altogether and entered a brand new field, moved the studio and the bedroom, threw out and replaced furniture, purged and sold endless amounts of random crap, finished a degree, sustained an abrupt end to a longtime relationship, began another one by way of a completely chance encounter. In under one year – about 9 months. It’s all still a work in progress actually. So yeah, I’ve been busy. And I miss writing.
As ambivalent as I’ve felt before about putting this particular language out into the world, I think it matters. The unfiltered stuff that gets closeted for the sake of polite company and keeping the peace, then by being in the closet creates new kinds of dysfunction. I came here to give the stuff air time because I know I’m not the only one thinking these things.
But it is also an alternate version of me. It’s a perspective. And to a certain extent there is always a persona, because this is writing.
Some who know me in real life might approach this blog rather reductively and take offense. Or just be surprised. But it’s important to do it anyway. You must charge on. You must go with whatever the inspiration is sometimes, questionable or not. Sometimes, but not always (for don’t we know by now that the unsound internet needs limits in order to properly corral its current adolescent iteration). If the goal is in service to the imagination of a less unenlightened, less mentally and emotionally lazy, less ignorant or judgmental or violent or complacent social climate, then yeah. Even if people say oh well who the hell do you think you are, you’re such a hypocrite anyway yourself, well yes, I concede that that would be correct so I agree. And I do.
Maybe I’m a hypocrite because I write all this stuff and yet I wear makeup when I want to and sometimes that’s enjoyable and I buy expensive shoes. I live in an expensive apartment in an expensive ass area. I do not make a whole lot of money. What money I do make, I spend on unnecessary things just as much as the next person. In many ways I feel I have to. And upon occasion this pisses me off. Yet, how extreme do I really need to be? At what point does being extreme stop making sense?
I am saying that I grew up here and this is my home and despite my deeper values and my objections to certain ideologies and marketing, I too spend money on things that are not financially necessary, yet are still somehow culturally necessary. No matter how short-term the rewards may be, or how questionable the future there is a certain standard of appearances. This is especially problematic if you want to write or make art because that is time and time is money and if you’re not just making money all the time then that’s a sacrifice, especially here. To prioritize art, time and money are very precious resources. But they are also very precious for the person who prioritizes living life over the grind and the rat race, life over a type of glorified servitude where you work like a dog just to cover basic costs and student loans, on property necessarily owned by somebody else since you’re quite possibly, essentially, locked out of the housing market even on a middle class income.
I do not want to have to leave this place just because it incidentally blew up into a cash cow; a veritable alternative stock market in and of itself that hardly makes sense to try to survive in without a six to seven figure income. Just because this clueless yet intuitive kid who incidentally lived here turned out to favor literature and arts over property ownership of any kind, and somehow became this adult who didn’t give up on this devotion to craft. I am not ready to leave because if I do then it’s unlikely I can afford to come back, and this is my home. Despite a prolonged period of full-on travel in my twenties, maybe I have become provincial, fearful, and unimaginative in this sense. And I am probably certainly superficial in my own way, especially to whatever extent that it might increase my chances for survival in this place.
So, I am rooted here more, apparently by choice. I, too, pay to play. I, too, need certain comforts and the other people around me do too, apparently. Whatever sense of adventure I once relished is thus somewhat developmentally delayed. I am influenced by culture as much as anyone and feel I should be more “enhanced” at times, or some shit. That doesn’t mean that it’s time to give up, accept, stab your face full of hundreds or thousands of dollars worth of retirement funds without even thinking about it. It doesn’t mean things don’t need to change one way or another. It doesn’t mean lines don’t need to be drawn, it doesn’t mean all the garbage we encounter doesn’t need to be questioned, challenged, resisted, comprehensively rejected, whatever.
Things do need to change. Things like, minds. Minds need to fucking change about this outrageous crap we have to deal with. Sold like you’ll be more free and have more opportunity if you just follow along, but actually you’re less free.
So say so. That’s all I’ve got. Not that it’s a small thing. That’s why my name is still private on this shit – it’s a nickname. Because it’s kinda scary, this shit. It’s not nice. But at least, to write truthfully means one can never be too trapped. Nor too controlled by bullshit. A friend of mine says, whatever you do, just don’t get stuck.
Another friend says, if you’re worried about what other people think then don’t forget that one day you’ll be dead. And then nothing will matter anyway. Nobody can say anything to you. And what they do say about you, won’t be worth a damn to you either. You’ll be dead so who cares.
Comforting, innit. It kinda works.
You’ll be dead, so who cares.