I was 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 alright 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. All that 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 apply a more reductive approach to this blog 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 sure. Even if people say oh well who the hell do you think you are, you’re such a hypocrite anyway yourself, all you have to say is well yes, that would be correct so I agree. And I do.
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.
What this means is that I grew up here and I 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. I do not want to leave this place just because it incidentally blew up into a cash cow; a veritable alternative stock market in and of itself for six to seven figure earners. Just because I was incidentally clueless enough to be a kid who studied literature and favored the arts over property ownership of any kind. 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. I am provincial, fearful, and unimaginative in this sense. And probably superficial in my own way, to the extent that it might increase my chances for survival in this place. Whatever sense of adventure I once relished is thus developmentally delayed. That doesn’t mean 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.
So say so. Speak up. 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.