Losing Pervicaciousness
Congratulations, STOP. Wish I could be there, STOP.
All this time, all this time, all this stupid little rhyming . . .
I’ve been having one of those months; the type wherein you don’t feel right somehow and can’t place it—perhaps, it’s been longer than a month?—when you simply know that something about yourself is out of whack. Like when a part is rattling under the hood of your car, or when your computer tower starts emitting a loud humming sound.
TIKKA-TIKKA-tsh-tsh-tsh-TIKKA
Tell me something I don’t know. Is there anything left to know?
So, my usual response to these kinds of feelings is to walk; put on my headphones and take a stroll around the neighbourhood for a few laps; in this particular case, also don a hat and coat to protect from the rain (Hurricane Charlie’s remnants lovingly soaking my state; granted, I’m happy it’s just his remnants). Pop in a Fugazi album, walk until everything makes sense: that’s my choice therapy, not sitting across from a stranger with a flashy degree in Psychology, armed to the teeth with professional euphemisms—I haven’t used that word in a long time—and a pad of paper.
STOP. STOP. STOP. STOP. STOP.
Speaking of the hurricane, it was due to that little natural disaster that I spent last night—no, the night before last: Saturday, not Sunday—in a hotel room, instead of my comfortable, blue bedroom. In order to avoid the circumstances of last hurricane . . . No—Floyd, not Isabel—the hurricane before last, actually . . . . that involved standing in the hall closet and listening to whistling, roaring winds tear through the trees outside, my family just went up to a hotel in case it got that bad.
Removal from one’s habitat environment is a beautiful thing, I think; it’s a fast way to nearly instantaneously get more in touch with one’s self. It eliminates all those external factors that are present in a familiar setting—memory, association, conditioning—and lets you just feel what you are without influence from where you are. Nothing to account for, and all that is left is your personality.
Everything you build up, everything you construct while in a safe zone, everything you have become when in the womb allowed to project itself upon the world. It’s a test of how you stand up against the weight of a naturally antagonistic world that pushes down upon your accustomed behaviour.
You can not become an adult, a fully matured human being, until you live alone. Or, at least, it’s the most convenient way to get a handle on a definition of the self, without having to worry about others who have, more than likely, helped define you.
If nothing else, I’m never one hundred percent secure with how I feel and who I am until I have no external forces acting on me. It’s always a very beautiful experience.
ACCESSORY, ACCESSORY, ACCESSORY. ACCESSORY, ACCESSORY, ACCESSORY.
Anyway, so I went for a walk after having spent the night in a hotel. I was in one of those moods (or mind-sets, if you will) where I failed to notice the fact that it wasn’t taking a long time to become dripping wet with rain—I hadn’t thought it was raining quite as hard as it was, or it just got worse once I got out in it. Nonetheless, I just didn’t notice, didn’t care. Originally, I had been arranging neatly some thoughts on my roleplaying game: what to do, what characters to make, how to run it, that sort of thing; very typical roleplaying thoughts for those that, you know, roleplay. All in all, very uninteresting material for this Blog.
But, as I knew it would, my mind wandered. And, then, I knew something in a flash: my purpose.
We regret to inform, STOP. Miss you dearly signed sincerely, STOP.
In this ocean, am I drowning, or am I breathing?
The next second, I lost the words; still, I kept the feeling . . . The feeling of purpose. For the next while, I mulled over this thought, trying to come up with words for it, again, but failing. I grasped at different ideals I had created in the past to explain it; combined and recombined different phrases I had used before to define myself. Nothing really seemed correct anymore.
I knew it wasn’t the same words I had originally stumbled upon, but I eventually—after nearly a full lap around the block—settled on “Wrong.” I’m quite guilty of borrowing a bit from bands I admire and love, Fugazi and, in this case, Nomeansno; I identify with the lyrics and music, though, on a basic level of existence. Wrong.
Tell me something I don’t know. Is there anything left to know?
In a way, the state of being wrong is what I live for, because that leads to argument—am I listening to “The Argument,” by Fugazi? Shit, I am—and argument leads to the redefinition of terms. Three states of being: wrong, argument, revision. It sums up my life, in a strange sort of abstract method. Like an “Action” Jackson Pollock painting, from the Abstract Expressionist movement of the Deconstructive variety; granted, I’ve never liked that movement in Art, either. It fits, though.
Somehow, it seems right, in a sense I can’t convey convincingly through words. Short of saying “I am Wrong,” I don’t know how to write it.
STOP. STOP. STOP. STOP. STOP.
THUKKA-THUKKA-KATHUNK
Ergh. Sometimes, I wonder if music defines me, or if I simply project myself into good music. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m all that original of a human being, and not just a mockery of someone else, somewhere. Sometimes, I wonder if coffee actually does inspire me, in a way—I love coffee, and it’s always what I’m drinking when I’m thinking and working the hardest and best.
Strange. Words are always slip-sliding about my head; back and forth, I’m always trying different words for different things. Like a mathematical permutation, English is an infinite series of equations (mostly inequalities). What am I?
ACCESSORY, ACCESSORY, ACCESSORY. ACCESSORY, ACCESSORY, ACCESSORY. TO THE TIME, TIME, TIME, TIME.
Not a great orator. I am no great speaker, I know that much . . . Instead, I am a stand-up comic, off-stage. It was a random conclusion I made while walking, that one. It’s true, though; the mode in which I interact in socially is that of a stand-up. I’ve watched stand-up comedy since I was five, I’m pretty sure. Saw Gallagher live at thirteen or fourteen. Saw Lewis Black and Dave Attel just last year. Great shows.
I think I learned everything I know on how to be good company to people from stand-up comedy. I’m an introvert, that much about myself I’m quite certain about and never have deviated in thought on; moreover, most of who I am really never leaves my head. (It’s interesting, as I write this I’m losing my grip on advanced grammar, but I guess that’s because a lot of it comes from very conscious effort to formulate complex sentences and structure things in a convoluted manner intentionally, which loses itself as I stop caring about it.)
To get up in front of people and make fun of life. To have a sense of humour about some of the most horrible things possible. To look at, to look back at, to look forward and see the light of funny that can be found in tragedy. And, deep down, to be the greatest philosopher ever to live. No actual philosopher can touch a stand-up comedian for wisdom, because it’s not intentional, it’s empirical; in a way, philosophy will always be contrived because it’s an art so focused on trying to be that way. Philosophers, all they do is try to explain without doing; a stand-up comedian has, most likely, done what they make material about, seen it and lived in. Nietzsche didn’t do a day’s worth of bourgeoisie labour. But comedians are a poor folk, so they don’t have the privilege to not live a hard life—you’ll notice you find few poor philosophers—and their point isn’t to explain things. But they do it, anyway.
That was a rather lengthy tangent.
I’ve got this epic problem, this epic problem’s not a problem for me. And inside, I know I’m broken, but I’m working as far as you can see.
I’ve been in such a strange mood lately. I’ve dreamt about murdering all the friends I have. I’ve just felt wrong lately. I don’t know why, and a lot of it has to do with the fact that I don’t know why. I’m used to understanding myself, because that’s all I’ve had my whole life: an understanding of myself and not others. The more I deal with others, the more I lose that sense of self, though; because others have started to slightly reshape myself, and I don’t know how they do it because I’m not them.
Maybe that’s my problem. I’m afraid of losing myself to others. But I like others, which is the sad part of it. I’ve grown to love others. A very unfamiliar set of emotions for me, love is. (Why did I structure that last sentence like I’m Yoda?) But, it’s more than that, because I’ve known about this part of my dilemma for awhile.
I want to get away, through it all. I want to leave. I want to abandon everything and start over; but, by nature, I never quit. I’ve known quitters, I’ve seen quitters quit. I have things to do and I won’t stop until they’re done—and I’m perfectly aware I’ll never be done.
I’ve got this epic problem, this epic problem’s not a problem for me. And inside, I know I’m broken, but I’m working as far as you can see. And outside, it’s all illusion, set scenery..
I’ve got this epic problem, this epic problem’s not a problem for me.
[Editor's Note: I figured, since the first one was a single sentence, it wouldn't hurt to post two of my old drafts, today. Plus, I want to be done with this by February.
This entry wasn't one I intentionally avoided posting, even though I felt it came out very jaggedly constructed--it wouldn't be one of my classic Rambles if it were concise, though.
I'm mildly amused that, after nearly six months, this is still very relevant. That's how it goes, though.]
posted by c.Jay Wrong at
5:30 PM
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