I watch movies that have no real plot. It’s a series of events. A week in the life. And something happens, someone dies, someone meets someone they weren’t expecting, someone gets in their own way, and in the end, nothing changes. Except maybe someone stops drinking for a while, except all of their furniture is now outside because they needed a kind of change, needed control, and moving their sofa into the backyard was the only control they could exert on their existence.
But it rains. Not in the movie, just in real life. It rains. Around here, it doesn’t even have to rain because we have that famous Southern Humidity. Mold and mildew are inevitable. People quit drinking all the time only to start drinking again. People die, and that’s an inexorable shift in reality, but something will eventually fill in the void. Maybe if we’re lucky, it’ll be a net positive in the end, but the type of people who drink themselves to oblivion and go crazy enough to move all their furniture outside, they’re sort of tragic characters, and I don’t know that I believe they’d let anything positive happen for them.
But who knows. I’m the sort of tragic character who cuts his hair to exert control. Who says fuck everything and climbs into a hole, plastering the walls with pictures of what I’m pretty sure the world looks like, and that’s fine enough. I don’t need to go out and see what’s really out there because I’d have too much to keep track of. I might get lost. My cave paintings, though, they don’t move. I can forget they’re even there. I can stare off into nothing and feel freedom from time and space.
I’m writing this story. These stories. I’m writing about writing. I’m writing about writing about writing. Instead of doing. Instead of teaching. “Those who can’t even…” I want that on a tshirt.
It occurs to me that I don’t sound happy. I can’t say that I’m unhappy. I hear about how millennials are the lonliest generation because of technology, and I keep remembering that I’m a millennial. Someone told me that I should do whatever makes me happy. I told her that I don’t think I’m wired for happiness. She told me that there are software updates all the time.
But it’s the hardware itself. My software’s pretty fucking solid.
It’s getting close to my birthday. Last year, I’d quit my job and felt pretty good about it by about November 11. The day I decided to burn that bridge. I didn’t have a plan, but it came to me slowly over the course of a month or so that I’d be a writer. I’d say fuck working for other people and support myself with all these fancy words I know how to type. And I probably could have done that, but like everything else, it was too hard to get started. No, it was easy to get started, but I hit a speedbump (mainly boredom) and I decided it just wasn’t for me.
I was listening to another podcast – and if listening to podcasts was a job, I’d be a fucking expert – about how most journalists and an insane number of tv writers (I’m sure authors too) are all on Adderall. I think I might go see a doctor and find out about getting a prescription. If I do, I’ll most likely fall into the trap of thinking the entire universe is about me instead of believing wholeheartedly that none of the universe is about me. Both are narcissistic. Maybe no one will even notice except I’ll write more stories instead of dumping my brain onto a page just to get it out. It occurs to me I should just put this all into journals, but I’ve tried that. It doesn’t sound like I’m actually saying anything if no one else can see it. Trees falling in the woods make sounds no matter what, but no one gives a shit about what woodland creatures think.
Some people say they were born in the wrong generation. They idolize the 1950s or 60s or 80s, etc. I was born a decade late. I should have been coherent and spouting this bullshit when blogs were still a thing. I think I was meant to live in 2003 perpetually.