Stuff That’s Hard To Take

Why I’m Not a Good Writer

It’s tempting as hell to just half-ass this and say that at least I tried today.

This is one of those days where I feel like I have absolutely nothing to say. In fact, I don’t know that I ever have anything to say. I think to myself sometimes that I will run out of things to say.

It’s not the end of the world if I do. It’s not like I’m needing to do this to pay the bills. I do need to do this though. It seems to make life a little more bearable. I feel more present. I feel like I’ve done something with my day. My head feels a little less foggy.

At this point, this is little more than a bit of self-help.

My pledge is this: Write even if my head feels dull and even if I feel no hate, love or any fucking thing at all. Just have to do it. It will probably be shit but even in the midst of the shit, there have to be moments of perfection, right?

So, I’m not a terrible writer. I know I’m not. I’m not a particularly good writer either. Why? I’m gonna tell you.

I don’t do a ton other than work, play some games and sleep. I don’t have a ton of mileage on me. I haven’t done a ton with my life. I’m short on experiences. Sometimes I think maybe I should just go to bars and talk to people, anybody and see what the fuck happens. A friend of mine told me he is driving across this fucked up country of ours just for the hell of it. I need to do that but the thought of doing something like that scares the shit out of me. I got serious social anxiety. I’ve never quite been at peace with the fact that I’m a human being. Is it as weird for you as it is for me? Probably not in the exact same way.

I’ve already mentioned I’m deficient as hell when it comes to focus and self-discipline. Finishing a book is a near impossible feat for me these days. In fact, the other day, I thought maybe I’d read Umberto Eco’s essay Ur-Fascism which I guess is about the qualities of eternal fascism. Fascism is ultra relevant these days. So many countries on this earth seem to be lurching towards it. I’ve tried getting through the essay twice but without success. My just wanders. I need to read more. What should I be reading? Not real sure but I’m almost positive that I should be reading more.

I don’t know a lot. I’ve got a vague idea about a lot of things but there is not a single subject on the face of this earth that I can call myself an expert on. You can see that in my screed entitled ‘What I See.’ Most of that flowed from emotion. I was talking about the real world so I feel that perhaps I needed to show my work a bit more and maybe cite sources like I was back in school or something.

I get these ideas for creative pursuits and then I just abandon them. I’ve started two short-lived podcasts. One was a political show that I began in the wake of Trump’s election and another was just me talking about random things or.. something. Who the fuck knows what I was doing with the second one? I don’t follow through. I’m a flaky son of a bitch.

I’m lazy and I don’t put in work.

There are probably other reasons why I’m not a particularly good writer but those are the most fatal symptoms in my estimation.

In the back of my mind, I have to wonder if this is just filler to put off going into the stuff that really makes me look like a god damn loser.

We’ll get there though.

White fear weaponized runs the machine. 

A Conclusion

I’ve come to a conclusion. A lot of the conclusions I come to are tentative but this one is definitive. 

Two days off are not enough to recover from five days on. 

It just doesn’t happen, man. 

It doesn’t matter if you hate your job or not. 

It just ain’t enough time to breathe and remember that you’re a human being. It’s not enough time to be still know and know that He is God if that’s what you’re into. 

It really was not perfect by any stretch of the imagination but that reflection I did on Alex Vitale’s The End of Policing was satisfying to me to write. It was scribbled out at work during downtime with a black ballpoint pen on a legal pad that I had swiped at one point to write work related notes on. There was a time where I used to hand write pretty much everything. There was just something about the feeling of moving a pen on the page. There was something about looking at the words I had formed with my own hand and smelling the ink from the pen on the page. That’s part of the writing process that I definitely miss. For some writing, I’m definitely going to return to the pen and paper. 

Sometimes inspiration does hit you. That can be a beautiful thing. It really can be. It arguably hit me at least twice last night. Inspiration can be like love. Love. Sweet love. Dirty love. Dangerous love. Sometimes it can take you to places that you really didn’t plan on going. Sometimes it can take you fucking nowhere at all. 

I sit down here and I try this. Type my thoughts. Try to dress ‘em up like Fonzie or a monk who just got it. Thing is, usually I’m going nowhere. I’m not Fonzie. I’m not a monk. I’m not the hero. The world is full of people who think they need to be the big-dicked hero. 

We. We>me. 

I say that as I tickle these here keys all alone. Are we all these people having heroic fantasies all alone? We’re all Luke Skywalker staring at the horizon. Maybe it’s time to cut that shit out. Maybe we need to cut it out because it’s dangerous. 

I remember. Nah, I half-remember. Shit, maybe this never happened. I remember a Saturday Night Live Christmas parody. It was a parody of those holiday specials with the clay people. I dunno. Do you know what I’m talking about? Aight. There was a line that stuck with me. I don’t remember the context. I just remember the line, “It’s not about you, you douchebag.” 

IT’S NOT ABOUT YOU, YOU DOUCHEBAG. 

Maybe I’m way off here but that’s the heart of pure, undefiled religion right there. Of course, what happens with religion is people get transfixed by the messianic figures. That’s all they see. They try to see themselves in the messiahs. 

Went somewhere. Somewhere. Got lost there though. Might not be able to go any farther. 

Before

C’mon, brother. I see you there. I see you every day. This is gonna sound weird. What the fuck is up with you? Look, I know these times broke your brain when they started. They did that cold thing to me. Deep chill. That feeling you get deep inside you when every heart you got in every dimension breaks at the same god damn time. I think we’re in a crucial time, man. I felt it when the madness started. I always asked myself if I’d be able to hack it when the time came. Torches. Flags. You taught me to fight my own way. You told me I had my own way. Yo, I think maybe I can hack it. 

Look, man. I’m not compromised. You can still trust me. I just see things a little differently.

Whatever, man. Fine. Let’s fight. No. I fucking mean it, asshole. Don’t even think of going easy on me like you used to. Try to kill me. I’ll try to stop you.

I’m talking crazy? You’re the one that thinks I’m working for them. I saw something in you, man. No. Look at me. Look at me. Fucking look at me or I am gonna kick your ass. 

See, you don’t believe it. If you really thought you couldn’t trust me, you’d have me tied in knots and begging for it to stop. 

You think I’m on another level. Thing is, I’m on an even higher level than you think. Brother, I saw something in you. I saw it and I knew that’s what I wanted to be. That’s all I’m doing. 

Got nothing? Fine. You know you can always come find me. Love you. 

Walking

Left the house and went out for a walk. 

I’m too sedentary. My life is way out of balance. I think I’m going to try to work back up to running. I think that would be good for me. 

Walked by a park. Saw a little girl on the playground. I realized we were making eye contact. I thought, this is awkward. Without thinking, I waved at her. She waved back. 

That was cool. 

Unknown

I’ve only been doing this thing for a week. Somehow it feels longer than that. 

I feel like an itch has been scratched. I feel like I ain’t got no itches to scratch today. None. Is that a sign of trouble? 

I guess boredom, shit. No. This isn’t boredom. I don’t know what this is. I swear I’ve been aware of a keener sense of myself lately. No matter how keen your sense gets, you still find that your sense isn’t all the way calibrated. There are uncharted waters within you. 

Maybe this is just being chill. Maybe this is how most people are. 

There is another state of being I sometimes find myself in though it is rare. This is the state of being unfuckwittable. I’ll try and describe that to you some other day because right now there is no fucking way I’m going to be able to do that justice. 

I can’t do most things justice. 

I wasn’t even going to try this today. I was just going to leave it but that seemed like a bad idea. 

I sit here at my desk. Daily Mix 3 playlist from Spotify is blaring and I keep hitting repeat on a particular song. I don’t know why. Not in Love by Crystal Castles. Sometimes I kinda nod my head to it and sometimes I low-key white boy dance to it. The words don’t really speak to me. I can’t really speak to the beat or the musical qualities of this composition because I’m laughably unqualified. 

I find myself thinking of ending montages in TV episodes. Ya know, shots of the characters with little or no dialogue in the closing minutes of the episode as some song plays. 

Yeah. That’s it. Drive safe. 

I sorta tried. Sorta. 

It’s so cheesy 

cheesy like the orange fingers 

on a dateless wonder

but if I call you brother 

I mean it 

desperately 

like a cardboard sign SOS 

spotted on a freeway off-ramp.

In the night 

when the breeze is gentle 

can I tell ya how terribly strange 

this all is to me? 

can I tell ya how scared I was 

trippin’ on shrooms and that it was your 

voice that brought me back? 

Will ya come to me in the midnight hour 

with the knots you can’t untie? Will ya? 

I get lost in the night's machinery

with nothing to see but what there is to see

synthetic angel glow and Internet Protocol that never sleeps

keeps me company

and that troubles me