Wait For Me To Die First. . .
It’s all really simple—if you can allow yourself to be simple. Sometimes I start to set aside my thoughts for the sake of clarity, to think of how I can do a lot by actually doing it instead of doing a play-by-play rundown of it in my head. But then the intelligent part of me psyche slowly swirls back in, thinking in terms of how each decision I make is a chess move, as it were, and that I need to plot my moves according to some sort of resourcefulness so as not to do more work than what I really need to do…
And obviously all those stirrings stir manifestations of neuroses to arise when I realize I can’t or didn’t execute what I should have done, which, in turn, creates a whole breakdown of analysis-paralysis type procrastination.
It started today with: okay; really need to apply for a job asap—and then became… "How can I really see myself fitting in there if I do apply; should I think of somewhere else now? Now I don’t like these alternatives... And now I lost the illusion of seeing myself working at the initial place I started off assuming...”
But regarding job-hunting dysfunction, all that can be reduced with some long division, and you get the simple answer again of Just Do Something Already. Better than falling into a downward, vampiric spiral of doubledoubt. That takes more energy anyway.
Realistically, so many retail, F&B jobs fit into a redundant scheme of empty gestures. It’s there to be something you can tell others you applied to just to get them off your pogostick for a little. Before they inevitably frump around and prod, "So did you hear back from them." Not even as a question, but more so a command. And the answer invariably is no.
I believe the best way to handle this monotony is aligning or tightening your routines to appeal to structure beforehand, before transitioning into a job anyway. Learning how to be sober with time-management and setting mid-term goals, which aren't necessarily as disillusioning as long-term and not as myopic short-term. For if everything were approached only in the short-term, that reinforces the bad behavioral patterns already in the mix that need to be hushed. My gosh. And if long-term planning is reiterated too often, things happening concurrently in progress towards it get undermined by an overemphasis on expectations. Mid-term goals are basically setting goals for the next-five-days at a time. It's honestly not a bad way to rationalize.
Anyway, personally, a job isn’t something that should be worked up to, in a way. It should announce itself without much warning and blend right into your already pre-existent set of chores (as to be inevitably your duty). Which is the bullshit aspect of it: why do we need to put in the work at getting a job when that work at the job should occur naturally by the forces of nature? And arrive to you as such when the time is inevitably your duty?
For fuck's sake, most of this blarting wouldn't even be an issue, either, if there were more adoption of shift gigs through an app. Yeah there are already, but they aren't all that great yet. Not until there is a bigger sociocultural virtual movement from how much people suck at working / applying that they only want to do it from their phone. We need to have more work that isn't a locked-in slave wage. But rather, a loosely-based work-when-you-want slave wage.
"That much is true," mutters Wittgenstein's goth mistress, as she gazes into the tropical sunset, low over the desaturated turnpike. While squinting her eyes, a serotonin chill runs down her hips, and she remarks, deadpan: "Denny Damnsavich, the fire in my eyes." A sepiatone quality version of the original movie box-art for Total Recall blooms into the sky. It is reminiscent of a forgotten childhood memory of sorts…
For no other reason than, maybe, today contains that kind of vibe I felt from when I first learned to remember that memory...
Yeah, I needed to organize my thinking again so that I’m not only writing purely abstract plordway absurdist prose. Otherwise I’m left jobless writing corny rap freestyles.
"Would like to thank E anyway for showing me wordplay at a yung age. Tryptophan and molly percocet land, I give yall a hand. Man, I feel god’s plan to stab me in the chest like a heart attack can. Uh, my dick is an acronym for H.A.M. You make it shoot out a sneeze with a bless you (can I get an amen). Stan! Hard as a motherfucker, quieter than an uppercut, I shoot u in the chest, then I shoot u in tha neck! Bam! Margera’s to jackass what my dick is to a stuntman. I don’t give a fuck unless I am the cuntman! I come thru with the flonase, spread you out, mayonnaise. Don’t front with the jelly bitch bring me the CLAM…"
Or else; I was about to say I think I simplified my thesis for The Dead Soulmates Society as: a soulsick wanderer learns of his fatalistic demise when the angel of death is questionably his Divine Feminine other-half, his eternal significant other that can't get through to him.
It’s a balance of early Joycean writings with timestamps of fortune-teller seduction. As if the future me stops by with the Ferrari I drive, on an apocalyptic highway to straight to hell.
Nah. Gonna go be normal now. I’ll return with the flap of a cloak once I actually accomplish something concrete instead of pretending to be a writer! Some Toby Dammit I am. Some Nic Cage from Vampire’s Kiss exclaiming I’M A VAMPIYUHH. Some Pabert Rottinson Robert Pattinson exhibiting an identity crisis through his autoportraits during quarantine... I am whatever I say I’m not. If I was, then why would I say I’m not? Fuck you. Says Sid Haig at the end of Dead Man’s Hand, a Blue Moon Production. A big fuck you to the audience.
The soulsick wanderer hasn’t had any ontic sex for the past decade. Not out of inceldom, but because one day, quite overnight, he discovered he is the only person who exists. Let me get some of that motivational ass, said the soulsick wanderer to some mental construct of a voluptuous woman. He is overindulgently his own soulmate.
Shut up we have a guest speaker. It is me, solipsistically, inside an empty movie theater in an empty town on an empty planet. Nobody has occupied the seats for over 32 years, spare a few dusty corpses preserved in tattered designer clothes. A decade ago the Jarmusch film Only Lovers Left Alive screened here, the final showing before everything literally went to hell, where the wanderer, soulsick, sat next to his spooky lover and fingered her. Only to look over and realise it was a corpse of a memory projected. The soulsick wanderer has traveled full circle twice to the scene of criminal passion. He sees her sultry corpse all the more decomposed, plucks her petrified skull off with one hand, and echoes along with his footsteps to the front row, delivering another tone-deaf soliloquy to absolutely no one in particular. When no one is around to listen, who cares?
His Hamlet ways worse than a bad DVD copy of Beetlejuice that’s all scratched up under the disk. Coincidentally that’s what begins cranking out from the projector onto the screen behind him. There is no sound, so he commentates.
On pedagogy in general. I catch myself mansplaining (or venting, to put it politely) to my coworkers—all you skeletons out there—to keep myself grounded. We all have coworkers/skeletons like that, or at least I would like to think so. We are teachers to each other. Through the closer bonds kept and maintained, those tend to elevate maturity from each other’s dialogue. As to be students to each other at first, then relating to each other as teachers. You gotta have soundboards like this. Hearing how you come across to someone else. If the reflections of your thought processes fall flat on others, you are potentially surrounding yourself with the wrong people in the wrong environment. The wrong characters in the wrong settings. A skill most developed in adulthood I believe is an appreciation for context.
Tried telling my gf about my revival to write recently and was barking at her, "What's the point sharing it if you aren't smart enough to understand it." To which she quipped, "Sorry I am not STUPID enough to understand it."
A witty way to disarm my supposed superiority complex I guess. I don’t want to be pretentious or pompous, posh or stuffy. If I am, fart in my face! I might sometimes send my gf texts indicative of borderline aspergers that don’t really illustrate much other than confirming I probably am on the spectrum. To say autistic would be a compliment, as to be someone with aspergers would imply more impairment. Hush. Don’t take any offense. In denial of my low-functionality, I guess. That’s the problem with intelligence, though. Having a higher IQ, for example, (trust, I don’t conceit I am above average in that regard) is statistically abnormal. Anything statistically normal sets the room temperature that way—in other words, on average, the normal thing that’s expected and appropriate. (My glossolalia, my bad.) Anything that doesn’t fit into the norm is labeled in a patronizing way: "Don’t move that! That doesn’t belong there! Don’t put back the couch cushions like that! Don’t change the temperature — it’s good where it’s at!’' There is so much fussiness around keeping things normal. That regulating things to be normal is its own disorder. Call it hypernormalcy, if you will.
It just sucks that people in life will be more understanding if they see you take medication for the sake of trying to be normal. He's doing the right thing by taking his meds, they say. But oh, nooo, he's "doing nicotine" to self-medicate! That's bad! Into the gutter with him!
Whatever. Allow me to borrow a book from the library then. What's this? A quote from Annie Dillard? Why?
“The impulse to keep to yourself what you have learned is not only shameful, it is destructive. Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you. You open your safe and find ashes.”
That's also a very nurturing notion. She sounds like a great mother with a strong maternal tone behind her wisdom. I, on the other hand, am still a father in the making, baby…
Listen, son… Don't be like me...