||[27 Jan 2011|09:05pm]
The thing I love about live journal, the derelict shopping mall that it has become, is that it's a consistent experience. Reminds me of camping or climbing a hill. For whatever abundant joy it provides you can rest assured that it's always going to be there in the same form as the day you found it.
So recently I've been thinking about all the shit that has changed in one year. One year. One-unbelievably-what-the-fuck-happened-to-me-all-of-a-sudden year. One of those. The kind you apparently write about. So I come out of something huge and land squarely in another huge something, then I come out with my hands in my pockets and my back resting against a tree house with a letter of acceptance from Cal Poly bulging from my pocket, sandals on my feet, a new car, family in health dire straights, and an incidental, yet completely necessary new lease on living.
Now I'm doing what I should be doing, fixing myself. Something great and unflinchingly monumental happened to me this past year. I crossed the threshold of responsible young adult into grown ass manhood. Fortunately, the chest hair arrived a decade ago.
But, like all good things, I'm doing my best to keep this all in perspective. This will end some day. All good things have that problem.
The good news is that I won't be going back. I made the transition, leaving childhood, ultimately, in the memory box tucked away as the chapter that it should be. But that's okay. I realized this year that when I lost the things I once thought were more important than anything else is the moment when I became a better, self reliant (in every way) man. Not just that, one who appreciates his humble beginnings. I mean, if you would have told me at 20 that I wouldn't move out permanently until I was 28, but that it would be okay because I'd be moving into a tree house, I'm not sure how I would have reacted. We would probably be fully recovered from our wounds around this year.
I still get that humbling sensation: like the right moves were miraculously made in proper succession. The other good news is that being alone is fruitful and can be the utmost of personal blossoming. You realize having your own place is--indeed--a chaotic, temperamentally lonely experience, but mostly it's an abundant source of inward confrontation of ones happiness. You do what you want because nothing's there to influence your decision. You do what you want because it's what you feel most deserves your attention. Do I want to make a sandwich, hike up the hill to eat it while watching the sunset in Pismo Beach harbor? Hell yes. I'll take some excruciatingly cheesy amateur photography while I'm at it. I'll also post said photography to the internet because I'm sure it'll be appreciated there.
For whatever reason, I've been thinking that my sense of humor would turn into something of a script, a funny short story or lead somewhere inadvertently professional. I write this, but I'm also trying not to lie to myself. I haven't made a nickel from writing in years. The odd thing is that I write so much for school and occasionally for the magazine that you'd think I'd be in the habit of writing personally more often. I'm also a completely mediocre writer. Let's forget that.
For awhile I'd serve the ideas onto my girlfriend’s plate and she'd eagerly (okay, that's a lie) discuss them with me. Those ideas would have been shopped on this blog, humbly and banally hoisted onto your screen as if my trivial bullshit meant anything to anyone other than myself. We all have this problem. Anyway, I did too much of that, put too much of myself into something at exactly the wrong time for her and myself, then lost a part of me that was really fucking cool, my biting sense of humor. School is also to blame. I always lose my funny side during the school year, it makes more sense considering how much I work in addition to the school related work. But with respect to my girlfriend (ahem--ex), my sense of humor was replaced by something I wasn't comfortable or flattered by in least. You know what women want more often than you'd guess? They like being with dudes that are fun to hang around. You know what chicks don't want? Listening to relationship bullshit. Like a lot of relationship, self confrontation what-does-this-mean crap. No one does. We all want to punch that dude square in the genitals, a reminder that he does--in fact--have genitals. We all like being around people that are fun to be around, not wait to be the villain (again) or help a person work though more crap that will go away or solve itself on its own.
The funny thing about relationships I'm starting to realize is that they have a proportionally counter effect on my creativity. Okay, this is partially true. The other part is that I (quite frankly) suck at the piano so I feel embarrassed playing for anyone, and no one enjoys having to be an audience member when you thought you were going to be a movie buddy or something. It's funny, because you'd expect the opposite would occur, that people would instigate creativity--you'd also be wrong. Relationships make you feel insecure about your creativity, very vulnerably so. Anyway, the good news is that relationships also suck up a lot of the creative shit I'd normally write about or complain about anyway.
Also, let's be honest about another thing too, being a 29 year old with a "journal" is pretty lame. Hell, I know dudes at 29 that go to soccer practice and shop at Costco for a night out on the town. Kirkland signs another win. The other day I saw dude on a date at Novo wearing pleated Dockers and he couldn't have been over 28--I mean, come on? Really. Gonna go full-on '90s dad so soon? This other dude had those light blue denim jeans, like, the kind you see Obama wear on the weekends. The kind that I didn't realize were still being manufactured post communist Russia. Like, clearly the light blue jean line manager is like an debate team God, I bet he was there to convince the world it could use genocide and nuclear winter. Here, wear these vagina drying blue jeans. The kind of color that old people die on in the hospital. Wear them. Feel hot and ultrafuckable.
Anyway, I've been experiencing a lot of inward crap recently (I think we formalize this as transitional thoughts) and it probably wouldn't be a bad idea to write more in my journal, work through some of these ideas here, privately.
You know what the worst feeling of regret is? I'll give you a hint, it's not when you consciously did something bad and it came back to smite you. What really burns is the regret from when you had an amazing opportunity, one that would shape the next couple of years and you totally blow it. Like, not just blow it. Like, blow it then fuck its mother in the grandmothers bed. I'm giving this more than it deserves. Okay, so like many regrets, this one begins with a girl. Shit, I dunno, maybe six or seven years ago I totally visited this girl--mind you, she wasn't the only reason, and it's not like it was going to go anywhere or turn into anything, but I had this singular, resoundingly perfect moment to kiss her and I totally chumped out to the maximus. Chumped out to the maximus would be the best Roman porn name ever. Off track, sorry, I mean she even waited for me after a show. It was a magnificent day we spent together exploring and I completely blew the kiss. We never spoke again and I completely lost contact with and--again--it wouldn't have turned into anything, but I always think about how I blew that kiss, when it was absolutely appropriate and would have tailored the moment indelible. Later, cut to me flying back home vowing never to do that again.
Here's the problem with the cursed nice guy badge. The problem isn't that nice guys finish last--well, I mean, that part is also true--it's that nice guy blind goodwill veils opportunities where a normal person would do something amazing and risk-taking. Nice guys yield to risk in lieu of propriety and the jostling fear that a moment may go unintentionally weird. It's a factor that nice dudes have to deal with, we like when everyone is having a good time and enjoying our company, we're literally aware of our presence in a space. It's self conscious wrapped in a bit of insecurity, but nice guys genuinely don't want bad times, so they cave and avoid anything that could hazard into a bad moment. This includes being the kind of brave where you know it's the appropriate time to kiss a girl. It's also ironic because great moments tend to germinate from spontaneity. She probably would have come back to the hotel even. I mean, dude, it was a royal fuck up on my part. I still regret that moment. Good news is that a lesson came with the territory.
Okay, enough of that.
And here's another completely random tangent. I love Chill Wave music. There. I said it and I'm not ashamed. I love rolling down the windows, opening the roof and driving ocean-side with this ridiculously silly, beautiful, and ambient sunset-techno music. It makes me feel like this moment, the one I'm living, is so deserved that it has its own special, tailor-made soundtrack. The music--I mean, come on--is optimistic (cool shit alone) but it's also upbeat, hypnotically relaxing and totally west coast. Suddenly I'm Joe west coast.
And I miss the abundant good people that used to be in my life. Although, this is improving. Who would have thought that living with your father at 28 wasn't conducive to a worthwhile social life. I'm finding new local people... Jesus, I need to stop this bullshit. No one, me included, wants to read about me meeting people. Jesus Christ, dude. I think this is the end of this entry. I should do this more often. It feels remotely therapeutic, except without all that identity crisis bullshit.