I don’t feel lucky, I feel saddled. I feel trapped within this bubble of “supposed to be.” I played along. I really did my best. Best is never enough. There’s always better. There are past mistakes for everyone. Eidetic and see them every time you close your eyes. Close your eyes, but your mind is 7-11; always open, taking anyone in. The power of pathology is difficult to explain to people who function as people. Get married, have 2.3 kids, buy a house, just be happy. There are those of us who look like you. Went to the same schools. Eat turkey at Thanksgiving. We look the same. But this cognitive dissonance between what I see and what I feel is undeniable.
I get to judge
There are two kinds of hard rock fans. The first enjoy Brian Johnson’s vocals, as do I. We all loved Back in Black. The second, remember when Bon Scott came out with bagpipes and a kilt, and I’m in the group too. He gave zero fucks. And Angus Young was thrashing half-naked even as a boy dressed like a schoolboy because he was one. Then Kiss blew up and merchandised everything that a logo fits on. And Ozzy was snorting ants in the parking lot on a dare because he said he would do anything, and he certainly did even more than that. I understand that impulse. “You can’t possibly swallow that whole thing.” “Give it to me. Right now. Give it to me.” “I don’t think that’s safe.” “Now you’re the voice of reason? Give it to me.” Oh yeah, Mötorhead opened and Lemmy never looked down from the microphone and made punks look like hippies, which in a way they are. I have the word punk tattooed across my neck. I get to judge.
Unreliable narrator
I am an unreliable narrator.
I make no pretense to disinterest. Everything I use to fill the vacuum of this life is done by choice. Consciously or subconsciously, I am neck deep in my interests and biases. So are we all. The difference is my memory. It is eidetic. I can often remember things exactly as they happened. The trick to being unreliable is the interpretation of these events to suit the argument I am making, which may or may not remain consistent. It really depends on the moment. It depends on the audience.
Now for the hard part. Sometimes I am the sole member of this audience. And the cognitive dissonance that occurs during the process of packaging a situation is far more dissonant when the package is for self-consumption. It’s not impossible, clearly. And by what I’ve witnessed, I’m not the only person doing it. You see it in a color-by-numbers, kindergarten-simplicity when the law becomes involved. Statements are taken, snap judgments are made, then all evidence that fits a hypothesis is hoarded, while anything that subverts the accepted idea of “what happened” is summarily dismissed as coincidence or superfluous. In our personal lives, we do this shit on a whole other level. Why? Because we are fighting for our perceived actualization and the definition of our capital-s Self. That is a constant battle waged from cradle to grave, and everything is sacrificed in its effort.
The few individuals who can subvert this compulsion, or rise above it, are pointed to as heroes and anomalies of selfless wonder. Again, I don’t include myself, even remotely, among these beautiful freaks of human nature.
Pi revisited
Pi is a never-ending unfolding of an unlimited process. To the right of the decimal point, the numbers appear never to settle into repetition. For all intents, it is random in a way no intelligence, organic or artificial, can improve. In these ways, pi is a perfect proxy for what can never be known. No matter how long we look.
Perfect
What do you want? Perfect? Perfect shames and mocks you constantly. Should I bother spending half my life learning how to spell words that no one ever uses? Would that be perfect? Would a perfect score on the SATs make me perfect? Dial down a little when you judge me. Full disclosure? I’m almost the opposite of perfect. My brain articulates well. Don’t confuse that with I know what the fuck anything means or what I’m talking about. I’m the same sapient primate that you are.
Silence
Now watch me move the middle. I eat beauty all day, and then I reckon it a mess. Secrets, lies? They can’t be trusted in my ears or mouth. I’m good at lots of things. Silence is not one of them.
The ear of the mind of the soul
The difference is I was finished. I didn’t want it anymore. I’m not sure I ever wanted it. It felt like I wanted it. When I was holding it. I watched the heart of it beating. And I thought about what would make it stop. The heart is the ear of the mind of the soul. I wanted silence.
Calm air
There is a calm, creative air that my air breathes. And my best words are an approximation of this air. The wind blows harder occasionally, and it changes what I have to say. How about this? Know I love you. No matter what comes out of my mouth for 42 seconds. It’s going to be shitty. And it’s going to be true. And then it will be done.
Human nature
I don’t know how I know, but I know I know. That seems solipsistic, but, in fact, it is the opposite. I don’t know myself at all except looking backward. I constantly amaze myself with what I’m capable of doing. If my life were a movie, I would nudge you in the theater every three minutes, asking, ” What the fuck did he just do?”
Give me three minutes around you, though, and I will know exactly what you’re going to do next. I know human nature, I just don’t know mine.
Soft-boiled egg
She was slightly taller than me, 76 times better looking, and super age-inappropriate.
“Why do you like me?” I asked.
“I like smart.”
And so this weird thing began. She was smart, too. More street smart than me. Unfortunately, she had earned that. She was a soft-boiled egg—hard outside and soft in the middle.