random thoughts and thoroughbred selections

Monday, June 13, 2005

Blog-Churning Goofball

My hot neighbor spent the weekend moving out of the downstairs apartment in my house. This isn't a big blow or anything, as she was significantly out of my league and dating (in her words) some "train-jumping goofball." Said goofball is barely 20 years old, drives a beat-up mini-van with ski goggles hanging from the mirror, pro-life bumper stickers, and likes to walk around without a shirt.

If I had six pack abs and a face that was at least 40% more attractive, I'd probably walk around bare-chested too. I don't know why a 30 year old chick would want to waste her time with some moron pretty-boy, but when you've got more problems than a math book maybe even hot chicks take what they can get.

Anyway, I mention the neighbor because I've been living in the house for nearly a year and a half, and it wasn't until just this weekend that she turned on the central AC. The house's heat and air is only controllable from a downstairs thermostat, and because the AC hits only the downstairs electric bill, she never ran it last summer. Since she's leaving, she popped it on for me.

Thank god, it's been HOT in these parts.

Fans or no fans, without the AC on it's been nearly impossible to take mid-day naps on the weekends. I rather enjoy collapsing on the couch in that dead zone of two o'clock Sundays and ekeing out an hour or two of sleep. Since I"m up so damn early every day (six AM neighborhood consistently), these naps are one of my favorite things about a weekend. I normally sleep right side down, so I have a spot on the couch I normally reserve so I'm not breathing into the back cushions while I sleep.

Problem was, the dog was there already, and I didn't want to move him. So I took the other end, the other pillow, found a spot for my feet that wouldn't disturb Frye, and crashed.

Different people handle those moments that straddle awake and asleep in different ways. My ex-wife was always groggy with just a little grumpiness that suggested she resented being awake at all. I found that kind of cute and endearing. What she found cute on my end were those rare occasions where I wake from a deep sleep and appear lucid, but my conscious self hasn't yet come around to being fully alert. I babble, I'm disoriented, I have no idea what's coming out of my mouth and couldn't repeat it seconds later anyway. It's really kind of funny.

If you're not me.

I slept for three quarters of an hour Sunday, deeply, on the wrong end of the couch. I woke up too soon, and wasn't at all sure where I was. My first thought was to ask myself if I were still in Vegas. I didn't know, maybe I was. I couldn't put the logic together in those first few seconds that it was my couch, my apartment, my home in which I was awakening.

Still here, still me, still...

Life was still there right where I left it, and it took me a moment on Sunday to get my arms around that concept.

Thing is, I'm a daydreamer, but I'm not like Edison or Newton or Dr. Pauly where daydreams are sometimes a lightbulb moment, the apple to the head that spurs constructive thought, or the imagination of some sort of Gonzo project fueled by a publisher's advance.

Daydreams to me are about freedom from this cubicle monkey drudgery, and they are always about the easy way out. Winning the lottery, hitting a pick six, parlaying a parlay score to another parlay payoff. I don't dream about where this job is going to get me in two, six, or twenty years. I don't dream about collecting a book award or signing copies of my latest for a bunch of rabid fans.

Those dreams aren't simple. I'd need to actively work to make those dreams happen.

I can draw a basic picture of what goes on inside my head, but I wish I could take you all inside of my insecurities and understanding of reality for a day or two. Insecurities thrive on this sort of self-indulgent pessimism that I can't shake, but at the same time they battle what I feel is a pretty realistic view of who I am and why these insecurities are largely bullshit.

I wonder why you guys stop by hear to listen to my rambling bullshit. I wonder how anyone could possibly put up with that whiny little bitch side of me. I wonder what your agenda is when you tell me you enjoyed something I wrote, or tell me I have talent. I don't think I'm worth anything but this cubicle monkey gig I've got going.

Thing is, I know I can express myself in a consistently engaging fashion using the written word. I know I have a good idea for a "book" (again, using "book" in the sense that I could write a few hundred pages of semi-fiction, not that you'll ever see it on a shelf in a Barnes & Noble), and I know that what I've written so far for that "book" is actually pretty decent. I know I (usually) have a fairly interesting blog because I'm as open and critical about myself as I am. I know that if I were to "work on it," whatever that means, I could likely improve into a fairly talented guy behind this keyboard. I know that if I were able to earn a steady gig as a writer in some capacity, I could be productive and successful.

I'm my own train wreck inside my mind. It's really quite spectacular.

I opened my eyes on Sunday afternoon and found myself staring with blurred vision into the khaki chenille cushions of my couch, and could not for a moment figure out where I was. I soon figured out I wasn't in Vegas, and I was still me, still at home, still alone, still writing, but still not remotely trying to do anything but be some blog-churning goofball.

Even if that's all I ever end up being is some blog-churning goofball, I'm not really trying to be the best goddamn blog-churning goofball I can be.

Dammit.

I've really spent most of the last twenty years not even trying. It's my trademark. I've got a scary head for remembering details, I write fairly well, I can construct and deconstruct logical arguments if given the chance. I've just chosen not to try.

This should be its own topic, about how I've done everything in my power since Junior High to effectively disappear. Maybe I'll write that post soon. But this has always been one of those areas where the insecurities have shouted down the encouraging voices in my head.

I'm not really sure I even want to try. Not because trying is hard, or I'm incapable. Neither of those things are true. It's more because I can't handle validation or criticism from the outside. I so desperately just don't want to be noticed that it's becoming that sort of self-fulfilling prophecy from which there seems to be no escape.

There is escape, I just need to kick myself in the ass and try to make it work.

Well, that and maybe stop taking naps on the wrong end of the couch.

[>>]posted at 11:39 AM by BG - click to email
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