Reflections: Mortal Anxiety & Stuff
I haven’t been blogging much because wouldn’t you know when I’m not in Bushwick I’m a lot less annoyed and don’t feel the need to blast my personal judgments against local assholes online. Truthfully, I haven’t been blogging much because my brain is pre-occupied with finishing my novel. I’ve always thought everything about my life is interconnected because I’m a self-centered metaphysical philosopher.
And being in Kentucky – away from my favorite noisy distractions, and debt-inducing watering holes – I’m beginning to believe it more.
#SAEP is a manifestation of my experiences and opinions, the ideas we absorb over time (whether or not we believe them, or know that we believe them), and the people who come into our lives, how they change our beliefs, or unlock new ones. At least that’s what I intend it to be.
But intending a story to be something and what it actually becomes are not always the same thing. Additionally, my perspective on a story at the start is always different at the end of it. I go in with one idea cushioned with a couple more, with all these sides, and colors and shades, and moments I want to create, capture, and explore. Then, I begin the tedious activity of outlining, writing, and rewriting the same things over and over again until I can stand to read them.
It’s rarely ever easy. The whole process is like going on a scavenger hunt for heroin inside a precinct.
Because it’s never just about the story.
Writing, for me, is chasing a short and very romanticized high. Those moments when the perfect words pass completely through you, from above the crown chakra and right onto the paper. And you think it’s because you’re so smart, creative, and witty, and talented, and all whatever else. But it’s really that you’re a medium. It’s really that you’re a tool for the story. And the real high isn’t in the satisfaction of reading back what you wrote and not hating it.
Liking my own work is simply a nice after effect, like a thank-you note on the night stand. The real high is while the words are passing, and I’m not actually anywhere because where I really am is not a “real” place. The loop of it is that the world isn’t anywhere either. Nothing else exists, but the story, passing through me. And all I ever want, when I write, is for that to happen.
That shit is CRACK.
So here I am, chasing my high like a junkie, tricking in the alleys and combing through the dumpsters of my own mind, away from the preoccupations of my “real” life. And nearly everyday I remember I’m going to die. This is a thing that’s been going on since I was a child. It went away when I got to college and started smoking weed and fucking hot guys. Because drugs and sex are the easiest escapes for a mind that thinks too much. They are the ultimate easy way out. And now that I’m on an extended recess from both, my mortal anxiety is back.
Oh well, right. We’re all going to die. Everyone knows it. I’m not sure if everyone else has the daily reminder like a stick in their back, or cramp in their neck pinching and pushing them to keep doing something, to quickly figure out some puzzle because time is running out. But that is me everyday. And the least and most I can do is write to neutralize it.