“That being said, [Towel Boy] is undoubtedly correct: we’re lucky that we can speculate in a positive direction rather than lament a failed experiment.” —Christopher DeFilippis
Well, here we are. The second half of 2012. I am sitting in a stucco porch. On my left are the glass doors leading to my parent’s condo. On my right is a wall of two floor-to-ceiling windows that look out on a a tree with fuchsia flowers, two tall palm trees, the generic blue sky and a few fluffy clouds. Yesterday I flew into Tampa and a tropical depression that after two weeks had now become a tropical storm. Darkness and wind and intermittent downpours of rain…my favorite conditions, actually.
There was also that unique feeling of being on a plane as it moves through clouds so thick that when you look out the window all you see is a netherworld of white. You hear the engines and you know the plane is moving across at least four dimensional coordinates yet all you see is the void: illusion of stillness, no forms and therefore no distances, the unholy absence of geometry. A fixed phase of timelessness. The eternal stagnation of this present moment.
Last week at this time I was suffering deleterious waves of dickishness and anger, having spent 12 hours a day, 3 days in a row in a room with six giant windows, only two of them open, with no a/c, packing and stacking boxes during the heat wave whilst stupidly skipping meals like breakfast and lunch.
I’ve gone long past the point of believing in real change, for myself that is. Which is kind of disturbing, because if I can’t change myself, then my world won’t change. And it’s not my world, it’s our world. So in a way I feel that by not self-actualizing, I’m letting Us down. Sure, I can affect change. Yet at the core my score is zero, null set, negated opportunities.
You know when it feels like everyone else has become self-actualized but you? All of your friends are on their separate paths. They have their mates, spouses, kids or careers. They have their hobbies that they pursue with passion. In short, they have a sense of purpose. Then you go back to your life and you’re forced to ask yourself, “What have I done? What am I doing? I should’ve done all those things by now. Is it too late?”
You know when it feels like they’re all privy to a secret? You see the sideways glances, the silent agreement. You should be in on it. You are, or were, in on it, once. But when you forget they will never directly remind you. Always, you must figure it out for yourself. You must want to play along. And you must learn to play well.
I think the real secret is consistency. If you consistently think negatively, then that is your reality. How many times I find myself interrupting a train of thought to realize that those thoughts have been carrying me the whole time while my true awareness fell asleep behind the wheel. Being aware is hard work. That’s why it’s so easy to become cognitively asleep. That movie Click with Adam Sandler, when he would put the remote on autopilot. He was there, but he was never really present. A passive fast-forward toward a future that only ends up as this present moment.
All of it is only striving. If I could free myself from the tyranny of the other, I could just do me. I’d be dangerous with that kind of confidence. Maybe that’s why I keep it at bay.
One thing’s certain. I do not consider myself to be an adult. Yes I’m 34. Yes my hair is grey. Yes I have a herniated disc. One of my favorite maxims is that there is a distinct difference between being a grown-up and being an adult. Every schmo on the planet, borrowing premature death, will grow up. Not everyone will become an adult. Adulthood is a mindset, a way of thinking and acting. I don’t believe I’m there yet. I keep seeking an external reason, something to anchor onto like this will be the thing to finally get me in gear, the reason I’m doing it all, the deus ex paradiso.
The right thoughts come at the wrong times. I can never grasp them, pin them down and examine them. The infinite subdivision of neural circuitry distorts the reception. It takes time to convert the thoughts to words, convert the words to fine motor skill movements of fingers and word processing. By then so much is lost. Voice recording helps, it’s just hard to set a discipline of replaying and transcribing. Still, there needs to be a filter. If you’ve made it this far, consider yourself purified.
I think of you when you’re not here and when you’re near I forget myself in the equation. I miss you and love you and wish there was a space where we could be together for all time. I could call you instantly with my infinite vibe and you’d come. We’d abide in the timeless, pulling rhymes from a vine to make wine with.
This is only a snapshot. Endless succession of digressions. Amateur flipbook of falsely animated action. Be still.
Like an ummapped fractal my words are collapsing. They whorl into a yellow/black labyrinth of spiraling vortices.
24 hours after I arrived here, the storm cleared out a day earlier than predicted. These are just seasons, storms, temperate pauses–all temporary conditions toward climactic change. Whether or not we notice, everything was always as it will be. As am I.
Towel Boy got washed up in a whorl of time.