Famous People

This is a famous guy you see all over shit. His name is Ryan, and I could care less, I only want him for his role in The Place Beyond the Pines.

I used to be one of those kids that worshiped famous people and dreamed about being one. There I was, watching rewards shows in awe, fantasizing about being on that stage; hanging out; rubbin’ elbows. It was ridiculous. I was like the white, suburb kid version of Precious.

That chimera has expired.

Now, I wouldn’t mind meeting famous people, but I wouldn’t mind meeting anyone – not really a big deal one way or the other. It’s because famous people are just regular people. There’s literally no difference, except more of us know who the famous ones are. They have money and adoration, but when it boils down that shit just isn’t substantial enough.

They still have physical boundaries, emotional relationships where they don’t always have all the leverage. A famous guy should wash their hands when they take a dump, and so should a regular dude. Ladies love shoes: Famous, check. Regular, check. I could go on, and on, but it’s not only non-profound, everyone already get’s this.

We all know famous people are famous. Pfft. But, do we really appreciate it? A quick look at the internet would tell me, “Not really.” Why do we lionize these people if they’re just like our boring assess?

This is a good question, but this isn’t about anyone else, it’s about me…

Today, I can’t watch a TV show without wondering what that actor is experiencing, for real, in that moment. Is there underwear riding up? Did they just get some bad news in between takes? Maybe they ate a burrito that fucked they’re shit up! Could someone on the set absolutely hate this actual, regular, vulnerable, insecure person. This so called famous person?

Sure I hold some in regard for their talents, however, there are people I’ve known that I can totally give them props for their talents/skill/fortitude, and that person is still a giant douche. And that’s okay. I just don’t want to have dinner with him any more than I do with someone I’ve never even met based on an illusion of who that person is.

It sounds cynical, but it’s not like I’m bummed out about it. I focus on who I’m with, people I can meet serendipitously just going out and being the regular person I am. I love my loved ones, prizing humility over honor.

Then I start to wonder how that would make them feel. To be ruled out simply because they are to well known. That is sort of fucked up. And why don’t I use the word celebrity more often. Probably because I have to spell it 5 times before I get it right…

Oh, well. I just think way to much.

 

Synthetic Sentiment 2.1

Anxiety is something I deal with on a daily basis. Okay, I’ll be honest, it’s more like I avoid it on a daily basis. I mention this because we now live in a time of accessible yet often confusing communication. Anxiety is one of those things that those who suffer have a hard time convincing those who don’t know exactly what it is, yet access to attempt communicating it is infinite.

Communication is instantaneous today, obviously, yet flawed in its impressionability; lacking in the whole of its sum parts; inelegant; deprived. But, plugged-in every nanosecond of the day, we can instantly be affected by media, opinion, and facts that fall directly in line with our own belief systems, or what we believe those are. And that’s a problem.

Let me explain…

Many entities in our world like seek out our behavior in everyday life. They entice our buying behavior, sleep patterns, and driving routes. They graph and chart our analytics and deliver us exactly what we want, when and how we want it. Every day. So, we don’t have to explore outward to terribly much. When we think that we are, we don’t even realize it was fed to us. We just follow whatever they dangle just within reach.

There is no mystery, and we don’t dig deep enough to get past those planted desires and desperations. When we consume important information we no longer examine it, we offer little perspective in processing that material. The worst of all, our brains have been programmed to believe this binary perversion is a matter of our existence. Our survival mechanisms kick in at the drop of a hashtag.

I’m not saying anyone is stupid. It isn’t something must of us are even realizing as time and responsibilities transpire, each of us believes we are doing “our” thing, maintaining our own lives. We have lost our ability to zoom out and look at things with a wider lens, and even the things we do to “help” are really just us doing something for ourselves.

This doesn’t mean every effort is futile, it’s just become very hard to discern what is a cause and what is marketing. Maybe they have merged together, but we hardly have the time let alone the tools to dismantle it all. There is so much information it’s like the whole of civilization is committing a giant file dump just to keep us stuck in contention. We are at odds with mass-produced, synthetic sentiment.

Even if it isn’t by design, it’s really quite sinister. But, what if we began realizing it? Our communication has always been evolving, after all, systems fail over time. These systems are then replaced. What if we began choosing that change on our own? We could change the narrative and start writing our own which opens up depth locked within us and expands our perceptions of the world outside.

To be continued…

Today

I’ve been asking myself what reasons I have to write. Why exactly have I ever felt compelled to spill my guts on paper (or online) and be accountable for the consequences of that, good or bad? I’ve been asking myself because I try to avoid the anxiety of writing. I work hard to steer clear of dealing with my demons, my guilt, and my inconsistencies in general. I’ve been asking myself to start writing every day, even just something like this, since I stopped publishing to this blog however long ago it was. Far to long.

I write in a notebook from time to time. I scribble down notes here and there. Heck, every now and then I even get a great draft of something I felt was going to be a serious thing. But, then I find that reason, any reason really, to let the guilt and doubt slip back in and give me a chance to avoid going after my passion and in turn stomp on my own creative dreams. Why do I do that?

Well, lately I think I’ve been getting to the bottom of where my anxiety and negative self talk comes into play for a very specific reason. It isn’t a part of me that is mean, or angry, or any of that – I can use those emotions to my advantage creatively. It’s a part of me that’s still a child, likely. A part of me that does these seemingly ridiculous, self-destructive things to protect me. That part just happens to be misinformed.

So, I’ve been talking to that self in me. Asking that part if it’s okay to re-frame the actions it habitually takes and instead turn them into an action that will benefit all of the me’s inside this crazy head of mine. After all this time I’ve been beating myself up for not fitting in and having these ideas that make people uncomfortable because it confronts things they don’t want to deal with. Turns out, this is my strongest attribute; even more so than my talents.

Other people may be culpable in creating this me; doesn’t matter. They don’t have any motivation to change that anyhow. Only I do. And, I may have made a lot of ass backwards decisions that got me in trouble or brought me to new lows; that doesn’t matter either. Well, it counts for getting me to where I am at least. And I wouldn’t trade all that hurt and heartache for anything right now. I’m broken and it’s amazing.

So I’m asking myself right now to make a promise. Today, not tomorrow, I will write something and post it, at least here on this blog, every day. I’m not going to judge it, or get anxious about it, or even have any other expectations of it besides that it’s every day. I plan to write other things, and create whatever comes to mind with a goal and purpose, but that’s not a requirement or excuse for me to back down on the promise I’m making right now.

I’m going to confront my fears.

Today.

On How to Not “Fit In”

So I don’t always listen to my own advice. I’m going to blame it on inevitability instead of my own amount or lack of self-control. I know that I have the ability, it’s where my real focus lies at any given moment, not some cap on my strength or potential. My potential is huger than I am cognitive of.

I think that may be why people take such a confrontational stance against me. I want to convey that just because I’m smart, talented, and straight to the point with my input to others, it doesn’t mean I am free of flaws or incapable of screwing up. Quite the opposite. It takes a lot of work to stay balanced with the perception and insight that I do have.

The way I was programmed into the person I am today is quite in opposition to my actual desires or goals of whom I want to be. But, I can’t make people change their minds. There is no magical phrase or easy in – no matter what anyone tells you is possible. I’m the one that has to realize how different I am from the “average” way people view the world and people in it around them. I must keep stepping forward even if it is a little to the side sometimes.

It must remain a forward progression.

The things that bother me about people I need to be able to brush off through relating or forgiving by means of progressive meditation. This is meditation that I use in real-time. There just isn’t enough time to sit around and deeply meditate about every little thing that irks me about society and it’s individuals. I need to make snap judgments as I interact and progress. By the minute, by the second – constantly. If I fail to make a connection at some level, I must default to forgiveness.

Because I need to feel comfortable being me in a world full of people who are not.

The Scent of Unscented

He fumbled through darkness with a lighter in hand, to find his place. He had set out a large candle, a pad of paper and a pen on his desk. Flicking the lighter to life, he used it to guide his intent to the first wick, lingering briefly to enkindle the target. Then, deftly maneuvering to the neighboring wicks, he offered each the gift of fire.

A triad of flames now huddled at the bottom of a shallow recess in the orange candle. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the low light.

The edge of the candle obstructed direct illumination from the flames and cast a shadow upon the wall of notes and sketches in front of him. It snapped and bounced below a soft, uneven glow, like empty frames of film, loosely set in a reel to reel projector. His thoughts drifted to days of elementary school and the constant rolling click of an educational film.

He wavered with a sleepy yawn.

Shaking away the sensation, he snatched up the pen and pad and began to write. He scribbled down observations of the tall, cylindrical candle. It’s deep orange facade, marbled in a chalky patina. It’s top quarter glowing with a fiery orange gradient. It’s short range of spherical warmth against his face.

As he wrote, the scent of unscented wafted outward co-mingling with the fumes of his ultra fine point Sharpy and together invaded his olfactory. The sensation amplified the fuzzy warm feeling in his cheeks, as the nerves in his face gently tingled, mocking a subtle intoxication.

His focus diminished.

He found himself locked in a sleepy gaze, eyes fixed again upon the jittery box of light projected before him. His thoughts began to unravel, and he felt the urge to use the bathroom. Exhaling through pursed lips, he returned himself to darkness.

He waited once more for his eyes to adjust, remembering how back in elementary school they would call the bathroom, “the lavatory”. There in the dark, a grin crinkled up on his tired face.