As a youth I did many incredibly stupid things. Rebelling as I saw fit in any manner. Doing outlandish things. Maybe my mind ordained it, maybe fate, who knows. But I was an extremist in my rebellion.
Age has shown me what a mature, smart rebel possesses: nuance. Rebellion is not some grandious act carried out in the most crazy manner possible. Not seeking attention and recognition for an act. It is tiny rebellious actions over and over. Every opportunity for the tiniest rebellion taken. Relished. (Even the smallest slights against the status quo (what many would call passive-aggressive).) The refined rebel understands the weight of these tiny actions, no matter how small they may appear to the world.
Together they make up the rebel that can do something — that actually does something.
Mom talks about the— while grandmother whispers how there's— step-dad agrees and placates mom who's still talking all together, simultaneously, in different but the same voices and at some point I'm looped in against my will and I just want to write talk feel peace for a second alone in my mind away from people and their petty drama can I hear myself think no, no never I have to play nice be good keep quiet they wouldn't care if I said a word anyway they speak for me over me against me and I'm better off keeping my mouth shut but then why am I sitting here why even be in the room does anyone question whether or not anyone else is enjoying themselves or are they so wrapped up in their own heads that their pointless trials and tribulations are the most important thing in the world, superseding all else?
For months or years or I-don't-know-how-long I've been afraid to move. My mindset is one of stillness and stagnation; of one person, one place, one pursuit, one life. Maybe it was the first long-time relationship, the first girlfriend I lived with. Maybe I learned to constrain my love and my life.
I used to have many lives I lived, within me and in reality; yet I forgot them for a singular pursuit that was outside of me; my ideas from life as an artist, life as a lover, life as a musician, life as a painter, life as an electrical engineer, all given up for life as The American Dream™.
These multiple lives, these loves, I've always compared in my writing to a woman. Any beauty in the world is “her.” The trees blowing in the wind: her dance. The sun shining on my face: her smiling. The sound of birds or rustling leaves or crashing waves: her song.
I guess if I were to imagine an anthropomorphic god, I'd rather it manifest as all the best parts of all the women I've ever known in my life; some free-spirited, infinitely wise creature of unending love who can create an entire universe without wanting anything in return (better her than a bearded old dude who thinks he knows how I should act).
And in a way I am “her,” in those now-rare moments when I recognize her. It's a one-ness with everything within and without. It's acceptance of the entire world; taking all the good and the bad in and saying this is me — and this is us all.
I need my many lives back. I can't live limited to one love — whether a career or a person or pursuit or place. If I'm ever going to survive I need to be free to love all that I can and all that I'm able to.
Saying sorry doesn't mean the same thing to me that it does to many, I think. I don't wait for someone to apologize for something they did. I don't instantly forgive them as soon as they say “I'm sorry.”
To me, an apology isn't much more than a show of humility. It simply says, I fucked up, and I'm self-aware enough to realize it wasn't a good thing. It's the verbal bowing of the head, making yourself small, backing off of your aggression.
Otherwise when people insult me or do something to me I don't like, I don't view it as some wrong that needs to be “righted” with an act of contrition. I see it simply as a plain, rare moment of raw truth. As social creatures we mostly try not to hurt others around us, so when I or someone does hurt others, it says something very important about who they are as a person — something unobscured by the faces we put on to get along with others; something very blunt and honest.
It's my view that you can't stop people from doing these things (only they can stop them before they happen), and frankly there's nothing to “right” once they've done something I don't like. They're just being honest.
What it comes down to as the receiver of such a slight, is what you're willing to accept. Apology or not, damage is still done (even the apologizer knows this; all they can do is shrink). The real important question that you can ask yourself at any point after the damage has been done is: are you okay with that person being around you, now that they've bluntly shown you who they are? Do the benefits outweigh the negatives of someone like that? If you didn't delude yourself into thinking you could change them, and had to accept them just like this, are you okay with that?
Sitting here working on that novel I've been wanting to write for years now, listening to old Nine Inch Nails that reminds me of no worry, no weight of the world bearing down on me. This realization, in contrast to when I break my concentration, when I mentally look at the normal concerns of my mind, makes me wonder: why do I need to worry about all these things? Will my world collapse if I stopped mentally juggling these anxieties?
I suspect the answer is no. And for now I'll stop juggling.
Until I remove my headphones, walk outside, and the pins and unicycle call for me again.
As you get older and the world grows more complex and nuanced, you face a choice: fight to maintain control over your reality, or lose confidence in your ability to influence the world.
It occurs to me while looking at my past behavior—that of “managing” people, lying to get my way and control a situation—and in that of my mother and father: a strong desire for control over the world around us.
Yet my mother and I share the same quiet behavior: drinking to excess. My theory on this Sunday afternoon is that being drunk gives us sweet contentment: an unspoken awareness that we don't control the world around us, and the plain outward acceptance of that. We strike up conversations we never would've otherwise had, smoke cigarettes we “quit” years ago, and carry on with strangers that we don't see a future with.
Our fight for control is an unconscious one that manifests in very conspicuous behaviors and routines. Perhaps the only way out is realizing what I'm really doing when I go for a drink. Around friends or not, I'm looking to give up my tight illusory grasp on my environment; to forget, for a night, my fantasy of control.
The word for my mental state perhaps popped into my head last night: neurotic. Anxious about all the things I realistically can't control; a constant babysitter; gently, incessantly concerned for things.
A little Google search provided an answer: think about death.
Hey, not a bad idea.
It sounds funny, but I've been here before. The times I was only concerned with my own world, when I constantly invented, I had death on my mind. It was strangely, immediately present; right in my face. I had to get the most out of my day because I was going to not have a day at some point. I felt this coursing through my body with every beat of my heart.
Every minute was important because it was that minute. The simple fact it existed was enough to make it significant.
I've lost that feeling with the infinite distractions I've decided to entangle myself with. So I'm back to thinking about death. Whereas it came naturally then as a means, here I have the end in mind — and I must consciously follow this path there.
I'm going to die some day. Feel my heartbeat; breathe deeply.