As he faced the sun he cast no shadow
Earlier tonight I was contemplating admiration, and how, if at all, it is different from envy. At least in respect to the people I hold in a higher regard.
In particular, I was thinking about Jack Kerouac and how much esteem I hold him in, as an artist, almost separate from his works. I enjoyed ’On The Road’, thought ’The Dharma Bums’ was an excellent read and was in awe of his abilities over the written word in what I’ve read of ’The Town and the City’. His writing is raw and real in a way completely separate from other books and authors I’ve enjoyed like Thoreau or Wilde. Possibly because his voice is of a modern, more tangible time.
The biography ’Desolate Angel’ gave such a rich vision into his life and displayed some of the real tragedy that made this legend I had never heard of into a human being the same as myself. He was lost and confused by the world. Passionate and opinionated. A drunk manic. Its funny though how we can forgive all the negatives of the people we hold in high regard... and probably would not accept them without the vice.
But, can I say I admire him when it is clearly envy.
I envy his time: The world then was still left with some innocence.
I envy his passion: He carried a notebook everywhere he went. He didn’t wait until he had time to write down his ideas. He did it immediately as it came into his mind. Writing was his life. It’s all he really cared about and was his only goal.
I envy his adventures: He traveled across the country and back again. Several times by many different methods.
I envy his convictions: He didn’t want to be tied down by possessions or The Man and stayed true to that. He was a free spirit, even as he was imprisoned by his own torment.
I envy his opportunities: His friends and contacts were some of the most influential people of that period.
He lived the life I only fantasize about, and had fantasized about before I even knew he had lived it. So can I really say it is admiration when in actuality it is some form of jealousy. A person of conviction would not spend their time lamenting over the life they are not living, because they would be busy doing what it is they wanted. So, here I am again, spending my time lamenting over a life I think I am owed that I do nothing to try and gain.
I am not wigging out about turning 30, but I am seeing it as some kind of marking post on this ”journey”. The same way I used to get about December 31st and my New Year’s resolutions. It’s almost like a review at work... ”So what have you done with yourself the past 29.99 years?”
I was looking at myself in my shaving mirror tonight in the shower, as I was thinking about Kerouac and I had one of those moments where I saw this really old person looking back. I look like hell. Not healthy at all. I certainly haven’t felt healthy. I have had acid reflux from hell the past week. Even before the Oscar party and that chili cheese dip. My gut has been feeling bigger and more uncomfortable and my chin seems to be having children. And this cluster of zits I’ve had on my cheek since New Orleans is still there every morning like an oasis of puss on my desert-dry face.
It’s not like I didn’t know I was going to learn this lesson. And I am certain I wrote about it once or twice before leaving the Circus. When I moved into a bigger apartment after bitching for months and months, I knew it wouldn’t change anything even as I trumpeted about how much happier I was. Same thing with this job. It’s only a job and some outward situation I just happened to be involved in now. It has nothing to do with who I am on the inside and the demons I am constantly at battle with. I can’t act like I didn’t know otherwise. It’s not me, the victim. Though I can’t say it’s me the realist either, since reality might be exactly what I am mentally rebelling against in lieu of some fantasy I think I’ve been denied.
If I spent one-quarter of the energy trying to do something as I do talking about how mad I am about things not going my way, I’d be far from here right now.
Is this who I am? Is this my nature? Behavior I have learned? Brain chemical imbalances?
One might scoff at the sheer pretentiousness of my audacity as I walked to the El tonight and thought to myself ”I am tired of this commute”. After all the I went through before, I am already complaining about this new, hour and a half shorter commute.
What is it then, I ask myself? What do you expect? What do you want? What do you think it is you deserve? How much longer can you go on like this doing nothing and complaining about it like the choice isn’t yours?
The problem is, I don’t really know what it is I’d rather be doing. I know I don’t really want to go to work anymore. Not very realistic, but if we’re talking about the honest thoughts and feelings in my head, I think I have a significantly higher distaste for the daily grind than the average person who accepts it as a necessary evil. I don’t expect something for nothing. I’d really just like to wake up and be happy. Happiness that doesn’t come from buying something or living up to a certain standard. Just genuine happiness to be alive.
It doesn’t feel right to me. The entire concept of modern society. I live in it. I do all these things to go along with it. I find pleasure in a lot of it. But, at the end of the day, like right now which is the end of this particular day, I am completely unfulfilled. My life utterly lacks purpose. I can be told a million times in a thousand different ways what great opportunities I have, but if those opportunities leave me just as empty, then what good are they to me?
But here is the paradox again, what is it I’d rather be doing. How would my time be better spent? What life am I fashioning for myself otherwise?
None.
It’s all talk talk talk, which is equally as pointless and without purpose. I’ve been like this for years. I am not suddenly going to have a revelation now and be a new man tomorrow. I’ve had all the time in the world to do that, and as far as I know, I am the same dullard I’ve always been.
I hate going to sleep at night. Because it means I’ll have to wake up in the morning. If there was ever a concept that was more disrespectful to this life I have been given, I haven’t heard it yet. Dramatics aside, I really feel life is a precious gift; but all I can do is judge myself on how I’ve squandered my gift.
People might want to classify me as some kind of manic-depressive, but the thing is, when I am high, I don’t forget about the lows. They are always still there. Just within sight in the back of my mind. I really am not as oblivious as it might seem during any specific dictation.
It’s just depressing, this idea that maybe five or ten years from now, I’ll still be right here saying the same things over and over like I do now. At least Kerouac had the decency to pull inward and become a drunk.
In particular, I was thinking about Jack Kerouac and how much esteem I hold him in, as an artist, almost separate from his works. I enjoyed ’On The Road’, thought ’The Dharma Bums’ was an excellent read and was in awe of his abilities over the written word in what I’ve read of ’The Town and the City’. His writing is raw and real in a way completely separate from other books and authors I’ve enjoyed like Thoreau or Wilde. Possibly because his voice is of a modern, more tangible time.
The biography ’Desolate Angel’ gave such a rich vision into his life and displayed some of the real tragedy that made this legend I had never heard of into a human being the same as myself. He was lost and confused by the world. Passionate and opinionated. A drunk manic. Its funny though how we can forgive all the negatives of the people we hold in high regard... and probably would not accept them without the vice.
But, can I say I admire him when it is clearly envy.
I envy his time: The world then was still left with some innocence.
I envy his passion: He carried a notebook everywhere he went. He didn’t wait until he had time to write down his ideas. He did it immediately as it came into his mind. Writing was his life. It’s all he really cared about and was his only goal.
I envy his adventures: He traveled across the country and back again. Several times by many different methods.
I envy his convictions: He didn’t want to be tied down by possessions or The Man and stayed true to that. He was a free spirit, even as he was imprisoned by his own torment.
I envy his opportunities: His friends and contacts were some of the most influential people of that period.
He lived the life I only fantasize about, and had fantasized about before I even knew he had lived it. So can I really say it is admiration when in actuality it is some form of jealousy. A person of conviction would not spend their time lamenting over the life they are not living, because they would be busy doing what it is they wanted. So, here I am again, spending my time lamenting over a life I think I am owed that I do nothing to try and gain.
I am not wigging out about turning 30, but I am seeing it as some kind of marking post on this ”journey”. The same way I used to get about December 31st and my New Year’s resolutions. It’s almost like a review at work... ”So what have you done with yourself the past 29.99 years?”
I was looking at myself in my shaving mirror tonight in the shower, as I was thinking about Kerouac and I had one of those moments where I saw this really old person looking back. I look like hell. Not healthy at all. I certainly haven’t felt healthy. I have had acid reflux from hell the past week. Even before the Oscar party and that chili cheese dip. My gut has been feeling bigger and more uncomfortable and my chin seems to be having children. And this cluster of zits I’ve had on my cheek since New Orleans is still there every morning like an oasis of puss on my desert-dry face.
It’s not like I didn’t know I was going to learn this lesson. And I am certain I wrote about it once or twice before leaving the Circus. When I moved into a bigger apartment after bitching for months and months, I knew it wouldn’t change anything even as I trumpeted about how much happier I was. Same thing with this job. It’s only a job and some outward situation I just happened to be involved in now. It has nothing to do with who I am on the inside and the demons I am constantly at battle with. I can’t act like I didn’t know otherwise. It’s not me, the victim. Though I can’t say it’s me the realist either, since reality might be exactly what I am mentally rebelling against in lieu of some fantasy I think I’ve been denied.
If I spent one-quarter of the energy trying to do something as I do talking about how mad I am about things not going my way, I’d be far from here right now.
Is this who I am? Is this my nature? Behavior I have learned? Brain chemical imbalances?
One might scoff at the sheer pretentiousness of my audacity as I walked to the El tonight and thought to myself ”I am tired of this commute”. After all the I went through before, I am already complaining about this new, hour and a half shorter commute.
What is it then, I ask myself? What do you expect? What do you want? What do you think it is you deserve? How much longer can you go on like this doing nothing and complaining about it like the choice isn’t yours?
The problem is, I don’t really know what it is I’d rather be doing. I know I don’t really want to go to work anymore. Not very realistic, but if we’re talking about the honest thoughts and feelings in my head, I think I have a significantly higher distaste for the daily grind than the average person who accepts it as a necessary evil. I don’t expect something for nothing. I’d really just like to wake up and be happy. Happiness that doesn’t come from buying something or living up to a certain standard. Just genuine happiness to be alive.
It doesn’t feel right to me. The entire concept of modern society. I live in it. I do all these things to go along with it. I find pleasure in a lot of it. But, at the end of the day, like right now which is the end of this particular day, I am completely unfulfilled. My life utterly lacks purpose. I can be told a million times in a thousand different ways what great opportunities I have, but if those opportunities leave me just as empty, then what good are they to me?
But here is the paradox again, what is it I’d rather be doing. How would my time be better spent? What life am I fashioning for myself otherwise?
None.
It’s all talk talk talk, which is equally as pointless and without purpose. I’ve been like this for years. I am not suddenly going to have a revelation now and be a new man tomorrow. I’ve had all the time in the world to do that, and as far as I know, I am the same dullard I’ve always been.
I hate going to sleep at night. Because it means I’ll have to wake up in the morning. If there was ever a concept that was more disrespectful to this life I have been given, I haven’t heard it yet. Dramatics aside, I really feel life is a precious gift; but all I can do is judge myself on how I’ve squandered my gift.
People might want to classify me as some kind of manic-depressive, but the thing is, when I am high, I don’t forget about the lows. They are always still there. Just within sight in the back of my mind. I really am not as oblivious as it might seem during any specific dictation.
It’s just depressing, this idea that maybe five or ten years from now, I’ll still be right here saying the same things over and over like I do now. At least Kerouac had the decency to pull inward and become a drunk.