Weekly Pig-Trough

I went on vacation, mental GreyHound to the inward Death Valley. I hadn’t intended on it, I have never intended on it, but all intentions piled and it keeps happening – peaks and troughs, strikes and gutters, ups and downs.

I spent the week feverish, sleepless, constant state of Go!

And by Thursday I couldn’t write: typed a couple of pages at night, then went idle-minded. So I drank wine and read a book. And then I had trouble writing on Friday night, so I finished the wine, waited for my wife to come home (after midnight) from work with a six-pack, stayed up to drink with wife. Hung-over on Saturday: lump of shit. Drank another wine bottle Saturday evening. Hung-over on Sunday: lump of shit.

I’ll concede I still got some work done this weekend.

I haven’t been depressed, I simply hit a wall. I spent all week working all day, home to toddler, get toddler in bed, write 2 hours, read, sleep. If wife’s not working that day, I come home from a 10 hour shift, write write write, shower, eat, say hello to wife, and if things are right the Hello goes on a few hours, and then it’s midnight and I have to be up at four.

Go go go, put everything out, and by the weekend there’s nothing left in me. So, what do I do? I consume, consume, consume, and don’t move a god damn muscle.

Will-power is a battery – if you’re going to exert it, you’re going to recharge it.

But I can’t keep doing this, and it’s been going on for a while now. I’m 27; I have a wife and a toddler: I can’t keep doing this shit.

I can’t hit the wall and turn to drunk indolence and junk food and TV. I don’t have the time, I don’t want that behavior to be a part of my life because it disgusts me, and is wildly hypocritical, and not the behavior I want my kid to grow around.

I’m going to fix this. I can change the pattern, damn all for if it’s been undulating for years, I’m going to go up, and not come down. The battery will recharge some way other.

All I need to do is to Push Through. I’m going to get to the rough edge towards the end of next week, but I’m going to Push Through. If I’m tired, I’ll sleep. Then I’ll write, and if writing isn’t going well take a god damn walk and leave the booze to be.

I’m going to want to crash, and crawl on the couch, or back in bed, but I’m going to Push Through.

It needs to happen.

Fuck relaxing.

Would I Rather Myself Certainty or Uncertainty?

What I disliked about college was that I wasn’t working my way through it (impossible now, anyway). My parents paid for some, god bless them for it, and the rest was covered with loans. I didn’t need money for housing, food, gas. As long as I didn’t drop out, I had everything I needed, and I didn’t have to work very hard to keep it – keeping a 2.5GPA in Journalism isn’t difficult. I was lazy, indolent, decadent; excessive drinking, daily gravity-bongs, lots of time reading or on the couch bingeing TV. I was melancholic mold-hearted.

What I wanted more than anything was to be an adult, to be on my own. But I was living in a house, had a car, enough food, lots of leisure time, all on the parental- and Federal-dime. I had a rot in my gut, an empty childish uselessness; everything I needed was provided, life through an umbilical cord. No one who is so completely dependent, is living their own life… I can’t imagine how a womb-bound 20-year-old is alive.

I did have a lust for life: I wanted to pour my guts across the city in a serendipitous rush of excitement and intoxication. But I also wanted to struggle for my future. I wanted the vinegar in my blood to burn away nights working. I wanted to worry about finding my next meal, but then get distracted by the excitement of determining my own future.

I didn’t want to be eating well and getting plenty of sleep on handed-down dollars, studying to get a booster-seat degree in four years.

I needed death’s breath on my bare soles. I needed struggle-in-the-moment, do or die at this very hour, not the safety of collegiate provisions, cozy study time to have a career in four years.

This has been my only motivation: Do now, or shiver years in an alley dead.

College didn’t work for me.

I only ever felt alive after dropping out of school and cutting ties with my parents. I needed the risk. I couldn’t bear to have a safety-net, or a step-stool, or a placental studying-period. To me, the risk of death is all that feels alive. A lot of people have called me an idiot over the years, or crazy, but I know I have company.