Redundancy

How many blogs are out there that contain the ramblings of disillusioned mid-life-crisis types crying about bad luck and shitty lives? I am aware, at least, that I have caused most of my own problems. Even when I was with a woman who was unbalanced and who caused me no end of pain, she was a woman I chose to spend time with, even when there were enough red flags to make sails for a fleet of ships.

I can't say life has not been interesting up to this point. It has tended to move in wide cycles that bring me into intense relationships and experiences, only to leave me yet again wallowing in self pity, spending my time in virtual worlds, watching movies, or escaping in porn long enough to make through it another day. So far things always cycle back around to trips around the country and occasionally the world, new friends, new experiences. So I suppose I'm hanging in for that. It's not that I expect thing to happen for me, it's just that I know I eventually become bored of a listless, monotone existence of digital mindlessness and light a fire under my own ass.

It's always work, though. Not just the sort of uncomfortable feeling one might get realizing that life as an adult is not all one might have imagined as a kid. The sort of work that makes a shower and cooking eggs seem like a tough row to hoe. It really takes me a while to get into a productive rhythm.

Oh. It occurs to me that marijuana, based on the initial post, could be unfairly blamed for my apathy. I may mention that I spent some ten years without smoking any pot... mid-twenties to mid-thirties... and I still had plenty of apathy at the nadir of the aforementioned cycles. I'm somewhat bipolar, perhaps. But it ain't pot's fault.

I should also add that what felt important about that underground newspaper article was the ability to express my freely, to have a voice in my world. A world that was much smaller back then. I suppose that if I did not feel as important later, I certainly felt inspired and passionate about other things. I loved doing stage productions in college, and moved to L.A. like a walking cliché to become a movie star. Still, I found work with a large entertainment company and I was on top of the world for while with that. A low pay ceiling and poor health left me coming and going for several years, always returning because I missed the people and the atmosphere.

And then there's a certain girl in Brazil I fell in love with. I miss her, and I miss Brazil, and I wonder sometimes if I could somehow still make that work. If I find a job there. If she'll still see me. If, if, if.

But the "ifs" keep us going, sometimes. Possibilities. Hope. It's in short supply at the moment, so I'll take what small solace I can from my pipe dreams. Figurative pipe dreams, people. Not that I'd mind smoking out, but my current employment and state of residence make that a risk I don't care to take. So ridiculous, though, to have angry drunks driving our streets and going home to smack their wives around while we can't light a joint in public without appearing before a judge.

Alright, that's a horribly stereotypical presentation of a drinker. Nevertheless, I have yet to hear of a pot smoker getting violent because he or she smoked. And driving tends to be more slow and cautious than reckless.

Back later. Maybe. No promises.

The Incomplete

So.

Once upon a time there was a kid who wrote an article about legalizing marijuana. It was not about to be accepted by the high school newspaper, so he gave it to a friend who put in on the front page of an underground newspaper at the school. The kid became at least a moderate sensation for a while as the author of the article. The kid was me, some twenty years ago. The underground paper was called, "The Lobotomy".

That was one of the last times I felt like I was doing something important. I was passionate about things after that, interested in things, in love with one person or another... but I never felt like I was doing something important the way I did then. I did not continue to write for the underground paper. I do not follow through with plans well, hence "The Incomplete". Even the name sounds incomplete, eh? Terribly witty.

So I've stumbled through life, as so many of us do. I hung on to an identity I had not really even defined, and refused to settle even though I had no idea what that meant. There were just things I could not do. Like settling down with the Mormon girl who wanted to marry me. I thought she was adorable. I thought she was hot. I liked walking by a lake with her and feeding geese, and I still smile thinking about the goose attack that changed the romantic mood a bit. But I couldn't be a Mormon.

And then there's the young co-worker, all of nineteen to my twenty-seven years at the time. Bright, wide eyes. Caramel skin. Loved wigs. Wanted to leave her husband and run off with me to Paris even though she had an infant at home. I couldn't be that guy.

But it's not just incomplete relationships. While I've had more girlfriends than I can easily recall (a friend calls me a "serial monogamist",) I've also had more jobs than I easily recall. Sales rep, real estate agent, cashier, camp program coordinator, Resident Assistant, government clerk for INS. Dishwasher. Pager salesman. Office temp. Storyteller. Custom paper products estimator. And so forth. No job ever quite enough. No girl ever quite enough.

Now I watch movies late at night and wonder at all the dynamics in the lives of others. In-between relationships I don't even expect to last longer than a few months anymore, my life has dwindled to occasionally going out with a friend to see a film and shooting the breeze over a couple glasses of wine afterward. That's not all bad. It's just all there is.

Oh, that, and staring at this screen for endless hours. A game, a social network, email, YouTube, anything. And now a blog. Maybe as an attempt to save myself. Maybe as yet another escape. Maybe just another ego-stroking crap blog by a disillusioned failure with a bent for self deprecation. In the end, I figure this is slightly less apathetic than the way I spend the rest of my hours. And as I feel almost completely detached, it's something to hold on to.

But I rarely follow through with anything. So if there are any readers, don't expect many entries. I ain't promisin' anything. I rarely do. Promises don't get broken when you don't make them. But I still manage to disappoint most everyone. And I disappoint myself, yes. Of course. Always. My ability to disappoint is far more reliable than, well, me.

Until next time?

The Incomplete