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