Post #35446: For Future Exploration

The neverending story:

My bad, bad updating of this and my other blog is a sort of sore spot of embarrassment for yours truly. In deed, I think of a ton of random little snippets and tidbits that I INTEND to post, but what is that famous quote-"The path to hell is paved with good intentions"?

For those not in the know, MJM, my place of employment, was purchased by an out of state company, and therefore ceased to exist, putting all of us out of a job as of August 1st.

In a lot of ways, this couldn't have come at a better time. I think that all of us, or at least myself, hung on to that job long past the time when we should have gone. It was quite the strange little utopia of employment though- not since Value Village have I worked with so many close, close friends, and not since Value Village have I ever worked with people so bizarre. Although in many respects, it was a typical 9-5 job, the atmosphere and antics were entirely atypical- mid day jigs, mini puppies lording over the office, offensive x12 foul mouthed curse-a-thons, and copious amounts of time spent outside of the office, usually involving copious libations. But, for various reasons, it wasn't what I wanted to be doing or should have been doing "for a living".

In a lot of respects, I sort of fell into administrative and office work. Yes, I do have a penchant towards orginizational zeal, a strange love of photocopiers and other office supplies (I have made paintings with whiteout), and a alphabetization mean streak, but really, it was just easy work I started doing in college, and then, when I moved back from California, I got a job through my mother's friends at the Public Defenders Association, as an administrative assistant. I didn't attach much mental or emotional value to it- I just made better money than a lot of my friends for work that fed that sort of sick A-type personality streak in me, while still being relatively easy and, you know, not involving a fryer or any type of themed uniform attire.

But it seems, over the last years, to have leeched something out of me. The allure of good money for easy work is a sort of toxin. The lack of any sort of physical effort in your day to day is a slow working mind killer. I swear, I had more energy and creative agog-alog when I was moving boxes up three flights of stairs at the thrift store than when I sat around staring at a computer screen for 8 hours a day. Also, it goes back to the fundamental need to see what you create be put to some use- for a real connection to production- to understanding and, more importantly, feeling the give and take of your part in your community. And while I knew that I was, in some small and slightly indirect way, helping the non profits we worked for, there was no concrete ties of the cause and effect of data spreadsheets and biweekly payroll entry on the greater "good".

Add to that, or possibly in part because of that, the strange inertia, the odd depression that I've been riding for the last few years. I've always had a lean towards manic depression- nothing diagonsed or counseled or medicated, but I can tell when I'm in a manic state and when I'm not. A lot of it mellowed when I was in my early 20s- the panic attacks and gut wrentching bouts of paranoia either dissolved or were mitigated by the fact that I was nearly never alone (living in communal houses will take care of that). The happy manic bursts- where I wrote like a demon, or painted, or danced and wept and laughed like a three year old who finally got her damn pony, seemed more continual- less "bursty" and more "this is my life now". We were meeting new people, falling in love over and over and over. There were dance parties that were massive blurs of lights and flesh. Everything felt fresh. I had found a sense of self that felt solid- and the soul draining evil people were weeded away, and in their place, a crop of healthy, intelligent, amazing people cropped up.

But the last few years have been full of old demons rearing new heads. And while I feel like I have much better coping mechanisms, and a better, more enchriched social support network, some things are nigh impossible to shake off. For reasons that probably have more to do with me than with him, Zach's disapperance hit me like a stone. Even thinking about it now- while I understand more about how I feel, it hasn't brought with it any sense of a relief. And I spent at least a year coming to terms, or seeking some ill solace, in drinking, in tears, in anger and in searching, searching, searching. All that leaves a hefty scar, and an unbalanced weight. That is to say, I still don't have a clear language for it- no solid way to make sense of what it means to me, no solid way to share it.

Top that off with this epic life quandry. The eternal "what next", and the "why now" and the "where to". And it all feels so trite, so fucking cliche. I've always liked not knowing- the excitement of the what next, the where to. But the urgency to figure it all out seems sort of pressing- not necessarily from external sources, but from within. Perhaps its a lack of direction, of focus. For years, years upon years, I had one clear source of expression, one goal, one big expanding sky of a dream. There was a purpose in my writing, even if it was egotistically derived, even if it was a massive dellusion of grandour. I knew I was good- and even more, I knew, knew so intrinically, that I could be so much better. There was a biological push for constant evolution- this pulsating, very real idea that it would and should continue to progress, that it would amount to something- even if that something was for me alone- I would find something there, and it would be whole, and it would be satisfying, and it would be meaningful.
And that knowledge still exists, but, whether it was the natural aging process, and, the coinsiding diminishment of that ego- that sense that everything you do is all important-that knowledge has dropped down, to a tiny, whisphering voice that can and does flare up only in certain moments. Its no longer omnipresent. Its consistancy has waned.

Or, more realisticaly, my work ethic has waned. The urge is still not only nagging, its diversified. Now I get swept up in virtually every art form- making quilts, baby blankets, gifts for friends, paintings, music, acting, etc. Nothing gets finished and the meaning tends to drivel out and die. Which leaves me with this weird sense of failure, which spins back into an interest in yet another thing. The same pattern could be said of my love life- weird spurts and obsessions, usually with logically unattainable people, usually for reasons that can tend towards the unhealthy- this eternal struggle with intamicy, with reality. This eternal trend towards a preferance of solitute, which gives off a huge level of intolerance for human foibles. This being in love with the idea of love, rather than its physical representation. But that could be an entire blog onto its own.
(see, even within this one post, my interest and ideas have split like atoms into a billion different off shoots of one idea, FOR GODSAKE.)

What is the point of this? I've already lost focus, it seems.

The point is something exceedingly large that I need to extrapolate out into many blog posts. The point being life, and what is to be done with it? How and what are others doing with it? The multitudes of paths I see around me, and the myraid of reasons why I ended up on this pathless path. And what I intend to do about it.

I know one thing. I do not intend to be directionless any longer. I want- need- my intentions and actions to be like precise cuts. I want to go to Europe? Then nearly every decision made between now and then needs to serve that purpose. And the purpose behind going to Europe (other than the whole "never been" issue)? To write. To reclaim my livliness. To find again that stable core of meaning, and to write about it.

So then, it seems, every decision actually needs to serve that, to lend itself back towards that.