All depends on how quickly I can bleed this week’s stone. And if anything else might end up happening today.
But with the beginning of this next week in this new year, I finish the aim of the last year. A project. An attempt started out of insecurity and destitution, I am finishing as something else. Not sure what yet. And it be no perfect being. I shall never be. Nor want to. Far too boring being one of those.
Let’s not go on and on about that, though. The recording will be finished, and if you care to, you can listen. Same as with the other two already made. But I’ll write more on that another time.
I’ll always love the look of Manhattan on a cold night. Passing by on the expressway, thoughts adrift, or upon some woman, whilst the south side explodes above its own reflection cast upon the black water. All the lights shine brighter when the air is cold. For whatever reason.
Makes me forget all the things I feel that I wish were not. And those that ain’t that I wish were. For a while. A moment, at least.
But this idea of self-reinvention… I’m not so sure about it. To start, I can’t say I’m regularly honest with myself enough to know what may or may not be in need of reinvention. And even without all that, the self may not be a conscious thing. Outside of it being consciousness and all.
Allow me some elaboration.
You cannot mentally will your way to be yourself. You can only will yourself to not. The naturally occurring parts of self just happen. And when the effort is applied, something ingenuine emerges. Not to say that the ingenuine is seen as such. Some cats really kill the game. Make up these grand personas and commit to them as much as possible, whilst hiding away the truer parts for some other day. One that may never come.
Or so says the guy who use two fakes names to make his ‘art’.
But half-assed alter-egos aside, I do know a few things about identity. I know in the moments where I’ve felt what the kids call ‘your best self’, the effort was never made to make an appearance. I didn’t try to say the right thing. Dress the right way. Think the right things. I would just say something I felt to be true, and it turned out to be right. I would be what I felt the impulse towards, and it was the right move.
The problem with that, though, is that it doesn’t mean that effortlessness brings about those good things. I’ve been myself and hoped towards the universe and got shat on. Specifically, I recall a particular moment in the ether of my higher education where my destitution was in rare form and was subsequently symbolically obliged by a passing feathered, flying creature.
Which is a pretentious way to say that this one time while I was feeling sad in college, a bird shit on my head.
And in regard to the outsiders’ opinion on your humble narrator, I can say this. The things other folks like about me, are not often the things I notice. There’s a smirk I have, I was told on a date a million years ago. It’s apparently an enjoyable sight. I’d never noticed it. And I have a nice voice, they say. Though at times I cannot stand it. And often I wish it were something else. Deeper. Raspier. More soulful.
And yet, I am lost. Or feel so. All around me, I see and hear of my peers interaction often and in ways that I cannot fathom. I cannot keep with the trends. Perhaps it is because you cannot simultaneously consume and attempt to create culture. Or maybe it’s because I was always weird and only fooled a few people for a short while.
But I’ll keep trying. I ain’t dead yet. I’m not even thirty. Though that’s getting close. So I gotta keep trying as best I can. No phone dating though. That I refuse. If it means I’ll be lonely forever, so be it. I don’t swipe through people. And if you want to see me put on a performance, come to one of my shows. I will not do five pictures and a bio. I know I’m more than that. And so are you.
A sign of the times. And the times keep rolling hon.
Ten years since high school and I have seen so very few of those humans since. Not all that many I even want to see, but maybe a few. Maybe a crush, or crushee. Or maybe a friend I never said goodbye to. A sign of getting old is finding out that someone you used to spend so much time with as a teenager is dead. And the sign of your detachment from those around you is hearing that you found out he died two years after he did.
That does something to the mind. Yet I’m not sure what.
So, I guess moral of the story is… that there is no reinvention of self. You can break and change habits, but the tendencies you have are yours. And you need not pay any mind to make them so. Paying mind might only serve to make them not.
So that’s what I aim to do. To not fret over who I’m being and just be. As of now, I’m already more than enough to the people who need me and I, them. And those on the peripheries can join in or bail. I cannot bend to thee. There’s too much to do.
I am who I am. I can be better, but because the desire to be better is already part of the whole. Always has been. As is the criticism. Harder from myself than anyone else (excluding romantic endeavors- that subject is a bit too chaotic to so neatly define).
Cool is relative. And hip folks don’t make trends. They are them.
Besides, I’d just like to be as cool as the person my daughter sees. Maybe I already am. Maybe I just have to let myself be what it is I am. What I was and what I’ve become.