Even if certain individuals are narcissists, even if some people are sociopaths, it doesn’t matter to what I’m doing.
Even if I go days without anyone reading my work, it doesn’t matter. I continue to work despite the “even if” scenarios.
I don’t need your acceptance or approval to bust a move within a sentence. I don’t need your praise or admiration to make magic come to life on the pages. Silence, no engagement- I say, so fucking what? It just doesn’t matter to me anymore.
To put it in a simpler way, I don’t give a fuck about any of that stuff.
I do give a fuck about the amazing relationships with amazing people, to maintain healthy, moderate connections each day I’m alive.
I do give a fuck about my family. I give a fuck about my two dogs, as well as Bonez, my roommate’s dog.
I give a fuck about my mental and physical health.
I give a fuck about me, and I give a fuck about those in my life who matter most.
I give a fuck about writing, no matter how little or how much I accomplish each day.
I give a fuck about reading.
I succeed after I’ve written and read each day. I succeed when I bring positive energy to the table that is social media. I succeed when I continue to live the way I want to live, based on all the things I do give a fuck about, and all the stuff I give zero fucks about.
I think that about sums it up. Enjoy your Saturday evening, and Sunday. Time slips by so fast these days, however, when we are present in the current moments, we can appreciate and enjoy the good times so much more. I’ll continue to do my part by being present every day to come. And all that other jazz music I speak of.
Philip Dietrich Webb
Sometime in the summer of 2011, I decided to buy a year round season pass to Islands of Adventure and Universal Studios. Both are theme parks, both adjacent to one another.
The first thing I remember was the pass wasn’t cheap. Theme park passes usually aren’t inexpensive, but what the hell did I know. I remember my grandfather decided to pitch in financially so I could buy the season pass ticket. I believe it was an early birthday present, him helping pay for the pass.
I went a total of two times. Not because I was lazy. Not because I refused to make the hour and a half drive to Orlando from Tampa. No…I got caught up in some trouble with the law. I guess it’s not kosher or legal to discharge a twelve gauge shotgun twice within a dwelling.
Before I went to jail, then rehab, then moved back to Arizona, I can still remember what made those two adventures worth remembering.
My grandfather went with me. He didn’t have a season pass. He didn’t need one. Before we left he packed lunches for us, along with some bottled water to wash down the food. He also brought with him a book to read while I was riding rides within the theme parks.
Even at the time I thought that was pretty cool. My grandfather acted as a point of safety for me. If anything went wrong, he was ready to drive back to Tampa with me. Not too many family members would do that. He went above and beyond for me. I had someone to chat with on the ride home. Someone to talk to about the great American novels I was reading that summer, good old American Realism.
I also remember seeing, In Thirty Minutes or Less. The path leading up to the amusement parks is essentially a boardwalk of shops, and, a movie theater. That was the last movie I saw before my life changed. I dunno why but the stakes in that movie were intense. Maybe it was my mental state- I was in a dark place in my thoughts. I did feel the world was caving in on me. Plus I missed my best guy friends from my home state of Arizona. I was out of place in Florida. In Thirty Minutes or Less was a reminder of the friends I didn’t get to see every weekend, hadn’t for two years by that point.
I know my grandparents saw this occurring to me. Hell I even told them and my parents as much, that I was slowly deteriorating into a heap of worthlessness. I should mention a friend died about two months prior to me getting the season pass. She was on her way to visit me at my place in Saint Petersburg. She was driving down from Nashville, Tennessee. She was drinking beer and driving. It was a long drive- too much time to get wasted behind the wheel. She fell asleep. Her vehicle veered to the right. She was going over sixty miles per hour. She hit the medium, that barrier dividing the off ramp from the freeway. She wasn’t wearing her seatbelt. She was launched from the driver seat. She was found dead when the paramedics arrived. I remember waking up the next morning to a phone call from my ex-girlfriend. She and the woman who died had been friends for a long time, in fact, that’s how I became friends with this woman. She was crying, saying Merian had died earlier that morning.
I was lost after she passed away. I began drinking copious amounts of hard liquor, whiskey, mixed with coca cola. I eventually got a script for valium. Started drinking and popping pills. Thus, I fired off my shotgun twice in my home. My grandfather was present during that incident. He even bashed my left arm with a hammer to try to stop me from grabbing my shotgun.
Islands of Adventure and Universal Studios were the last good memories I have from my days in Florida. And the movie, In Thirty Minutes or Less. The rest of my decline before going to jail was miserable. The semester started off wrong due to my inability to stop drinking before classes. I gave up, essentially. A young woman I’ll refer to as M. tried to help pull me from my own abyss. She gave up once she realized her help was meaningless. That was the final straw. Once she broke things off with me, it wasn’t much longer in time before my most extreme situation played out in reality.
I remember saying to my therapist that alcohol was my only friend. He referred to alcohol as the “shit monster” I had to get rid of. He was right. In fact, before the incident, he’d found out I had purchased and owned a shotgun. I remember him telling me that was a horrible idea, that I need get rid of the firearm before something disastrous went down. Again, he was right- he was spot on in his advice.
This is why I no longer espouse my second amendment rights. I have a pocket knife, and that’s it. That’s all I really need anyway. At my height and weight, I’m enough of a weapon unto myself that a firearm is unnecessary at this point in my life. As a civilian, a free citizen of the United States, it’d be the dumbest thing, me purchasing a firearm.
I’ll always remember those visits to Orlando Studios with my Grampy. Grampy and me, having some fun. Him reading, me going on rides. Then the car ride back, and the chats we had. My Grampy is now eighty four years old. He’ll be eighty five this October. Those days have long since past. I don’t even see him in person anymore. He’s so tired and beat out that he has little to no time to shoot the breeze. He has no time to chat like we used to. I’ll forever miss the chats I had with my Grampy. He was in many ways, not only my Grandfather, he was also my best friend. We were like Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee, I Frodo and he Samwise.
He still thinks of me as his Samwise before my Grammy, his wife of fifty-seven years, passed away. During those last three years I helped my Grampy in every way I could. I made sure I was there to help him relax, before having to be caretaker to his dying wife. That was back in 2013-2015. Those were the last couple of years we had great conversations. About stories, and politics. The human condition, what it means to be a decent person.
I guess I just miss talking to someone like that. Although I’ve been meeting more people lately. I also reconnected with an old friend from my college days at GCU. So, one door closes, and eventually, another door opens.
Philip Dietrich Webb
The Movie, Joker
I remember being more excited for this movie’s release than any other movie I can think of. At the time, I was in the beginning stages of my new reality. I was also more aware of my mood disorder, even though I still had yet to figure out what mental illnesses I had been dealt.
If you’ve never seen, The King of Comedy, you might wanna give that movie a watch. The movie Joker, is in many ways, a very similar movie. I’d even go so far as to say The King of Comedy directly influenced the movie, Joker. That the King of Comedy was responsible for Joker being the way it was as a story. In fact De Niro plays Rupert Pupkin in King of Comedy, basically the same kind of person as Joker is, in, Joker. Coincidence that De Niro plays the Jerry Lewis character in Joker? I think not, me mateys. I highly doubt it’s a coincidence.
People argue that Joker isn’t even based on the DC Comics version of The Joker. I get that. I’m not here to debate the authenticity of Joaquin Phoenix’s version of The Joker, as it relates to DC Comics. Quite frankly, Phoenix’s version of The Joker spoke to me the most. Phoenix and Ledger are equal to me, as actors who portrayed The Joker. However, Phoenix’s portrayal of The Joker is my favorite, not the best, just the version of The Joker I can relate to more than any other version of The Joker.
He’s a weirdo. He makes people uncomfortable. He’s trying to fit in best he knows how, yet society just won’t accept him. So, of course, the perfect storm strikes. And we’re off to the races folks! The catalyst in Joker would be when he kills the Wall Street bullies on the subway. From that point on, he has purpose. So strange how that plays out sometimes. Arthur Fleck had no idea his acts of violence would start a local revolution of anarchy, but that’s exactly what it did.
I’m not an anarchist, nor am I The Joker. I just love how things finally go his way, in the movie. Turns out in this fictional story, he wasn’t alone in his feelings of misery. It’s in a sense a jab at politicians and middle to upper class people, which I also love.
While I’m excited for Folie a Deux to release in late 2024, I have my reservations. I love that Lady Gaga will be playing Harley Quinn, that’s dope. However, ugh- it’s apparently going to be a musical of sorts. I don’t care for musicals outside of people doing so on a stage, like, Broadway performances. I don’t even care for much for stage plays that are indeed musicals. Just not my jam, never really has been. That’s my only concern with Folie a Deux, without any sneak peak previews of what the movie promises to deliver. Phoenix and Gaga can actually sing, have music skills. Lady Gaga in fact, to me, has the best vocals of any woman I can think of. And Phoenix has a solid voice as well. I just don’t like musicals in movies.
Even if the musical aspect upsets me, I really wanna see what Folie a Deux is about. I think Lady Gaga is the perfect person to play Harley Quinn. Margot Robbie’s performance as Harley is solid, I admit that much. It’s just, Lady Gaga is a true weirdo herself, like Joaquin Phoenix is. I think both of these individuals is on par with Johnny Depp, in the sense that they can play truly bizarre characters and knock it out of the park with their acting. Not many people can do that, even amongst some of the most popular actors in today’s industry. In my opinion, the actor has to be touched in the brain to truly pull off those strange, bizarre roles. God bless them for doing it, because I do also think it takes a lot out of these types of actors. It took so much from Heath Ledger, that he killed himself. So yes, I do think there’s an undeniable risk to gifted method actors acting out really extreme roles.
Anyway, that’s about it.
Special Part II
As far as family goes, I’ve really only got one sister, my mom and dad, my grandpa, and my one aunt. The other two aunts left me when my grandma passed away in 2015. My other sister, the baby of us siblings, is what I’d call a true lone wolf type of individual. My uncles by blood, eh, who knows. I used to be close to one of these uncles, but he basically ghosted me, after constantly reminding me he’d always talk with me. The family still involved in my life on a regular basis, pities me. I think they feel bad for me, because they’ve known me my whole life. They’ve seen how well I’ve faired in this life, and yeah- they feel bad. At some point, I lost my close friends. Wasn’t making any new friends. Struggled to keep a job when I still tried to make a basic 9-5 job something real in my life.
I haven’t felt the love of admiration or respect in a long time. It’s damn near impossible for me to unconditionally love myself when the world chooses to ignore me. I wish women who weren’t in a relationship would be the women who show me love. That used to be a real thing in my life. Single women on occasion would fall in love with me. It was fun, exhilarating. I felt like I mattered. I felt like I was important to someone else, who didn’t owe me that. When anyone wanted to be around me that wasn’t a family member, I felt like I was going to be okay, no matter what I would face the moments as they passed without feeling miserable and worthless.
It’s tough to stop drinking beer. Beer is legal. The nasty beer is cheap. And I feel like a rockstar after those first two beers. All my dreams seem possible when I’m drinking. I don’t feel like a loser when I’m drinking beer. I feel like I matter. So I keep drinking when I have money to do so.
I say this now, for you fucking idiots who read my work and watch from the sidelines like a bunch of emotionless spectators. If you were really in my life, if you gave a damn about my happiness, I wouldn’t feel like such a total piece of shit while consciously awake. It’s not just me who knows this- many people feel the same way I do. The saddest part about it all is that we can’t change people. People in America, especially white people who aren’t dirt poor, absolutely have the privilege to say and do and think whatever they want. So long as there’s no physical violence, people get away with psychologically fucking other people over, or making things worse for someone who needs someone to help. It’s not a felony, and therefore people pull this type of shit off all the time on others, without a guilty conscience. If you assholes cared, you’d have done better. You’d have already been more involved. People only care as much as is needed, like a bandaid. Sometimes surgery is required. Stitches and such. But, by God, that’s just asking too much of a person. They don’t know how to perform surgery! Well, you fucking idiots, the person will die if you don’t try to do something. You’ll just watch a man die on the floor. And you could’ve at least tried, tried to help more than just fucking standing there in silence. But you didn’t, and you won’t, because you’re all a bunch of spineless shitbirds.
I’m not going to apologize this time. It’s not right. It’s fucked up beyond comprehension that I’m still in the same boat. No one has jumped into my boat with coordinates to reach land, or a ship where we can recover until we reach the promised land. I’m just out here in my little boat, while you fucks shout and point directions at me…As if that’s fucking helped in the least bit. Dipshits, you’ve got to come into my boat and see how I see things. Pointing and shouting doesn’t work, at all. It just adds to confusion and chaos.
Someone needs to get into my boat with me. Someone needs to help guide me, so I can guide this boat to a better place. Again, shittiest part is that may never happen. Every fucking sailor for himself or herself, mate. Well fuck me- I was told a totally different story before departing the docks. I was told that there are compassionate sailors who would help, to hold onto hope until I found those compassionate sailors in times of being lost.
If I do end up killing myself, I can 100 percent guarantee it won’t happen today or tomorrow, or anytime in the next decade. No, I’ll have to lose all my family who still loves me first. Then, I’ll have to lose my house. Lose my dogs. Lose my ride. I still have so much to lose before I’m serious about suicide. When that time comes, hopefully I don’t kill myself. My Mom is Catholic, and Catholic’s see suicide as some unforgivable sin. I dunno if that’s true, but lemme put it this way- I’ve kept going through misery, pain, and abandonment because if it is an unforgivable sin, well… I really am trying to end up in Heaven. I do not wanna wind up in Hell for eternity.
I’ve said it before, that maybe all religions are a bunch of fictional stories to help us feel like there’s a better place in store for us after death. If it is all a bunch of smoke, who cares? It’s not like I’m losing anything if it wasn’t real. If some silly ass rule made by Catholics keeps me from committing suicide, fuck it, I’ll buy into it. At least that part I will. Because when I do die, and it’s not by my own hand, if that’s it, just nothing after death. I lost nothing. I gained nothing. Nothing is nothing. Nothing doesn’t give two shits what I believe in while I’m alive. If my beliefs in this life helped me push on, who cares. I’m not thumping what I deem to be pure truth, I have no idea what pure truth is outside of music and math. Believe whatever you want to, or don’t believe in anything, I don’t give a shit, just like nothing doesn’t care.
I care enough about me to make these statements. I mine as well be honest about how I feel towards other people who offer little to no help when it comes to my well-being. I mean you fuckers. We don’t even talk about fiction, and I fucking know we read the same kinds of stuff, for the most part. It really is fucked up. You all actively choose to be uninvolved. Fuck you, if you’re that kind of person in my life. It is YOU who chooses to be cruel. Not me, but you. Really think on that concept. That it really is you who sucks asshole.
Philip Dietrich Webb
If you ever have the chance to make someone feel special, go for it.
There’s a woman I know. She doesn’t have much longer to live. Terminal illness.
It hit me like a brick wall today. There will come a day in the future. She’ll be gone. She’ll have passed on to whatever comes next. And this woman who spoke to me so often will never speak to me again.
It’s a bittersweet feeling. I’m glad for our connection, but at the same time, I can’t heal people. I’m sure many of us wish we had healing powers. To take away the pain, the suffering, from those we care about. The fact remains we have no such powers.
I try not to think about her passing away. I try to focus on the time we do have together, to connect from thousands of miles away, continents far apart from each other.
The best I can do is connect with her. Maybe it helps her. I hope it does. I hope she feels special, that she knows I love her so much.
Philip Dietrich Webb
I do consider myself lucky to know people from social media, people whom I see as friends.
It’s not an allegiance, I don’t want your allegiance, or loyalty. What I mean is, if we can connect because we enjoy one another, or want to be supportive, that’s awesome. But I’m not a leader. I’m a dude, who goes by Phil, Philip, or Dietrich. I’m a dude who writes.
I think it’d be cool to have tons of followers and fans. Eh, I’m sure that’s cool, but, it’s not perfect either, is what I imagine. Being in the now, I focus on what is.
I’m grateful for the friendships. I’m grateful for interactions here and there. I’ll gladly accept them.
Just because I choose to be in a fortress of solitude all day doesn’t mean others have to be with me while I’m in my solitude place. I’m learning to accept that as well. It’s kinda who I am, but sometimes, I think more social interaction would be best. Limited social interactions seem to work the best, if I’m being honest with myself.
So it’s all goodie in the hood.
Philip Dietrich Webb
Concepts to Accept
One of my all-time favorite tv shows remains to be the Seinfeld show. Or, just, Seinfeld. Even if you’re not a fan of Seinfeld you probably know what the show is about. It’s basic stuff, a show about nothing. Yet there’s always something going on in each episode of Seinfeld. It’s also a show about dysfunctional human beings in dysfunctional relationships.
I remind myself most of George Costanza, aka, Larry David. The fictional character George Costanza was created from who Larry David was and still is today. I’m a basket case, a neurotic mess. I can’t help myself.
I must accept certain concepts if I’m going to bust moves.
I must accept the possibility of being a nobody my entire life as being an actual reality. I have to accept that, in reality, I may never be a popular, well-known writer. I must also accept the fact that no one is to blame. If anyone is to blame, it’s me. Anything I fucked up, is on me. So I’ve only got myself to blame, if I wanna blame someone. Instead of placing blame, and shaming/guilting myself, I’ll promote myself to not be a dick. Or an asshole. Or an all around lunatic type of guy who spouts off the craziest shit in town. I prefer not to be those types of energy. It’s not easy, which seems kinda dumb to say, but, for me, it’s tough. And, with that in mind, I can better accept why I’m not getting much traffic. Is what it is for the time being.
Here’s another tricky one. I write because it makes me feel good. Why then would I struggle to write? Well, because, I actually do want it to make other people feel good too. Or, have people enjoy what I write. But, really, the main reason for why I write is because I enjoy it. What I mean is it’s tough to keep writing when no one seems to care about my writing. It’s tough to accept being a no one in the public eye. It makes me doubt myself, question why I even enjoy writing in the first place. This is why I struggle to write fiction. But, fuck that tricky shit. I’ll stick with writing.
I’m growing a thick, tough skin. Impenetrable skin. Sensitive skin will never make the cut. There’s always opportunities to come. The more I write the better I get. The more I read the better I get. I gotta keep getting better and better. When I’m in the right place at the right time, I’ll hopefully be ready. The reason to keep working is when it happens, I’m already ready to rock n roll. Out of the woodworks I come and I’m river dancing like a true master. Haha, or something like that.
There are many others who didn’t give up. It takes time for some. I really hope time catches on before I die, but, fuck…I’m learning to accept that I may die a poor nobody. The more I face it head on the better I can deal with it. The more I accept it the more I’m able to not let it bother me. I can’t let being a poor nobody stop me from creating. That’d be foolish of me, to stop because I’m not currently relevant. As one saying goes, I’ll keep throwing shit against the wall until it sticks. Once it sticks, I’ll know what works, for that time and place. Things are always changing. To be timeless means, I can adapt and change with the times. Whatever the industry demands, it’s no sweat. That’s what I believe in about myself. That I’m up to the challenge, or, rather, I keep working until I’m truly ready for the challenge. That I can triumph and bring success for everyone involved. The publishers, the editors, the marketers, the producers, the readers, the audience, all of ’em. That’s because team work really does make the dream work. Gotta be a team player. I used to be a great team player. I’ve gotta learn to be that amazing team player once again.
Until I finally received a bachelors in English Literature, getting a bachelors degree was the biggest thing my family wanted me to get. Even my schizophrenic great uncle has a bachelors. My dad’s side of the family really wanted me to be educated, with a degree. My mom’s side cared too, but it wasn’t make or break.
All said and done it took me ten years to earn a bachelors. I started attending college courses at the age of eighteen, and by the time I was twenty eight, almost twenty nine, I finally did it.
I’m sorta glad I have a bachelors in English Literature. The program was a cake walk, but, whatever. I can’t get that time back. Now, I’m thirty four and still have not earned a spot at the table, so to speak. I’m not saying poor me, or that I’m the only dude who still strives for more in life- I’m just saying, I need to figure something out.
I mentioned Kevin “Mikey” King in a Twitter post. Mikey, as I always knew him, was a teenager in the 90’s. In many ways Mikey was the closest person to me that resembled an older brother in my life. Mikey was my second cousin. Jeremy and Jessica were his brother and sister. Jeremy and Jessica are also amazing, but Mikey was the one who I saw the most. Mikey would babysit me sometimes, make sure no bad guys robbed me. Which is the funniest thing considering I grew up in a middle class LDS neighborhood. I mean, if you knew what I’m saying, you’d know NO ONE was stealing any babies in our neighborhood. Jesus would return before any Mormon babies were taken away. I myself was not and am still not a LDS person, but, for all entensive purposes, the Fort Knox security of the Mormons in my area was an added bonus my family was probably grateful for.
Mikey was into cool music, could play the drums, wore cool shirts I wasn’t allowed to have. He smoked weed and wrote poetry. Poetry filled with anger and resentment for what had happened in his life. He was an outsider, but I knew Mikey. What I saw was someone who was part of the nineties movement. A revolutionary against the corporate world. Someone who wouldn’t wear a monkey suit just to appease societal norms.
He ultimately had to do wear the monkey suit. He was with his partner at the time, they had a child. Mikey became a Dad. Then he shut himself off from everyone from his childhood. I have no idea what Mikey’s up to these days. I’m sure he still writes. Either way I miss him. What a cool guy, the first cool guy I actually knew in real life, not from a fictional movie or book.
Part of why I won’t give up is because Mikey had to give up the ghost. He went out to Washington State, and Oregon. He said they knew way more about stuff than he imagined they would. I mean, little details, trivial information that all added up to a bigger picture. I think he was intimidated, which kinda bummed me out.
I wonder if Mikey had gone to college, if a professor would’ve groomed him for success as a writer. If maybe one or more of the professors had shameless plugs, could open doors that mattered.
I lost that plug. Mikey never stuck around long enough to have that opportunity. Well, there are other ways.
Maybe down the road I can reach out to Mikey. See what he’s up to.
Philip Dietrich Webb
Remove Emotional Baggage
Over my years of living life, emotional pain has latched on to my psyche. At the time I was unaware that it was by my own invitation to emotional pain that allowed that luggage to be a burden I was, attached to.
I think it’s a process to effectively detach from the pain and suffering. It’s natural to feel the pain and say, “that hurts”. The next step in the process is to detach, or let go of, the pain and suffering that was meant to be ephemeral- emotions felt are by nature passing feelings. This too shall pass kind of sums up what I want to say.
It’s also tough to finally let go of what I held onto for many years. I have to re-wire my brain so that letting go of the feelings become a natural response. I’m teaching my brain to let it pass through without dwelling on the emotion it is I feel. I’d say when we feel emotions it is the sensation of any given emotion. People who are addicted to always feeling a certain way to function will continue to be distracted by the attachment to only feel happy.
Joy, is again, a passing emotion. Feel it in the moment, appreciate it, then keep on doing what you need to do in order to maintain inner calm in any given situation or circumstance that might arise.
Always be of compassion for all sentient life forms. The rest is a matter of preference- job, housing, a means to transport to and from where you’re required to go.
I practice becoming more and more unattached to emotional sensations and material objects. Let it come and go. emotions, are not an eternal sentence we are doomed to feel all the time. We feel different things. Some pleasant, some painful. The range of emotions, all emotions, are temporary. By knowing this as a universal truth in my understanding of things, I’ll be okay. My heart heals at some point after a break-up with a special person. Love is lost between this person and myself. In time it’ll be a distant memory that no longer causes pain.
I guess being patient matters as well. Ride out the storm. Storm slows down then stops. The skies are clear blue. No turbulence. Calm waters. Right on. Good weather conditions are pretty cool, but even this changes- that’s why it’s wise not to get overly fired up, or during the storm, be more miserable because so and so feed the emotion of fear and gave it way more power than was ever called for. The guy shouting at the top of his lungs, “we’re all gonna die! All is lost! Abandon hope and reason, ahhhh!”, is a fool. Being dramatic just worsens what is already an unideal circumstance. This guy ain’t helping matters, he’s just making everything worse. Of course, he’s freaking out. Well, he chose to freak out. Everyone probably considered freaking out, because it was an extremely daunting storm encountered. Remember, it’s natural to feel fear when nature might in fact sink the ship. Don’t focus on the worst case what if. Do everything possible to keep going onward. The storm is the storm, and those on the ship have the choice to overcome adversity, work through the fear of possible death and do what needs be done for the best chances of surviving the storm.
Sometimes, well- nature kills. Yes that’s unfortunate, however, it was beyond those killed control. They did their best to survive nature. Nature sometimes kills. Nature is nature- I don’t think it has anything to do with emotions. To say it’s an evil mountain is another way to be a fool. Or an evil body of water. To claim a church is unconditionally loving, doesn’t even make sense. Like, the church is possessed? It’s a building, how is that possible? Holy wood, sanctified paint, blessed chairs. That’s so silly to me. At the same time, it’s not something I give any energy. If some people wanna think that way, all good. That’s not on me to change their minds. It makes me chuckle a little inside myself when I see it, but then I’m back on my way to continue to show compassion and do work.
Well that’s it. I’ve said enough for now.
Got Dang it
I give up trying to predict the future. Lots of us don’t get what we want when we want it. People learn to accept reality for what it is. I accept how things are for me as they appear. The tough part for me is to let it be without letting it throw me off my game. There’s a way to remain calm and carry on. Hell that was an English phrase from, uhhhhh. WWII? I dunno since when it came to be although for sure it came from England.
I admit that I’m not entertaining the audience. I have one person in the audience right now and it’s freaking me out. From the stage this person isn’t visible. I have no clue who he or she or they is/are. Freaks me out because this person remains a stranger. I don’t understand. It’s awkward for me because this person keeps silent. What do I do for this stranger? Do I know this person? I guess he/she/they doesn’t want me to know jack shit about who they are or what they think about my work. The mature response is no response at all. I do the mature thing by re-directing my focus to my work. It could be a different person each time I post. My performance comes down to how well I perform. How well I do or if I even perform is on me. To give away my focus because the audience freaks me out, is again, on me. I make me, or I break me.
Right now I’m just staying above water so I don’t drown. As tempted as I might think throwing away my life would be a good idea, I somehow won’t do it. I continue to tread water because I in fact do not want to freely throw my life away.
I don’t always trust what I think I should do or say. Sometimes I deceive myself and write too much. I also screw myself over with irrelevant posts and tweets. Even if it’s not because people think I’m lost, it’s something. This is another major challenge I face. Without much feedback I struggle to know how to best mix things up so that my work comes across as viable art worth their support.
People either don’t want to support me or they don’t know how. Either way the pure truth is the minimum support hurts on an extreme level. I think the universe wants to see if it can destroy me. Because I do see some support, not much, but some. This support does make a difference. The support I get does help me push onward with my work. It’s like my tank is near empty. There are no gas stations I can reach before my tank is bone dry. Then I’ll be without a ride to travel from place to place. My only option at that point is to walk. Got dang it. This just keeps getting worse and worse.
One audience member. Little support, sometimes zero support. Things continue to get worse. Yet here’s another sentence. Of course it’s irrelevant! This might be the worst I’ve ever felt in my entire life. Only one thing looks like it might happen. I just might get a short story I wrote published, by an indy publishing press. I’m super excited at the possibility of publication in an anthology.
It’s still not easy to maintain a positive state of mind. I’ll do my best to be positive. I’m really depressed though. Either way I’m giving it the old college go.
That’s it. It matters less and less, each time I see one person in the audience. That’s it? And this person won’t say a word about my performing? It now matters less than before I saw…Yet again… One person. Ya know whoever you are it’s not cool to act like God is. God, supernatural beings, are allowed to be silent. They get a pass since they are supernatural. You’re not supernatural, in case you forgot. Maybe this person is delusional. Great. The one person in the crowd also has delusions. Now do you understand why I really think the universe is trying to put me six feet under?
Well, try to see why I feel the way I do. I observe this, and the pain seems excruciating.
There’s got to be something keeping me afloat. Not a physical object but some unseen force. Whatever it is, something refuses to let me die in the ocean by myself. There’s a reason I’m not dead yet. For some reason I must have important shit I have yet to bust a move on. And this, is the only reason I’m still at it today. Back again to write some more.