I'm one unit of husband, residing in a dark canyon with my wife, and a cat who eats plastic, and a cat who moves in an animatronic fashion.
I should do what I can to secure, with my wife, a good life for us and our family and our future children, whether biologically generated or adopted. A life with no fear of deprivation, or, at least, less fear, after all war is always possible, famine always possible, the breakdown of society—one must prepare for the edge cases while chortling along, stocking the pantry, to the extent that it's reasonable to do, while also taking care not to miss out on the sunlight, the aimlessness, walking for hours with no music, nothing in particular to think about, dancing together, unplanned, dishes left in the sink not out of personal dysfunction but out of choosing to live more life rather than tidying up the life of yesterday, things to celebrate, bits of existence segmented and savored with reverence but also not with reverence.
I should encourage those around me. By which I mean, induce them to be less inhibited, less afraid, more eager to pursue their desires. Which might look totally normal. A slightly different kitchen, a bit more air circulating, softer pillowcase, more robust benefits package. Or which might look like a shack in the desert, the most tasteful designer drugs, messages exchanged on the most distant frequencies. Whatever they want. I should do this with my words and my actions. Through my job and also by putting out a ‘chill’ ‘nonjudgmental’ ‘vibe,’ and also frequently using the words ‘why not,’ ‘why not do that,’ ‘who wouldn't,’ ‘you should do it,’ ‘I believe in you,’ and so on, supporting the inchoate efforts of those I am in a position to communicate with earnestly. I should no longer think about being an immaculate entity out there, some image of the Artist, a person who knows what's going on, descending occasionally from the mountain to drop a tablet upon the earth, by which I mean, a sensitive novel, or a book of essay—such satisfactions are brittle and fleeting in the face of nudging others away from automaticity, such as they'd like to be so moved—not everyone has something hidden away inside that they consider unacceptable, but many do, and this prevents much good from occurring.
But I should also still finish my novel about a vampire having an existential crisis, and I should still write some essays for magazines, and I should locate cheeseburgers or artichokes or blackberries and lie in the sand, alone, it is fine to want things that are strictly for myself, there is no rule about which I must or must not do in a given day, I should only resolve to not slip too far in one direction or the other, selecting one or the other path based on either the simple sense of what feels right, or based on the feedback of those around me, because after all I have seen what I look like when I'm simply unmoored, choosing my own direction exclusively, independent striving, it looks like shit, it looks like a lot of long nights spent playing video games and switching from one brand of cigarettes to another, in the face of that, I should trust others to remind me when my duties are being neglected, but I should incorporate that with the opinion of the quiet humming thing inside me, which is not always wrong, just not entirely impartial, just occasionally inclined towards fear and self-indulgence, which are often each others' handmaidens, after all.
I should not maximize my followership, or market myself exquisitely, or find my niche and bloom there. I should not optimize myself for distribution. I should run screaming from all the brain rot engendered by prestige, the urge to make myself legible, to accept lifestyles that seem desirable simply based on what shows up in my Instagram feed, what wants are foisted upon me by this needy civilization, which attacks me with wanting, wanting, wanting. I should focus on life right here, the trickling of the cat fountain, the friends I keep meaning to talk to, my new stapler, which I stapled my finger with last night, not intentionally—admiring sharp objects is dangerous.
I should hit publish on this post, publish another one tomorrow, and then never do this exercise again. I should reflect happily on what I've written over the last month, and the psychological benefits of it, and then I should never, ever do this again. I should get up, make myself another cup of coffee, talk to Mikael in 80 minutes or so, finish the day's tasks, go purchase a new refrigerator with Victoria, drive down to Oceanside this weekend, see Kanjun, talk business and talk bullshit, maybe get some fast food on the way back, then spend Sunday with Victoria, going from here to there as we please—every Sunday we take the whole day off, it's our weekly vacation, which is to say, a vacation inside the larger vacation, which is to say, the chance we get to be here, in this bubble of consciousness, a few feet apart. We will go to the parks if they're not closed by the great state of California—we have to play by the rules, at least sometimes, though we try to make our own game to the extent that we can, and play it until exhaustion arrives to tuck us in with its warm furry hands.
an excellent 30 days, my friend