I have a tendency to revolve around certain actions.
Maybe we all do. For instance, I like to skateboard. That I do a lot. Just like some months ago, I had liked to drink alcohol. For the third time, I quit because it reached a point where once again it felt like I could not stop. It was no longer fun just to have a drink. Rather it was the point to drink. So many nights had I lay awake with the resolve not to drink only to drink the next morning. One event brought it to a head; it came by a revelation; better yet an observation of me in action. When drinking becomes a problem you want to enlist everyone to drink. Depending on the context, the results differ. The particular event that I spoke of was school related camp out. I found myself offering everyone a beer, as if that was the point of being out of doors; not the children but the opportunity to drink.
The next morning I knew too well this oddly familiar me and I did not like that person who wants everyone to be complicit with his drinking. And for the third time in my life, I quit. And each day thereafter became a countdown. I know too well the clinical studies that state it takes 14 days to break a habit, that is a behavioral habit. Drinking for me was only partly physiological. Sure my body loved to soak in the booze, but I have never been an alcoholic. I know too well their habits.
Myself, I would term a problem drinker. At best, a binge drinker who drinks regularly.
Strangely enough when we find separation from a controlling aspect of any given thing, we find resolve to tackle others things that may not sit well with us. For me that thing was blogging.
Blogging? Alcohol? Are the two related?
Yes, blogging has that quality that once you start it’s hard to stop. This is my fourth year. It has been just shy of a week since I have posted. Not just posted. But since I have even glimpsed my blog.
It became self-rewarding days into my blog fasting, that by not opening that page I felt freed.
Yes, liberated if you will from a one sided relationship.
Yes, though people do like my post and on occasion make comments. The relationship is unrequited.
What did I expect? I will admit, my thoughts border on the grandiose but I thought I would be recognized as a writer. That it would be self-evident that I had talent. And because of this talent others would want to collaborate.
Not the case, far from it. Apart from bored house wives, there was really no traffic. Sure, there was nibblings, bites if you will but nothing meaty. No one to share ideas with.
So imagine this you write a post and post it; then you spend the next few hours looking to see how many likes you have chalked up for your efforts. Surely this time they will recognize my talents. But no such luck, just those same few that pop up to like you and then to fade just as quickly into the ethers.
Now don’t get me wrong, I have no regrets at all for having been a blogger. Much like my drinking without which many different species of female would have gone uncourted. Without blogging, I would not have took up writing again. For that, I owe a lot.
WordPress offers a venue for any and sundry to poke around and to make jabs at the larger world connected by the web. It’s a social media, a place where we find other lonely people wanting to communicate with others. It some way it is fashioned after Facebook which has proving a good business model. It’s almost like there is a social media for every type of person: snapchat, pinterest, and the list is seemingly endless.
Social media is a tools that allow people to create, share or exchange information, ideas, and pictures/videos in virtual communities and networks. That is well and fine, but these social medias can distract one from higher aspirations. Makes me think of a Richard Pryor skit where he expounds on being in the throes of cocaine, that at first it helped his love life and improved his performance at work. But latter he quits his girlfriend and calls his boss and tells him he has a new boss.
For me, I find it hard to write while looking for direct feedback. It’s like I would start a story and feel that is was good and going places and good enough to publish online. I could generally go for about six days tapping this new creative vein with some days writing two or three post ahead. But I finally reach a point where I realize what I wrote has garnered no real acclaim and for that reason I feel despondent. Even down right hateful to my inability to write, to continue to write. It just stops, the outpouring. I believe it has to do with not getting the rewards that I had expected. That I was writing less for me, then for those likes. And those likes were paltry compared to other bloggers.
As an aside, this piece may be my first piece that I really feel merits public acclaim. It speaks of my personal experience. But to go further, i feel I must think about an outline. Or in the least, think about what I am trying to say; what is my point. Is it so simple, that I want to be a writer and blogging seems to have gotten to a point that it hampers, distracts me from actually writing something that could be published.
A compulsion to look at my blog won’t leave me alone but with each day having not looked I find myself involved with other matters that pertain to writing. Maybe that is one aspect of defining a habit that controls you, that because of this control it leaves little room for you to do other things. It’s like putting all your eggs into one basket. To be truly free of any given habit, one must let go of its seemingly compelling necessity. What necessitates our existence is the need to grow, to expand. When we keep barking up the wrong tree, that tree continues being a tree while we just finally tire ourselves out.
This is what it gets down to writing. Nothing more, nothing less. It sustains me to know that i can think something, write something and by putting it down into words I can look at this something and decide if it meets my present standard as to who and what and how I think about the world.
It is quite exhilarating to be here now writing without recourse to pushing publish just to garner likes; only to find myself disappointed because the likes are so few. And no comments really that amount to any real exchange, just cordial words, back slapping.
I smile because I am writing. But for me writing is thinking. It offers feedback by allowing me to loop back upon what I have written to more closely examine the idea, the thought, the feeling; what have you: whatever I was trying to express.
What is the one thing we don’t know? Come on think about it. I have discovered most of what I know is limited to what I think I know about any given subject. But if i want to know more, than I must look how I feel about any given subject and write out these thoughts. Only then can I begin to describe my condition. It seems i have spent years wanting to write about what I felt would garner attention. Mainly stuff that involved violence and sex. Two subjects that have occupied a lot of air time in my life. But the in between time, I have left out, left it unexamined because of embarrassment.
Embarrassment? Yes, shame too. I am this but also I am that. We don’t know much about that. That which we are not we know too much. We tout this to be the all mighty truth. While inside we suffer.
Is it Ok, that I have lost my thread, my chain of thought? No worries, I will simply pick up the needle and rethread it with a new thought that I hope works within the confines of what my original intent to begin this piece was to make a declaration of disconnecting myself from blogging.
That it seemed analogous to having quit drinking, that by quitting drinking it gave me strength to quit blogging. Makes me think what else will I quit.
But maybe it would be better to speak about what I would like to begin. Often times when I do some design work, it starts with first clearing an area. Back to this idea of letting go of something that holds us in a place that may keep us from doing something that may have more meaning. What could possibly have more meaning than blogging? Writing towards being published not towards being liked. (As an aside while removing myself from the room to go take a piss, a thought presented it itself as a question: would I ever again open my blog again? The answer is no. i would just as well drink again than to blog again. I would compare blogging to my many years smoking and now my long held abstinence from marijuana. Drinking affects our emotions; marijuana our thoughts. Blogging messed with my heart much as if it were a woman. Reminds me in fact of a similarly episodic event in my life wherein I had to physically leave the presence of a woman because she could not make me feel comfortable with our relationship. What a minute: why is she responsible for your feeling comfortable? Granted, she should not be but that is the nature of relationships. If we stay it is because the other seems to have bought into our bullshit and ses beyond it.
This is where eding will have to come to the rescue. I am chronically off topic and lack insight as to how to stay tight to my point.
What is about blogging that has made me one to quit it? Maybe the answer is tied into that last sentence of Thoreau’s at the end of Walden’s Pond, that I am leaving for the same reason I came.
Maybe we quit things not because they are hurting us maybe just because they no longer give us what we need.
A woman who helps with my mother in the afternoon asked me: why do people drink? Is it because they are covering up some kind of pain.? What drives people to drinking?
People drink for many reasons and pain could be one of them. But what underlies this label pain? I think people start out drinking as merely something they see others do. Which has nothing to do with pain and more to do with conformity. For me at the age of 13, I took to the idea i wanted to smoke and to drink. I was big for my age, tall and gangly. And there was a lack of adult supervision in my life.
Drinking starts off as a social thing that becomes a habit that becomes an addiction. For every drinker there is a different story, but overtime their stories begin to merge. And what they tell concerns that downward spiral. Later, we like to think of reason why said person drinks. He lost his family, his home; everything he owned was taken from him.
It’s complex when you try to put your finger on what drives some people to drink.
Let’s try to make this more simple: what drove me to drink?
I liked the feeling of being able to lose myself in the bottle. You start off downing that first glass, the effect minimal. You follow with that second glass, the head feels it. By the third you have forgotten all else accept the bottle.
Romantically, we could at times drink to hide the pain and become drunk about something that we have lost. Say it be a girlfriend and the pain we might experience because of absence. Here is where habits start to creep in and we learn that when in crisis we drink. And we drink and drink until our life is in crisis. Drinkers are romantic souls lost inside a bottle.
What not drinking frees me up to do is to be at ease with the fabric of the day. The same feeling attends to me not waking up to check like counts. This philosophy of letting go of anything that controls you stems from my earlier readings from Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations.
I keep flipping back to the idea of returning to my blog; I even entertained the idea that these latter writings would be my ending post. But at this point, it reminds of the gains one gets each day from those initial nearly impossible days that began one’s fasting from food. Day one gives impetus to day two without food, subsisting only on water. By the time you reach day 12, you don’t want to give up your gains. At least, not easily. You think, I’ve come too far.
A similar parallel notion is when one is on the road, when one has chosen to set out on a journey. Not just any sort of journey, but one wherein you believe that all that you leave behind is forever behind you. Your one concern becomes an awakening. We live our lives as a flower bud, tightly concealed from the elements. But take that bud on the road exposing it to all and sundry, rain, sun, wind and that longing that comes from seeing the road bend in such a way you feel compelled to see what it will bring. That bud will open up and flower. And you begin to count off the days that soon amass into months, months out there alone unto the world and if you ever for a moment touch down on upon the landscape called home, your trip will be immediately terminated, ended at that precise demarcation and if will seem as if you never left. The spell will have been broken.
Writing at random towards a preassigned spot, a place in your mind where you think something takes getting use to because it proves to be difficult not because of anyone reason but because of multiple reasons such as how to know what is proper as regards grammar and how to keep to a point without being misled by tangentially thoughts that seem just as important but may waylay your efforts leaving you where you started with something written again that is unreadable. But you set back and you write anyway with the idea that your thoughts seem to be lending themselves more to be wrote.
Writing only begins at the point where we stop being too concerned with how we write and instead we place emphasis on what we are writing about with the expressed intention to be clear, but clarity in itself must correspond with your inner guidance system. If you side with truth which seems relative to who you are and what choices you have made, then just maybe your point of view will be validated by others.