(Phaysis)

I have the singular ability to embarrass myself, which is convenient because it saves you the effort. The way I beat you to the punch by deprecating myself, I consider that a service I excel at. Like mama always said, if you can’t say anything good, say it about yourself, because for every finger you point there are three others pointing back and a thumb pointing off to the side. Just kidding, she never said that. She said she was proud of me, which counts in matters of the family.

In other news, alcohol is a helluva drug. I don’t drink often, but when I do, I drink dos drinkos. Or something like that.

2010 sucked shit. Did you know that? It had great promise, it did. End of the worst decade of my life. But you know what? I somehow ignored those promises and let them pass me by. I withered and shrivelled some, and then I whine about being alone. I’m the cause of my own misery. Did you know that? So what hope do I have in 2011? It’s just a year. It’s just another span of time, and the quality of my existence is not affected one iota by the name of the year. It will pass with or without my attention.

I have all the answers. I do, I have them. I know how to make myself and my life better. But I can’t take advantage of the answers. Too fucking proud to reach out and bring people in. I learned years ago that I have an unwelcome habit of making myself unwelcome by inviting myself along to the social whatevers. It was a painful, painful lesson, and I lost face from it. It’s best to go it alone unless I’m explicitly invited. But here’s the other edge of that blade: if the world doesn’t know you’re waiting on the call, it will be more than happy to let you stay alone while the more interesting people go off and do their things.

In the small world of small towns, small schools, and small groups, it’s easy to notice who’s alone. But the world at large, with all its billions of social circles, cliques, and ecosystems of people, the fact that you’re alone will never, ever be noticed, because to others, you may look like you’re too busy with your own little circles to join theirs. Which is, sometimes, the farthest from the truth.

So fuck 2010 for the embarrassment. And fuck 2011 for the solutions it won’t provide.

OK, so I lied. I’m a lying liar. I’ll be submitting a track to Anal0g.org’s Wires 7. The track is old shit, like 2002 old. Haven’t decided on which old track I’ll submit; I’m leaving that decision to Jared, who will choose 1 of 3 tracks. I tried to write something new, I really did. Fired up all the music gear, had some great ideas, but the frustration level exceeded my ability to deliver by deadline. So there it is. Glass Door will be representing again on Wires.

Worst foot forward.

So, why the frustration? Isn’t music supposed to be fun? Yes, it’s fun. I can sit at the keyboard and noodle all day. But a quirk of my personality raised its ugly head this weekend. So I can ad-lib as long as I want, but the moment I press “Record”, it all turns to shit. My playing, even though it was smooth and flowing, becomes stuttered, off-centered, mashed keys, skipped notes, the works. Fuckup after fuckup after fuckup.

The recording is in the digital domain, so it’s possible to fix it and clean it up, but doing so is tedious; it is the punishment for screwing up while recording. And there’s the frustration. It’s the same frustration I experience when I’m playing for, singing for, dancing for, performing for anyone else. If I screw up, I screw up big and my mental state changes, like a shock of panic jolts me from having the wherewithall to follow through gracefully as if the screwup was intentional.

I would be the gymnast who would walk off the mat when I inevitably smash my face during a flip. Instead of picking back up with the rhythm and playing through to the end, I’d rather stop then and settle with the low scores.

Tired eyed and stumbling.

Speeding up time, the pattern is seen. Day, to day, to day.

I miss the future. A decade ago, there was hope. Like all of my tomorrows were a treasure. Like time was my greatest resource. Like the presence of time itself meant I had all I needed to convene with friends, meet strangers, feel belonged. Haven’t felt that in years. Instead, I shrugged off every person in my life who brought complication. The downshot is that I shrugged off every person, and used my remaining time on my own worthless pursuits.

Coworkers ask me what I have planned when I leave for the day. I make up stuff. To fill the empty spaces during the day, instead of the usual water-cooler talk, I confess to my mundane activities. “I was going to do laundry last night, but the machine was broke again.” “My mother called to tell me my sister blah blah blah.” Mundanities. Nobody cares about that. But it’s all I got to offer. Silence would be better.

The future meant I have so much potential. Funny how nobody asks what we want to be now that we’re grown up. Grown-ups know better. Potential is time unspent. There’s still time unspent, but tired eyes don’t want to see. The walking sleep don’t dream.