Making Sense of My Own Ridiculousness

I write this the morning after publishing Making Sense of Skinhead Reggae, part 1; technically, according to the time stamp, 7 hours ago on the listed blog post that I would love to open  up in the editor to fix it — or at the very least, rename it, “Making Sense of My Own Ridiculousness.” But I can’t do that without being a hypocrite, can I?

I suppose it’s possible that there may be a difference in things you edit for different reasons, and that I could potentially maintain my rawness and still fix things that… that there was somehow a good reason to decide to hold back and fix. But, because I cannot distinguish often at times if not always when it is a good and bad time, and as a result have often felt in the end like many things I’ve written were a waste of time… to at least, be taken so seriously by me as a writer. I believe that… this is possibly why I stopped a decade of habitual writing all the time and slowly sank into feeling like it was not worth doing, until the habit was finally gone.

I’ve mentioned this before and how I’m not sure how much this has liberated me or set limits on me. The truth is, it has done both.

The things I have written since I gave up serious writing have been Dadaism in themselves, the sort of thing that I never hesitated to simply shovel on to a Facebook post after that where it can be scrolled over by the attention deficient people of this era who likely didn’t even notice it in the phantasmagoria of scrolling things.

It isn’t so much that it wouldn’t be read that is the issue. It’s the platforms that became suitable for me to write in. I didn’t keep a private journal that I hoped would prepare me for my “works,” which I imagined I was supposed to create to validate my self worth.

What was I if not a writer; the thing I had always been praised for, the thing I had spent so much of my life doing as if it was an important thing I needed to do.

The Dada philosophy I mentioned in Ideas Intersect has certainly taught me how to love myself and be a happy person, coming from the person I used to be who anything but that, and I’m grateful for those lessons. I use them now to be unashamed, bare, and and open about my failures without fixating so much on the importance of what it means to fail or succeed; which in Neon Dada, there is no such thing. I say again, this is a valuable “truth.”

But…I also enjoy writing, and I haven’t done it as often. I don’t think I consciously stopped with these thoughts in mind. In fact I know that I didn’t. But it makes sense to me a lot, especially as I try to write something half serious and discover again the flaws that make me inefficient at times — completely dysfunctional at others.

And there is an example right here in my last post. It doesn’t feel good to attempt to write something you know how to write but have your mental state come out more apparently than what you want to intend. It is very frustrating. It possibly makes me not want to continue things that I start, making it easy to unconsciously forget them maybe the way I do. I know that I am far less excited about what I wanted to write, overthought, and did not write.

The truth is, I feel  thatI could have easily downsized what I wanted to do into something sensible if I hadn’t been imagining less what I wanted to talk about, and more how it needed to be so convincingly thorough that my argument would be complete. It’s as if in contradiction to my own values [the dual aspected deity], because there is no absolute correctness my argument could possibly achieve… Similarly to how there is no state of perfection that the pursuit of perfection will ever attain.

I don’t think the pursuit of improvements in how well you understand a thing and the work you do as a result of that understanding is necessarily a negative thing to think about. But it clearly can interfere with productivity and result in something out of control, or irrational. It can result in… the sense of failure that I’m sure many artists, thinkers, engineers, builders of things, scientists, etc; have often felt no matter what they did or how much they are thought to have achieved by others, or not.

It seems impossible for me to write anything without a personal story, psyche column involved in it, because it’s just too obvious what a nutter I am. I do want to be writing this personal confession diary shit. But the truth is that I have to suck it up and do it, because the only other option is to delete my post, pretend it did not happen, or maybe go back to fixing it and do the same thing all over again.

It’s quite embarrassing, really, that I couldn’t see at the time. This is supposed to be a zine where I can write about something easy and fun to write about, like music, if not among other things.

But especially after I’ve gone through all of these thoughts in the last two postswritten — and even some of the ones from before — I feel like I am no longer comfortable with the idea of not writing because of how I feel about what it reveals about what i can and cannot do.

In the spirit of Dada also, I feel like if I can’t make the thing I intended to make often times, then I have to continue to make the things that I did not intend to make.

…because, no… It’s not important that I write anything, and nothing that I write needs to feel intentionally important in some manner. But what is important is that I feel content with who I am and what I do, and have no need to hide as if there is ugliness or beauty at all anywhere.

I have taken many great steps to be happy and would say that in spite of these feelings I am still happy, but I think the next step is facing the few things left that I am still self conscious about. w

And maybe one day I will be half as precise as I wish I was, but maybe I will not wish that I was something I am not, too. And I think both options are okay.

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