Couch Potato

So, look, life is complicated. Life and what comes after.

But you know what isn't complicated?

Television.

It's beautiful. It's simple. It's pure.
It's the answer.

I remember when dad came home with our first television. I remember watching that expressionless black screen... come to life. To speak. To act. It understood me. It loved me. And I loved it, forever.

People don't think about that word much. What it means. How long it is.

Back when, well, y'know, before, I had friends. Girlfriends. Boyfriends. Family. Co-workers. I used to run and drive and swim. Rock Climbing, stage diving, lovemaking.

But none of it meant as much to me as that single, simple box in my lounge room. It was like... You know those Buddhists? How they do that praying stuff? And they, like, get in touch with the universe or something?

A chick in a bar once, she said to me

"I hate TV. It's crap. It's old."

I punched her.

That's how it is for me. That's how I watch Tv. Nothing matters. Nothing.

So, when he came, you know, Him, he was all, "We gotta go,"

And I was all, "No way man. Get lost. You're blocking the set. I love this show,".

So he said, "Fine. I'll be back later."

But I wasn't listening. There was a funny ad on. It had a dog who caught a Frisbee. Classic.

Sometimes there are other people on my couch. I don't care. Sometimes they turn the set off. But I can still watch it. I just turn it back on.

The electrician came, because one of the people was complaining about it. "Dunno what's wrong with it lady. Just get a new one."

But it didn't matter. I was still there. I could still watch my shows. Hey neat. Cartoons are on.

What was I saying? Oh yeah. The people.

They went away. They all went away after a while.

He came back. You know.

Him.

He said, "You've been here too long. You're too old. You're too lost. You gotta come with me,"

And I was like, "Shuttup man. I can't hear what the newsguy is saying."

He sighed. He left. What a buzz-kill.

I hear one day, all the sets will be broken.

But not mine. Still got it. Right here.

I hear one day, God will burn the Earth.

That don't matter. So long as the quiz show still rolls. And it will.

I hear, one day, the sun will go out.

That don't matter. They'll still show re-runs.

Hear that one day, entropy and energy will finish their fight. That the multiverses will collapse. That heat-death will come, and everything will end.

That don't matter. Because I'll still be right here. On my couch. Watching weekend specials. And midnight classics. And the morning news.

I'm not worried.

My life story

This is what I'm okay with my life story being:

He was born.

He grew up.

He said some things, and did some things. Because he thought some things.

Some guys liked them. Others didn't.

He drank a lot of beverages.

He owned plenty of stuff.

He met a bunch of guys.

He died of being pretty old.

Some guys were sad. Others weren't.

Eternal Surprise

To those who are surprised,
That I am the way I am,
I am pleased at your findings. 
For this is what I am.

I am peace and thought, and kindness.

I am darkness and blood and teeth.

I am piety, and love and forgiveness.

I am bitterness, and anger, and hate.

I am logic, and reason and science.

I am creation, and whimsy, and art.

I am atoms, arranged in beautiful pattern.

I am a soul, bound to wasted mortal coil.

I am lust, and greed.

I am chastity, and charity.

I am a child, who blinks at the light.

I am an old man, who huddles in the shade.

I am ego.

I am faith.

Within me are two wolves.

And they are bound together.

I am all these things, and though they are contrary, or impossible, I am them.
I cannot be otherwise. I do not know how.
Nor do I want to.

Because it makes me pleased to see your surprise.

The Man of La Mancha

If I could have been anything.

I would have been noble.

I would have been true.

I would have been kind.

I would have been humble.

I would have been fair.

I would have been strong.

I would have been beautiful.

Sickness would have been nothing to my body.

No wound would haved injured my will to live the life of a good man.

Alas.

A shark can only be a shark.

A rat can only be a rat.

A worm may dream of being other than a worm.

But it is the making of this world that things are as they are.

That is its wonder.

That is its terror.

That is its tragedy, that its futility.

That is why we dream our impossible dream.

The Man I Loved

I met a man, that I loved.
He was clever, and handsome.
He was generous, and kind.
He was good, and strong.

He turned out alright in the end.

But,

It was what preyed on him.
There were strange things that bit him,
Long lonely bites they gave.
They gnawed at him, in the deep.

It was this that made him lost,
It was this that made him cruel.
It was this that made him scream at God.

It was this that made him ferocious.

But his ferocity was tempered with fear,
Because he knew these things that bit him deep,
Would too be the things that bit others.

That he had a disease.
And it was contagious, if one weren't careful.

But I loved him.


He's dead now.

Fair

I always complain about my life and things. But really, I'm so, so thankful.

I'm thankful for great friends, especially David, who I don't see as much of anymore unfortunately, but that's hardly his fault. I'm pretty impressed with the way he figured out what he wanted to do, a thing most people consider a silly childhood fantasy, and made it happen. If the rest of us possessed a quarter of his will to achieve, then we would be beyond most modern problems. David is the most impressive specimen of humanity I have ever encountered, I don't think there is a single quality he has that is not enviable.

Jenni, of course it goes without saying, I'm incredibly grateful to have around. She's a woman of unusual taste, which is fortunate for me, because I doubt she would have ever fancied me at all if that were otherwise. She's forgiving, possessed of an impressive intellect, kind, and more beautiful to look at than a soft place to lie down after a week of no sleep. Trust me. I know.

But also all my friends, I am thankful of. They're good people, except perhaps one, and I'm happy to know I'm not an island. As a whole, they're wonderful people. Always ready to overlook the latestly horribly rude or vile thing I've done for some stupid reason.

My mother works incredibly hard for her family in a job that is sometimes so stressful it makes her feel sick, to the point of immobility. She gets so much hard luck she doesn't deserve, and still finds time to be a really nice lady. She's unbelievably devoted to her home.

I'm also pretty pleased with my possessions. I'm a pretty material person - I don't mean that I'm obsessed with owning the world, but rather I take comfort from the reliability of the things I own. Such as my watch, or my leatherman, or the phone I'm using to write this. If I were without but one if those things for a day, I'd be very distressed. But other things too. My clothes that fit me nicely, and my sturdy boots.

I often feel terribly guilty that such a poor person was given such great people to hang around and such wonderful things to touch and taste and smell. It makes me sad that most anyone from some country where the children starve would be better fitted to live my life, and love the people I love so much more effectively, and truly, and with a greater capacity for expressing that love.

But that is not the way of things. The good perish, and the wicked thrive. I am proof of the injustice of life, that this place will not reward the great, the brilliant, and the selfless, anymore than anyone. Rather, it is willing to give a genius moldy bread, and me, the worst kind of person (before people who literally go out to cause suffering) a new laptop.

Oh well.

Carlotta.

"Goddamn the whole fucking world and everyone in it, except you Carlotta."

The last words of William Claude Duncanfield.

(Carlotta, was not his wife, but his mistress.)



Sometimes, everything in life clicks along on bright brass rails. Click clack!
You can feel it moving forward like a determined little train.

Other times...

Well, I can be surprised how many things all go wrong all at once. I'm not terribly horrified, or "here is my life as a house of cards oh god oh god watch them tumble down" panicky. It's more of a sullen squelchly feeling, sitting in my chest, like a toad. Just when I think I've started to enjoy this moment, the toad burps, and I'm reminded, no, enjoyment is for other people.

That's what one gets I suppose. In hell, the smoker is rolled into a cigar and all that.

Well, fuck it. If I have had to make bad decisions, at least I know why it was I made them. That's more than can be said for many.

I don't believe that God hates me. But all the angels of His heavenly host are booing, and throwing old fruit at me, while they watch the play that is my life.

*shrug* I can deal with hecklers. YOU DON'T LIKE IT? YOU CAN GO SHOVE YOUR HALOS UP YOUR HOLIER THAN THOU ANUSES.

Fucking angels. What do they know?

Risk

I play a game. It's call "risk".

It was originally a board game, but I play it as an app on my phone, against the simulated players. They aren't real. That's very important.

The aim of the game is to conquer the world through taking over countries of the world, while your opponents attempt to do same. You start off with maybe five or six players. But it will eventually be whittled down to just two.

The exact details of game mechanics aren't really relevant. But my favorite tactic is to build up a large army of at least fifty men, over a few turns, then crush a whole opponent in one turn.

Sometimes this works so well, that it is I and one other player, that is has but one army left, in one cornered region. What I should then do is destroy this last enemy. Then the victory screen comes up, it has fireworks and triumphant music. It's very nice.

But... I don't kill that one last foe. I let it live. It fights back against me, but to no avail. The tendrils of hope it sends out against me are instantly crushed by my now colossal force.

So there it sits. A lone defender. Waiting death. Alive only by my mercy.

If it were a person, I'd explain to it, that I don't want to kill it. It and I could be friends. We could work together to make this tiny simulated world a better place. Turn over these years of war-strewn horror for a time of peace and kindness. But it won't have that. It still tries to fight me. It defies me!

Well, that's not it's fault. What else could it do? Sometimes I even let it escape and build up its numbers again, give it, if not a genuine chance, a reason to believe I've made a serious mistake. Could it not now conquer the world, too?

The answer is inevitably no. Even as this happens out I roll the huge juggernaut that is my reserve troops. Its resistance is destroyed utterly, like an insect.

Sometimes... I want to fight it to the last man, then stop. Surrender. Lay down arms and to the other players astonishment, allow myself to be run through and collapsed on the eve of my total dominion.

But that, sadly, is not how life works in risk.

Or in life.

Life is a savage place. And my risk metaphor is as transparent as the lie of peace.

Young John Green Tells a Story