My first entry comes to you from a very personal place, as I pass through a kind of "zero moment" where I am being reduced to the barest, most threadbare levels of existence I've ever had to endure.
As I write this, I'm down to my last few days of living in a tiny, dingy room in Columbus, Ohio—with no proper bed. After I move my stuff into someone's basement or somewhere, I will be driving two DJ friends (Adulture and Ghosts of Venice from Second City Recordings, out of Chicago) around on tour in North Carolina and Tennessee for a week. This will no doubt be a great time, but upon my return I will have no place to formally be, and no money (or job) to set myself up somewhere else. This means that until something else happens, I will likely be eating many meager meals and sleeping on friendly couches (or as a last resort, in my car). If this isn't enough, I'll also be selling off what's left of my belongings, including parting with many of the books and music that have defined me as a person for the last twenty-or-so years. It's an odd feeling.
But this is not the part that really bothers me. Plenty of other people have had to ditch all of their things and start over, and I know that I've been putting off slimming my life down for far too long. As for my living conditions, well, I know I will handle it fine. I have always been a kind of traveler and "urban camper" at heart, so I can accept having to improvise for a while. I can also sleep pretty soundly just about anywhere—as long as the temperature's right, there are no bugs, and it's peaceful. And I shouldn't have too much trouble staying connected, since internet access has become easier to find at cafés, libraries, and the like.
It may sound surprising, but I don't feel much need to stay connected to my city of birth. Other than a couple debts I have to repay, I've freed myself of any real responsibilities here. And other than some of my fabulous friends who I will miss, there's not much here that I couldn't find somewhere else. In fact, this might be the perfect moment for me to start over somewhere else, or find some way to make something work for me while I'm on the road, as I've been talking about for many years.
Still, I can't deny that the daily strains and frustrations are beginning to get to me. Living on very little money is freeing in some ways, but it is also exhausting. It's nerve-wracking to have to measure every penny that comes in and out. And it's downright perilous to have nothing to fall back on, especially when there's no way to replace something that breaks or goes bad.
It's also disheartening (not to mention dehumanizing) to recognize how much of our society is based on a "transactional" mentality. I've always tried to sidestep this reality by looking for alternative systems or living in more communal situations, but they always end up breaking down (often over money). So here I am, staring at the reality of capitalism in the face once again. And this time, I've reached an inescapable conclusion: either I have to develop a head for business now, and make money by my own merits (and learn to love it!), or it's time to just give up and live like a bum—cardboard box and all.
There is another option, of course, which would be to look for a conventional job where I would be paid for my labor. But something deep inside me is telling me to resist working on someone else's clock until I absolutely have to. I've worked many menial, low-wage jobs, and a handful of higher-paying, higher-status jobs, so I know what work is about. As rewarding as a good job has sometimes been to me, I still feel like I have to learn to generate something for myself, rather than rely on someone else.
Speaking of relying on others, I know all about that, too. I've spent my fair share of time living off of various kinds of "handouts," such as university loans (which are currently in deferment), the generosity of friends and family (including a late inheritance which helped me live without working for a couple of years), and a few other trump cards. But this is not the time to go looking for another till to dip into—it's time to make my own till. This will mean confronting the system head-on, and biting the bullet until it works for me.
The problem is, I am not confident that I can do it, or that I will get where I need to go. I'm not confident that I have what it takes to build the life that I want. Poverty and adversity are one thing, but on a deeper level, what I am really lacking is trust. I don't trust myself, and I never really have. That's why I've played it relatively safe for most of my life. And now, I've waited so long to "launch" that I'm not really sure who, where, or what I want to be anymore.
Given this shattering realization, it suddenly becomes obvious that I've been heading towards this moment for a long, long time. Yet it's crucial for me to recognize that it also has the potential to transform me completely. After all, I'm the one who has allowed the slow dilapidation of my life to happen, one piece at a time. Whether or not I like to admit it, I've been in charge of it every step of the way. So there's also something exhilarating about this moment, and the realization that I have a chance to take full responsibility for myself, perhaps for the first time. In this, I realize that I am also being invited to "give birth to myself" in a more dramatic (and maybe, remarkable) way than I ever have before, as embodied by the eloquent words of Gabriel García Marquéz:
“Human beings aren’t born once and for all on the day their mothers give light to them; rather, life obliges them over and over to give birth to themselves.”
(Or, if you prefer, in the original Spanish:
«Los seres humanos no nacen para siempre el día en que sus madres los alumbran, sino que la vida los obliga a parirse a sí mismos una y otra vez.»)
—from No One Writes to the Colonel (El Coronel no tiene quien le escriba) [A nearly identical line also appears in Love in the Time of Cholera (Amor en los tiempos del colera).]
If this is truly my moment of rebirth, then it's also a brilliant chance to clean away many of the things that have held me back for the last twenty years. I have therefore started this blog as a way to write about the experience, and to keep myself somewhat accountable. Knowing that a few people are following me as I go through this might just give me enough of an impulse to keep writing, and to keep going, until the zero moment has passed and I am well on my way to living the life that I know I am capable of. I hope to do it all with a smile.
As I write this, I'm down to my last few days of living in a tiny, dingy room in Columbus, Ohio—with no proper bed. After I move my stuff into someone's basement or somewhere, I will be driving two DJ friends (Adulture and Ghosts of Venice from Second City Recordings, out of Chicago) around on tour in North Carolina and Tennessee for a week. This will no doubt be a great time, but upon my return I will have no place to formally be, and no money (or job) to set myself up somewhere else. This means that until something else happens, I will likely be eating many meager meals and sleeping on friendly couches (or as a last resort, in my car). If this isn't enough, I'll also be selling off what's left of my belongings, including parting with many of the books and music that have defined me as a person for the last twenty-or-so years. It's an odd feeling.
But this is not the part that really bothers me. Plenty of other people have had to ditch all of their things and start over, and I know that I've been putting off slimming my life down for far too long. As for my living conditions, well, I know I will handle it fine. I have always been a kind of traveler and "urban camper" at heart, so I can accept having to improvise for a while. I can also sleep pretty soundly just about anywhere—as long as the temperature's right, there are no bugs, and it's peaceful. And I shouldn't have too much trouble staying connected, since internet access has become easier to find at cafés, libraries, and the like.
It may sound surprising, but I don't feel much need to stay connected to my city of birth. Other than a couple debts I have to repay, I've freed myself of any real responsibilities here. And other than some of my fabulous friends who I will miss, there's not much here that I couldn't find somewhere else. In fact, this might be the perfect moment for me to start over somewhere else, or find some way to make something work for me while I'm on the road, as I've been talking about for many years.
Still, I can't deny that the daily strains and frustrations are beginning to get to me. Living on very little money is freeing in some ways, but it is also exhausting. It's nerve-wracking to have to measure every penny that comes in and out. And it's downright perilous to have nothing to fall back on, especially when there's no way to replace something that breaks or goes bad.
It's also disheartening (not to mention dehumanizing) to recognize how much of our society is based on a "transactional" mentality. I've always tried to sidestep this reality by looking for alternative systems or living in more communal situations, but they always end up breaking down (often over money). So here I am, staring at the reality of capitalism in the face once again. And this time, I've reached an inescapable conclusion: either I have to develop a head for business now, and make money by my own merits (and learn to love it!), or it's time to just give up and live like a bum—cardboard box and all.
There is another option, of course, which would be to look for a conventional job where I would be paid for my labor. But something deep inside me is telling me to resist working on someone else's clock until I absolutely have to. I've worked many menial, low-wage jobs, and a handful of higher-paying, higher-status jobs, so I know what work is about. As rewarding as a good job has sometimes been to me, I still feel like I have to learn to generate something for myself, rather than rely on someone else.
Speaking of relying on others, I know all about that, too. I've spent my fair share of time living off of various kinds of "handouts," such as university loans (which are currently in deferment), the generosity of friends and family (including a late inheritance which helped me live without working for a couple of years), and a few other trump cards. But this is not the time to go looking for another till to dip into—it's time to make my own till. This will mean confronting the system head-on, and biting the bullet until it works for me.
The problem is, I am not confident that I can do it, or that I will get where I need to go. I'm not confident that I have what it takes to build the life that I want. Poverty and adversity are one thing, but on a deeper level, what I am really lacking is trust. I don't trust myself, and I never really have. That's why I've played it relatively safe for most of my life. And now, I've waited so long to "launch" that I'm not really sure who, where, or what I want to be anymore.
Given this shattering realization, it suddenly becomes obvious that I've been heading towards this moment for a long, long time. Yet it's crucial for me to recognize that it also has the potential to transform me completely. After all, I'm the one who has allowed the slow dilapidation of my life to happen, one piece at a time. Whether or not I like to admit it, I've been in charge of it every step of the way. So there's also something exhilarating about this moment, and the realization that I have a chance to take full responsibility for myself, perhaps for the first time. In this, I realize that I am also being invited to "give birth to myself" in a more dramatic (and maybe, remarkable) way than I ever have before, as embodied by the eloquent words of Gabriel García Marquéz:
“Human beings aren’t born once and for all on the day their mothers give light to them; rather, life obliges them over and over to give birth to themselves.”
(Or, if you prefer, in the original Spanish:
«Los seres humanos no nacen para siempre el día en que sus madres los alumbran, sino que la vida los obliga a parirse a sí mismos una y otra vez.»)
—from No One Writes to the Colonel (El Coronel no tiene quien le escriba) [A nearly identical line also appears in Love in the Time of Cholera (Amor en los tiempos del colera).]
If this is truly my moment of rebirth, then it's also a brilliant chance to clean away many of the things that have held me back for the last twenty years. I have therefore started this blog as a way to write about the experience, and to keep myself somewhat accountable. Knowing that a few people are following me as I go through this might just give me enough of an impulse to keep writing, and to keep going, until the zero moment has passed and I am well on my way to living the life that I know I am capable of. I hope to do it all with a smile.
Don't be afraid to take on a doula if one comes along...
ReplyDeleteIn a way I am in the same place - transition and redefining what I want in my world. Leaving many things behind to see what else can develop. It's time. I believe in you. I look forward to seeing where your adventure takes you.
ReplyDelete