TLWFY - essay on bullshit # 2

Are we really all these boring, unlucky people with no friends and even less love? We always have to move, escape or cope with the shit? Is shit the center of our lives? Do we like it this way? What is happening all the time? We hate the cities where we live, the people who we see and simply mark them in our heads as the people and we constantly want to be somewhere else. Where it’s fun. A summer camp with all the four seasons and without semi-dictatorish supervisors, new street names to remember and million miles between us and that girl who’s simple gentle stare breaks our hearts at every single show where we bump into her. So we listen to songs what create a whole new, more likeable world in our heads. Where everything is fine, sounds awesome and even that fucking frustration, anger and hatred is something we can enjoy and tap to with our feet. Or we sit around on empty weekday nights or could have been better weekends and we create things. Small things what mean the world for us. In hope that the whole world will come to us by these. If we create we’ll became these products. That’s right we instantly become objectified. Not that different from the jerk off materials that are floating around on the interweb. People ask us when the new thing will be out or tell us the latest stuff was somehow different than the previous ones. But with all it’s awkwardness, to be liked is not a terrible thing. It’s a great benefit if you’re doing something you really like and believe in. Sometimes it would be fun to really live that life as we do exist in other’s heads. Where we only come up till we produce. So in the meantime it won’t hurt at all. We would be simply nothing. But really it’s not that horrible to live.
Are we what we do or are we what we think? I do what i do cause i think what i think. But some people just think and others only do. That’s why some jobs are hated. Causes for the most, people are only jobs, occupations, professions. While jobs are like cities. The ones we already hate. But we have to live somewhere.
The drawback of doing something is: I’m chained to the process. If i’m travelling i have to move. If I love I have to stick to a person. If i wanna be in a band i better pick a city. Cause that’s what matters. A band is writing songs in a rehearsal room, practicing them and playing those on local shows till we record some of them probably in our town from where we’re sending them out. It’s the same with fanzines. You have to sit down and write the damn thing then put it together and distribute it. I wrote a zine on the road. Or I might say I scripted it. But after I got home I had to sit on my ass, type it in, print it out, cut it up, find old books, cut them into pieces and past-glue the whole thing all together, xerox it so many times then bend the pages all together and carry some to all the shows where I went and wanted to make money from what I can buy booze. And don’t even start me on being a record geek buying vinyl to your address and listening to them while sitting next to the turn table. If you do something you have to do it at one point and mostly all alone. I go to band rehearsals when everybody is out drinking and making out, having a fun on dance floors, puking on night buses. I carry that huge and heavy bass case and I feel awkward. Then I come home and practice more, listen to hard to hear recordings while trying to write songs, better notes than I improvised in the room. I remember when i was in a band and while i was virgin how much i envied those guys who came to our shows with their girlfriends and actually liked us. And maybe they thought “wow this is cool, guess this guy is rolling”. But i didn’t. Maybe people were gifting the cds, what i put together, for christmas which lead to gratitude sex while i tried to get drunk from my small amount of money and hide my drunkenness from my parents. We sit around and do. We are do-ers. While people go on spiritual journeys or discover new cities maybe carrying us with them in forms of paper, files, vinyl. But we sit in one point, forming bands, staying awake to put together things. Maybe go to bars only for inspiration or celebration on tiny achievements. We create stories cause things aren’t happening with us. There’s nothing poetic about my life. I have to think all the time.
What is more heartbreaking when people tell me i should start to work then it will stop me thinking all the time. But I wanna work only because I can keep thinking then. I want money and that’s all. I’m facing an upcoming high school reunion and even if I won’t go of course it went through my head what would I say? How would I summon the last 5 years? Maybe in the same way as I did couple weeks ago for a girl who seemed to be concerned about my happiness. In my past 5 years I did it. I fucking made it and mostly by myself. Everything. I can manage, book, write, distribute, put together, promote, organize, cook, dance, survive, play, rip, have fun. I wanted to be in a band and I was and still am. I’ve learnt to play on an instrument the punk way. I wanted to write and I’m constantly doing it. I wanted to travel as touring. I wanted to create great music and I did. I could be constantly indulge myself of giving my best time by time. And I wanted some people to like what I do. And I do great things what i can like and glad to show without that much of egoisticism. Because I’m so into them and you should believe me I truly hate myself pretty much the whole time. So work is money for me and that’s all. What I can invest into my survival as a punk. I don’t need career. I don’t wanna buy big things. If I wanna travel I could make it almost for free. I know people in huge cities so I won’t have to rent rooms or bunk beds in shitty hostels. And I’m not only in love with touring because I can have fun for free with my friends but also because I can be constantly amazed of how nice this all is. The international connection of listening to awesome bands and having the greatest ideas.
I used to wonder how cool it would be if I were a writer. Or a journalist. Same daydreaming everyone does after they learn the abc. But I don’t want to become one and have to cover up things because someone signed me to do it. I love writing and thinking but I don’t really into the school or official or professional form of it. I’m not even sure if I’m really that good at it. I just know I like it when I’m doing it and I don’t want it to define me. I want to define what I’m writing. If you wanna give me money for that, just for the simple enjoyment of reading my stuff then do it. But it has to come from desperation if I ever want to be a journalist. We really are obsessed with producing or serving. Take those arrogant assholes who work in instrument or computer stores knowing everything about what they are selling but nothing besides that and treating their costumers like retarded animals. Cause they as well identify themselves with their jobs and look down on everyone who’s different. The intellectuals have this fetishlike love affair for blue-collar workers. That’s why they have invented communism. The sexualisation of hard, sweaty work. People seek for dignity in their occupations and nothing pays of better the self-righteousness than suffering in long shift shitty jobs. Probably I will work something nonsense. Even if it will be helpful for some it won’t be what I would really wanna do. Cause I’m doing it already but not for money nor for dignity. I’m just doing it cause it’s fun. And fun is where my dignity lies.
Obviously there are jobs that are not punk. Without drawing borders of punk I would say every job is terrible for which you have to give up your whole self. It’s almost impossible to work without come in terms with some lame rules of the work place. I myself wanna work in t-shirt and don’t have to care about how my hair or facial hair looks. I’d be a ceo of a company If it won’t live up all my time. I don’t want to be cruel to people or sell my conscience out. So I might not be a ticket controller either.
What’s ahead of me is to choose an incognito. Which for I don’t have to care that much. But it’s not easy to convince myself to sacrifice my precious empty hours, what I’ve spent with seeking for and listening to great music and brainstorming on better ideas, for just getting money. So every Sunday I go to bed with a so far never fulfilled promise: I’m gonna start a fake life on Monday.