Sometimes you can go home again

So long, washington dc. My dad drove 700 miles to come and get me. And then we drove 700 miles right back. As we left my neighborhood my dad spotted a black teen sporting the sagging pants look and remarked on it. I told him there were far worse things to glimpse around these parts. But we didn’t see any trannies teetering in the heat or unhoused bumblers sprawled across a sidewalk before we left.

We drove down winding highway 68 as the sun set, through the mountains of maryland. Steam rose from the valleys and mingled with the clouds, which were reflecting the waning daylight. I took in as much beauty as I could at 65 mph and felt serenity spreading over me. It was the perfect exit. I wasn’t looking back.

When we made it to washington, pa, we stopped at a days inn. I wanted to keep driving through the night but my dad was tired.

John Wick played on the tv in the hotel room. I remember skimming some jerk off return of kings article about the masculine message of this movie. Something about how John Wick doesn’t cater to women and always dresses well. Violence is a way of life and men kill each other because that’s what they have to do and blah blah blah. It was standard issue manosphere retard dribble but I still read shit like that on occasion.  The movie was brainless fun and I couldn’t sleep anyway. I liked how there was no backstory or character development. Just stylish slaughter.

The morning came and I hadn’t slept much but I was ready to go. The second half of the drive didn’t have the scenic splendor of the first. We drove through pennsylvania, ohio, and indiana. The mountains turned into hills and then the hills turned into flatlands. We sped past small town desolation, the cultural and economic deserts. Every exit was a dried out network of fast food, gas stations and big-box retail. I felt the despair and inertia emanating from these places. I heard the cries of the abandoned populations, mocked and scorned by coastal elites and big city strivers, left with nothing to do but work in gas stations and cook meth.

Every Taco bell was hiring. But these natives, for some reason, don’t want to make diarrhea tacos for the rest of their lives. We need to bring in a million more mexicans a year so we can open more mcdonald’s and gas stations and keep expanding the service economy. If the old white stock is going to waste away on opium and reality television then we will replace them with a hungry, hardworking people genetically and culturally suited for soul stunting drudgery.

After tedious hours of driving through cornfields we made it to southern indiana. Back to the rolling hills and lush forests of my homeland. Back to the house I grew up in. I unloaded the car, rested for a bit, and then my parents and I went to eat at denny’s. In one day I went from east coast fast casual dining to a denny’s in the midwest. It felt right.

Last night I slept in my old bed in my old basement room. It seems that sleeping on an actual bed improves quality of sleep. I’ve learned that sleeping on a futon in a room the size of a shelf drawer isn’t conducive to physical or psychic comfort.

Now I’m drinking tin can coffee and reacquainting myself with my old surroundings. The years and experiences are stored up here, in the walls, the furniture, the rooms. My memory is in the material. I can’t access who I was until I’m where I used to be. Moments are coming back in waves as I pour over pictures and notebooks full of scribblings from my childhood and teenage years.

I’ll need to find work soon, but for now I’m going to hang out with my retired parents and read and write as much as I can before I’m strung out on opium.

Looking within

Sometimes I wonder if I’ve earned the right to be a racist. How am I better than my alleged inferiors?

I can gloat over white achievement and the glory of western civilization until I’m uplifted and proud. But what contributions to this gleaming white world have I ever made? As an individual I’m down in the dirt with the blacks.

For ten years I’ve worked minimum wage jobs and smoked pot. Blown cash on drugs, booze and fucking. Sank a decade into rampant rutting and stumbling around drunk and high. My parents paid for my wasted education. My family kept me out of the streets.

I’m a lifelong dependent with anti-social tendencies. My time management skills are lacking and my impulse control is weak. If my parents didn’t help me then the state would have to intervene. Without the support of family I’d need government assistance like all the imported muds mucking up the safety net.

I’m lucky I don’t have bastards or a criminal record. I’ve saved nothing, built nothing, preserved and protected nothing. I’m a taker, a parasite sucking at the deflating tit of my inheritance.

It’s normal to prefer the company of people who look, sound and act like you, but beyond that why am I proud to be white? Racism as far as trusting your own people over alien groups makes sense and is consistent with our evolutionary history. But using group membership to boost esteem can obscure deeper flaws in personality. And what white characteristics do I even exhibit?

I’m quiet and courteous in public. I’ve never shot or robbed anyone and I can read and write. Apart from not being an illiterate murderer I’m not sure what makes my particular white self so much better than the crepuscular cretins we love to castigate.

Sure, I’d never make incoherent threats on a bus or blast obscene music on a train. But underneath the surface of my civility, of polished white presentation, there’s african style corruption, indolence and idiocy. Peel off the mask of my polite white face and you’ll see the soul of a dysfunctional negro.

The same goes for my feelings towards gays. I view them as public health hazards and symptoms of family breakdown and social disorder. In the current year, std rates in the u.s. are higher than they’ve ever been and gay and bisexual men are at an elevated risk. They’re incapable of restraining themselves and shutting their buttholes long enough to cure their chlamydia and gonorrhea.

They wail about funding and acceptance and rights as they descend into the depths of bathhouse depravity where they incubate and spread fatal diseases, soaking up resources and misusing scientific and medical talent to shield themselves from the deadly consequences of their infantile indulgence.

But I’ve had an std before. I’ve acted just like a morally blighted and spiritually gutted gay man who puts sexual pleasure above health and happiness. My sexual compulsions have physically endangered others and caused emotional confusion and pain.

The biggest difference between me and a gay man is that I have sex with women. It’s not as though I’m an upright family man fearing for the future of his community, warning my people and protecting them from predators and profligates. How can I can preach sexual continence and the importance of stable relationships when I’ve allowed family ties to fray while seeking novelty and stimulation?

I have no community. I was thrown into individualism, self actualization, into doing what you want when you want with who you want all the time until your body turns to dust. Where only bigots stand in your way and only archaic religious beliefs hold us back from being their true selves. There was no racial or ethnic consciousness, no celebration of ancestry or connection to the past. The future was mine; it wasn’t the continuation of a legacy. I took advantage of the license granted to me by a permissive age of disintegration.

Until I became so disgusted with myself that I knew I had to change. And I thought about the value of a rooted existence, of devotion to something greater than my cravings and lusts. I began to figure out my unhappiness and envision a future that would reconnect me to a past I’d casually disowned. But it’s all been theory and speculation so far.

In my head I’m a straight white man proud of living in a civilization built by straight white men who love independence and freedom. In my actions I’m closer to a gay black man who needs other people’s money to continue inhaling and ejaculating while remaining passive, resentful and self pitying.

Sure, it feels good to know I’m not in a demographic that’s overrepresented in violent crime and genital afflictions, but what have I done as an individual to make my people proud? What makes me worthy of esteem? It has to be more than not being gay or black and in jail or spreading aids.

I could spend my entire day pouring over stats and stories of black misconduct, homosexual deviance and the social and economic devastation wrought by ill conceived and malicious immigration policies. I could brood over elite corruption and cultural decline and state supported decadence and it wouldn’t change the fact that I’m more of a product of these forces than their external opposition.

The submission of humanity to technology might move me to impassioned denunciation, but as soon as I’m done I’m going to use my smart phone to order more drugs. And then I’ll sit around and wonder when I’m going to get the recognition I deserve for doing almost nothing, for narrowly avoiding prison and unwanted children and life threatening illnesses.

At least I’ve been racially and morally awakened. I now know that even though I’m the product of a sick society, becoming healthy is in my hands if only I put down the pipe and the smartphone, if only I stop acting like an unfocused animal minority. I need to become worthy of the civilization I claim to love.

Stopped by a piece of plastic

Last day in dc. Unless something goes wrong. It usually does. Can’t eat until later. Must drink coffee and quiet the hunger, type with trembling hands.

Our nation celebrates its independence. It’s flags and bottle rockets, beer and brats. 100 degree heat, smoke billowing from charcoal grills and children playing in pools. Once again I will miss a day of festivities with my family. I miss every holiday because I’m working. But I haven’t worked in a week and have nothing to do but wait and wonder about my choices.

So I’m going to sit in my room away from the swampy, unbreathable air and incinerating sun. I’m going to review my thoughts and actions and feel guilt and regret.

My character needs work; I need to align my behavior with my beliefs. Sometimes I think people can’t change and that we’re fated to be who we are. And then at other times I believe in rebirth and second chances. Or third, fourth and fifth chances. However many chances a person needs until they’re dead. As long as you’re alive there’s still a chance to become better.

Unless we’re determined by our environment, genes, fate, god, or some other unchallengeable, indomitable power to repeat ourselves and play out our programming until the end of time. Then all our dreams and wishes, plans and projects would be in vain. We can’t not be our defective selves.

Last night in dc. My first rooftop party. I made pseudo friends and they hosted a 4th of july party. Civil rights lawyers, DREAMers, people who organize dinners and potlucks for causes. Activists and advocates. Believers in democracy invested in the establishment, fund raisers in grassroots groups and bureaucrats in the department of justice.   Protectors and defenders of the marginal. People with commitments, projects, salaries and clients. Involved in outreach. Unlike me.

I sat in a wicker chair, drank beer, watched fireworks and then observed the people around me. And I began to wonder. When did I become this person who couldn’t fit into this world? At no point in my life did I have the discipline or the ideals for it. But why did I settle for less?  As though I’d chosen my character. As though I’d decided to defeat myself.

I’ve always said that I didn’t want what I couldn’t have. And on the roof of that apartment building, as reds, yellows and greens streamed through the clouded night sky, surrounded by journalists, lawyers and professors, I rehearsed a stale song of good riddance. A failed barista nursing his ambivalence, half wanting and half hating this inaccessible life of rooftop parties thrown by institutional do gooders and conventional strivers.

Then I went home, smoked more weed and fell asleep.

When I said something usually goes wrong, I spoke from experience. From knowing myself and the way I work,  which is without preparation or organization. First I woke up late and missed the rental car appointment. A friend drove me to the airport. After stumbling through an mc escher painting of a parking garage I found the rental place. And then I learned that I needed a credit card to rent a car.

I don’t have a credit card. I’ve never had one. I’m 30 years old, about to turn 31, and I’ve never had a credit card. I’m barely human. This is one of those things that’s obvious to most other people but I’ve never thought about it. You need a credit card to rent a car. I found out after a dozen years of nominal adulthood. You need credit to rent an apartment or buy a house and I don’t know my score. It’s another number I avoid the same way I don’t open letters from collection agencies or check my account balance.

So now my parents will have to come get me. The people who I wanted to take care of are still taking care of me. When will I change, if change is even possible.

What would it take? I need help. Libraries of self help books. Tony Robbins courses and gorilla mindset seminars. I need strict guidance on not taking what’s easy and making it difficult or taking what’s difficult and making it impossible. The distilled wisdom of the ages on achieving adult stability and forbearance.

I’ve read about the habits of highly effective people. Studied the words of Scott Adams and Mike Cernovich. Skimmed and glazed tips, tricks and hacks to increase productivity and focus. I’ve read about the power of positive thinking and how I need to stop worrying and enjoy life. They were all good reads and all useless. You read self help because it makes you feel like you could change, and that fleeting feeling keeps you going even though nothing changes.

You get hooked on the rush of motivation. And then it leaves you as soon as it lifts you up. You fall back to where you started and it’s time for another promise that won’t pan out. A grinding cycle. Strapped to a wheel, spinning around and going nowhere as the nausea rises.

I can’t blame my foolishness on a broken home or a deadbeat dad. My dad was there for me and he’s still here now.

When I think about the kind of man he has become, I realize I have the same potential. If he’s unselfish and industrious then I can be too. It has to be in there somewhere. There’s still hope for me. But first I need to get a credit card.

The view from the floor

Right now I’m typing into a closet. I have no furniture except for a broken chair. I’ve placed my computer at the foot of my closet, which is about three feet from the floor. The ledge of my closet is now my desk, where I sit in a broken, backless chair and type into my macbook computer.

It is a saturday night and I’m burnt out on beer. My feet stink and my back hurts. I must be tired but I don’t feel it. I’ve slept little the last few nights. But when you’re not working you don’t need as much sleep because there’s no work to rob you of energy. You get by on less.

Dc isn’t so bad when you don’t have a job. At least for a couple days. Having fewer things and more space has made me monkish. I sit still on the hard floor and free myself from possessions and attachments. I attain freedom from ownership, from desire for control. I’m unburdened.

And then those things come back. Last night I talked to some people in a bar about psychedelics. They were on the subject of sensory deprivation chambers and I brought up mushrooms. And then they asked me something I had no idea about but I answered them anyway. And I seemed to answer the question.

That’s what academic training does for you. I remember stalling at first and thinking that I didn’t know what to say. This happens when I allude to knowledge I don’t have and then someone wants to know more. I panic and then try to spin sense out of nothing. Sometimes it’s convincing.

I’d live in this city for another six months if I didn’t have to work and I could wander around all day and then come home and sleep on a floor. If I had nothing and received money for food and transportation. My pants are disintegrating so I should get another pair of those as well.

If you gave me money for food and pants and I could sleep on the floor and not take care of anything then I could stay here longer. See a few more monuments, go to a few more museums. Take a few more train rides and hang out with a few pigeons.

There are no pigeons back home. But I’ll enjoy our birds. We have good birds and I don’t want to waste valuable country bird watching time missing the pigeons of the city. I hope I’m not caught in a cycle of wanting to be wherever I’m not. What if home is attractive now because I’m not there? Once it loses the charm of distance I won’t want to be there anymore.

I miss my family until I can’t get away from them and then I want to be somewhere else. My history is a choppy flight from the actual. I’ve dissolved relationships, jobs, places, hobbies and talents. I’m a practiced quitter, a seasoned deserter.

But for the last six months I’ve been thinking about what it means to stay, to put down roots and grow into a solid, enduring self. To fit into a place and time. And as I’ve thought about this rooted, other directed existence, I’ve become steadily more disgusted with selfish, impulsive and irresponsible behavior.

I was ready to go home. The only problem is that right now I’m in a bare room, sleeping on the floor and my habitual aversion is rising up again. It’s telling me to run away from responsibility.

I need to remember that my last week in DC has been an illusion, an illustrious impossibility. I have just enough money to eat until I rent a car on wednesday morning. So I’ve been reading and thinking and writing without working, an ideal condition I wouldn’t be able to maintain. Because dc is mostly working and serving a kind of person I don’t like and then living among another kind of person I also don’t like.

Here’s what I’m wondering with all this time and open space and unyielding floor to sit on and punish my ass bones with: have I translated my general contempt for humanity, my diffuse apathy and aloofness into a more pointed racism and bigotry to compensate for deeper character flaws? I didn’t even know that black people annoyed me until I became a minority in their lands. I didn’t care about gays until I shared a home with them and lived next to a gay couple. My hometown is gayer than the average midwestern town but it’s nothing compared to dc.

Do I only hate what’s nearby regardless of who or what it is? When blacks and gays surround me then I have a problem with blacks and gays. And I think sweet thoughts about my far off family. My hope is that I’ve matured enough by now to make good decisions and understand myself well enough to do the right thing.

For the last six months I’ve wanted to do more for others but in this moment I feel alone and self absorbed. Carnally preoccupied and shiftless, as though I could continue living without engagement and occupation indefinitely. I hear that age doesn’t matter, that people delay and prolong phases of life, and that we’re no longer bound by the old rules. We live longer and have so many choices in where we live and who we spend our time with that we don’t have to nail ourselves to one place or set of people.

The modern era is marked by acceleration and dislocation. Fluid relations predominate and identity is provisional. Reality is subject to continuous redefinition; narrative and interpretation determine truth.

So I can tell any story I want to make myself feel better about what I choose to do. I can break myself down into little pieces and scatter them everywhere. There are so many places I’ve never been and people I’ve never met and there’s no reason to chain myself to a location because I happened to be born there. There’s no abiding reason, only the rationalizations of an evolved, accidental organism.

Modern life is hauntingly arbitrary, episodic and ambiguous. Chaotic and uncertain, abandoned by the eternal and delivered to the temporary, left to risk and probability. An upstart enlightenment has discredited the dictums of God. Authority has been transferred from the transcendent to the impersonal collective, a permanently plugged in consensus manufacturing machine.

It’s a cascade of calculations, an algorithmic whirlwind, an ongoing experiment without design and intention. My modern soul was tempered in the fires of a roaring ambivalence. And now I’m seesawing in the interim of time and place, teetering on the brink of inconsistency. I’m an obsolete reader and writer, an organic, disorganized intelligence in an age of automated thought and optimization.

I can’t let this final stretch of solitude undermine my resolve. Here’s to the hope that change has a direction, that I’m getting closer to the essential.