There is some suffering happening today.
Like a real professional, I’m doing my work anyway.
A “professional”. I haven’t made a single dollar off of anything I’ve written.
That’s okay. Until I do make a dollar, what would I be? An enthusiast? A writing enthusiast. That’s fine with me. I would write either way.
I suppose I have been paid to write social media posts. That was when I worked for Japan Foundation. So I HAVE been paid to write. I also wrote the newsletters, albeit there was a high level of copying and pasting. Using already written copy. But I was PAID to do that.
I never thought about it that way.
I laid in bed last night thinking. Why was I thinking, when I should have been sleeping? I had forced myself to the climbing gym last night, forced myself to move and do something with my evening, as opposed to just around and feel lethargic and crummy. After this morning in particular, waking up with puffy, inflamed eyes, a sore back, I feel as if I’ve been cursed or acquired some kind of mysterious illness. Like a parasite, or some insidious flu. Today is really a rough one, already. And I have so, so much digging to do.
This is where writing has an advantage, and creative work in general, even. Writing is physically low effort. As long as you can sit, but thanks to the great modern computer, you don’t even have to be able to sit. You can lay down. You can write a Magnum Opus from your bed. I suppose if you had to do it by hand, you could prop yourself up on pillows. That could work. But typing is still even easier than writing by hand. Not much of a difference, but it is.
Now, would you write your Magnum Opus from your bed? That’s the real question. Are the conditions of laying in your bed suitable enough for you to write your Magnum Opus? It’s possible.
I am glad to not be wearing a suit today. I thought about it, this morning. I had a vision of me wearing the suit every day this week, or possibly wearing it every day until I had achieved some new writing goal or anything like that. But, I felt like crap (still do) and I threw the suit on, and I thought, I just look way too nice for how I feel. It just didn’t make sense. I didn’t want to be wearing it, and I didn’t want to be wearing it at Ugly Mugs. I knew exactly what I wanted to be wearing, and it wasn’t my fancy Japanese suit.
It was the classic, sneakers, jeans, and t-shirt. I even threw the hat on. What a classic look, that is.
Now, very interestingly, because of my suffering today, I have yet to take a sip of coffee. It’s 10:42 am. This is quite outrageous. And yet, I’m not even thinking about coffee. For some reason I wasn’t keen to chug it this morning, perhaps because I’m tired of boosting myself artificially, when my body might be telling me it needs rest. And now I’m here at the cafe, I seem to be doing alright enough. At least, I can write this. And I haven’t taken a sip. I just noticed my full cup, jiggling as I press on the keys, the surface of the coffee wobbling and bouncing.
I want to share some of my real thoughts with y’all, because you have been following my posts diligently.
I laid in bed last night (I think I just went on an extraordinary tangent), and once again, when I was supposed to be sleeping, and thought I was absolutely, certainly ready for bed — I was awake for three more hours. And I thought and thought and thought, and was tapping into something that’s been in my mind in the last week or so.
I am in an interesting place in my journey, here.
As you know, I am doing a lot of writing. That’s exactly what I want to be doing. I’m very glad that I am, and I have so much more to write. I have an incredible amount that I need to write. One thought I had last night, is that I’m spending a lot of time blogging, writing these posts, and potentially at the expense of writing the things that I want to write. But, I enjoy writing these blog posts. I don’t necessarily want to stop that. I don’t want to really force myself into doing anything. But I am creating a lot of work for myself.
For example, I am supposed to review my Kumamoto Days Japan-memoir whatever one more time, and then try and find someone who wants to publish it. That’s in my mind, that’s something I’m supposed to do. Then, I started writing that Bob Schmingus again, and for a long time that story has sat in my head, and I’ve wanted to write it. I just started it up again, and I felt like I should write the entire thing, stay on it, and that will be my next big project. That is, while I am also supposed to be reviewing Lucy and The Mingmerang (and I did crack into that again and got 20 pages in). And on top of this all, what I thought was going to be my first act after writing the Mingmerang story would be that I would finish a story that I have halfway written, that I really like, and I think really needs to be finished immediately, and I want to do it. So why don’t I? It feels monumental.
That’s what I thought I would get up to. And now?
Last night, I laid in bed and I thought about something that has been bothering me.
I’ll share this with you.
By all accounts, I have been a very good boy.
No binging, no frivolous purchases, no hedonism, time-wasting, wastefulness. No vice, at all. I have not had a slip up or a debauchery in the longest period of my adult life, ever.
I’m sober. I’m clean. I’m healthy. I’m working out, I’m eating right, running, climbing, I’m writing, I’m volunteering, and for Christ’s sake, I’m gardening! No artificial light, cold showers, no waste, studying Japanese, being friendly with the neighbors, taking it upon myself to pick up trash in the neighborhood… I mean, Jesus Christ. I’m gardening.
This is all very good. I know it is. And yet, something is getting to me.
I have visions of glory in Overwatch. I think about the most thrilling times of life. I think about going out and getting into debauchery. I think about drinking bottles of wine. Of going to shows. Of sake and Pernod. Of all of my wild nights and my gaming binges and my moments of glory. They keep coming back to me, and I think, why am I thinking about these things? I don’t even want to do them.
I really don’t. Because they will derail me, and I know it. They will cost me money, they will cost me time and energy. I am dedicated, I’ve got a good thing going here. And I’m healthy, and many of those things that I have just described are not healthy, and have not been healthy.
But god dammit. They have been fun.
What I realized then, looking at the great span of my life, thinking about all of these adventures and wild nights and times, and I look at my life now, and I realize — there is no thrill.
I am truly lacking a thrill.
I’ve got no thrill, nothing at all.
I’ve pruned, preened, and purged all thrill from my life. It’s sterile. It’s bland. And it’s corroding my soul, in some way.
It’s eating away at me. It’s filling up a void that’s expanding in me.
I realized last night, I laid in bed, and I realized that the most thrilling thing that’s happened to me in a long time was parking in the wrong parking garage and having to negotiate that with the hotel staff.
Guys. That’s it.
That’s BAD.
I went to Cheekwood. That was alright. I went and swam on the trash beach. Fine. I tried stand-up comedy. Meh. I’ve done some busking. Not bad. I waitered at a fancy cocktail bar. That was probably the most exciting thing that’s happened to me prior to my parking garage adventure, and that was a LONG time ago now. You know that was exciting for me, because I wrote an entertaining post about it.
The problem is that, I don’t think what’s going on with me is necessarily bad. I think it is important, actually. It could be the most important thing in my life yet, in my maturation as a healthy human being. Because, while I am not having many thrills, I am writing. I wrote a novelette that I am really proud of. I have worked hard on my stupid memoir that I’m still sitting on. I read Harry Potter. I’ve thought a lot about the craft of writing. I know about Fun and Fancy poetry now, etc. etc.
By that metric, things have been going well.
Well, I really, really want to solve my problem. How can I get a thrill without doing something that is classically problematic for me? How can I get a thrill without doing damage?
One way is sports. Competitive sports are thrilling. Climbing is not that thrilling. Climbing is satisfying, and mentally engaging, but not thrilling. Scoring a goal is thrilling. Sliding tackling someone who is about to score a goal is thrilling. A rigorous bout of tennis is thrilling. Running is not thrilling. So maybe I need to play some soccer, again. My problem with that is my leg. I have a leg injury.
I think about combat sports. I’ve wanted to do kickboxing. Well, my leg.
What else can I do?
Perhaps that’s what I was trying to solve with having a band and rocking. But I just haven’t managed to break through on that. I don’t have a band and have no one to rock with. So do I need to try harder on that? How do I try harder? I already went out and met people, I put up posters. Well, try again. God dammit, I’m frustrated with that.
Go camping? Jesus Christ, I don’t know.
Well, last night, after running into this wall again, my mind turned back to Thailand.
I started the writing the entire story in my mind. I started running through it all again, the most thrilling and fun period of my life ever. And simply feasting on those memories once again brought me incredible joy.
I wondered if that was the sign, that now is the time for me to write about Thailand.
I made a pact with myself, that I would not leave the country again, I would not take another trip until I had written it. And I know why I had made that pact — because if I die and don’t write these stories, what a shame. What an absolute shame! What a waste! They have to be written. And perhaps, this what I am now called to do.
In suffering and starving myself of a thrill, I am forced to create to alleviate the pain. To bring myself some entertainment and stimulation. I realize that sounds masochistic, and recently, like, NOW, I wonder if it is. But I genuinely enjoy writing, and I can also tell you this — I would rather have a period of suffering that leaves me (and everyone who enjoys them) with some art to enjoy, rather than have a hedonistic period of thrill that leaves no one with anything lasting. If I can keep going this way, I will. When I was in Osaka, I binged on League. I disappeared into a void for a week. I went out and partied, stayed out all night, met all kinds of characters… I didn’t do any writing, at all. The whole time I felt like I should have been writing those stories. I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t in that place. And yet, even then, I was making stories, and stories can be written about…
Well, that’s why I have to write about Thailand, then. At this point, I have the stories. I’m not allowed to make any more. I have to write the ones I’ve got, first.
I understand.
I’m going to write about Thailand.
HAKUMUSU 