August 31, 2020

 It's after five pm as I begin to write this. I think I hear Caitlin making her way up the stairs. Grr is sitting on my lap as I am laid down on the bed slouching way too far to be comfortable, but the cat is comfortable, so the law says I have no choice but to endure this position. —Caitlin is not making her way up the stairs; she texted me that she has picked up the torts (tortillas) from Safeway. I'm supposed to cook dinner tonight. I bought some pre-seasoned chicken from Trader Joe's earlier. But I ate a sriracha burger from Jack in the Box only two hours ago. This isn't good.

We spent the weekend in Corvalis and Portland with Caitlin's friends which was absolutely lovely. But the main thing I'm thinking most about right now is the four-hour long way-too-late motorcycle ride home through the night. It was cold. We averaged about 80 mph for the majority of the way, often hitting 90 mph for long stretches. Caitlin says she fell asleep behind me from shortly after Olympia until the first exit to Renton, however long that is. It was miserable, but only hours later it's a fun memory.

...

I had a good conversation with Madeline Owen this morning. I have a commission for her. She asked if she could record our conversation, but I was too nervous. We might rehash that conversation again and record it. I'm excited about this. But I don't want to write anything else about it for fear of disturbing whatever is at work.

...

I had a brief job interview today. We met in a QFC parking lot. I spoke with the owner of Salmon Bay Windows. I had told him my story over the phone, namely that I plan on leaving Seattle in January. He vaguely recalled that and used it as a bargaining chip saying that he's trying to put a long term crew together and that if the other guys didn't work out he would call me, and I would have to accept his lowest wage offer.  I'm not particularly interested in cleaning gutters, windows, and moss. But a part of me thinks that "real" work would be good. When I left I realized that I had never even asked him about commute times and other practical questions. It looks to me like I didn't really care. I felt sleepy and lethargic on the way there.

He drove a Dodge Ram and wore a black tshirt with an American flag made of gray arrows—modern hunting arrows with various deadly-looking tips. We spoke across the bed of his truck. He had a tool box with a few low-key bow hunting, archery, and marksman-optics stickers, and a SIG sticker, as in the gun manufacturer Sig Sauer. Funny enough, I remember passing a Sig Sauer building south of Portland yesterday which is burned into my mind. (I was more of a Glock guy, but I never owned a rifle.)

As he was talking, I was looking at his toolbox. And I realized that if I would work for him, then I would be funding his hobbies. I would be working for him. My labor would fund his hobbies. My labor would—albeit somewhat removed—allow him to live his dreams to a greater degree than I would mine. He is an entrepreneur—taking on the dual burden of financial risk and organization. I'm not saying that working for him would be an unjust arrangement. But I am, at best, ambivalent, so I am not right for the job. 

I'm not sure what is causing this disagreement in me. I'm not sure if it's because I want to be an owner or if I find "using" other people's labor to be disagreeable for other reasons. This is something that I need to figure out because I will need to work eventually. 

August 25, 2020

Can I just be done with intellectual bullshit? I'm not sure how it's contributing to my life anymore. 

August 18, 2020

 Too much bourbon tonight, but I'm not drunk.

This question has been bugging me for the past few days: What is the value of reality over fantasy?

I've desperately clung to "reality" over the past few years. But now the line between fantasy and reality is beginning to blur, and the rightful value of one over the other is beginning to change.

...as if we were capable of relating to reality (without burning up) ... 

What does a fantasy have that reality does not?

...all fantasies have a grain of reality/truth just like a pearl has a speck.

...

Unrelated to the above thoughts:

Neon Genesis Evangelion is some real existential shit. It's legit. Papers can and should be written. Background knowledge of Christian Gnosticism, Kierkegaard, and misc weeb-shit would be required. It's a unique intersection.

Spoiler: The protagonist finds existential salvation in the fact that his self may exist in multiple possible worlds—the one which is being attacked by monsters as well as one where he is a normal student

...

Camus Quoting Nietzsche in The Rebel: 

"No artist tolerates reality."

What is this reality that Nietzsche is referring to? —Our most accurate perception of the current-state-of-affairs-and-our-environment without room for imagination: the past and the present moment devoid of imagination, creativity, and possibility. 

August 17, 2020

 I'm at Storyville again.

...

Yesterday was probably the hottest day this year Caitlin and I rode up to Bellingham. I showed her the city. We even rode through campus (illegally). 

Riding through campus felt like a metaphor. A motorcycle, for me, symbolizes individuality, exposure, and awareness. "Illegally" riding through campus felt empowering. I really don't like to use the word empowering because it's currently being overused, but it feels appropriate: I am no longer a student; I am an individual revisiting my past while asserting myself. 

...

Caitlin says that I woke up last night talking frantically, looking up, asking something over and over again, and then I laid back down and was panting heavily, trying to catch my breath. I vaguely remember panting. I don't remember my dreams too well. I remember one where I am walking through downtown Seattle but I can't really see the ground; skyscrapers are going up and down as if they were bridges, towers, and walkways all at once—something that used to point up but that has now turned into a labyrinth.

...

I get the sense that I urgently need to do something.

....

There is a reminder on my phone that says, "Take a noches towel."

...

There is a young girl, no older than 18 across the street sweeping and tidying up a restaurant called Grappa. She is beautiful. And I honestly feel that I can say that platonically. As I have grown older I am beginning to understand the "beauty of youth". It is the beauty of a fruit on a vine—symmetrical, unblemished, smooth, taut-and-supple, fresh. But this is not beauty in its highest form. The best raw fruit often is bruised and blemished; a few years reveal the deeper qualities of natural beauty. And the most beautiful things require much time, effort, and care; and many of the most beautiful things can only be understood after long reflection.

Beautiful young people are like fresh, not-quite-ripe fruit on a tree.

Beautiful adults are a bounty of ripe fruit; it does not always look the prettiest, but this is when it is at its best.

And with age, beauty may be lost. But there are ways to preserve it. The first way is to attempt to desperately retain the qualities of the beauty of youth. The second is preservation by way of transformation; the body becomes spirit/spirits: like how fruit can be fermented into preserves or alcohol. The beauty that comes with age takes work to make, and it takes understanding to enjoy.

—body becomes spirit

...

I need to think more about wabi sabi. I have an intuitive sense for it, but I don't really have the words for it.

...

Earlier this morning I wanted to angrily kick rocks and say that Plato has nothing more to offer me and that, intellectually speaking, I am worthless. Well, Plato still has value... I know that much. But I'm starting to wonder if I might better off skipping grad school and instead train to be a motorcycle mechanic.

άστατος—astatos

The Mercurial One. Always changing.

"Tell us of The Rat King," they say.

"He is only a distant and dubious vision."

...

Despite recent adventures and excitement, my world seems like a wasteland; it is missing crucial things. A better world is promised around the corner, but I know that this is all I get.

August 13, 2020

 Be careful what you joke about. In January 2019 I began speaking with Chris, the owner of Backflows Northwest. He asked what I wanted to do. I said that I wanted to write in a cafe, drink too much espresso, and smoke cigarettes. The only thing that I am missing right now is the cigarettes. I'm back at Storyville in Queen Anne. I drove up here. It's almost exactly one mile. I rather would have walked, but I have therapy in one hour, and I'm going to sit in my car because that's the only place that feels private.

I'm sitting on what must be an expensive brown leather couch with my MacBook in my lap. I'm wearing a white tshirt, olive chinos, light gray desert chukkas, my Stowa flieger, a leather bracelet made of one strand of black leather cord wrapped three times around my wrist, a black bandana around my neck because of COVID-19, and my navy twill messenger bag from Filson with a small black-and-brass crow pin. There is a copper colored chainmail curtain to my right—for decorative purposes only; after only a few adjustments it could be a Faraday cage, which would make getting wifi signal problematic, but maybe it would keep the voices out. I cannot see the espresso bar because it is hidden behind a column veneered by wood. The mood is quiet; soft voices are used at the counter. There are four people, including myself sitting at computers. One person is at the counter. There are two baristas. The vibe is expensive more than it is sophisticated. But their coffee is good—better than Cafe Ladro's right up the street (or down the same street depending on how far you're willing to walk). 

I enjoy being able to look put together—not that my execution is particularly good, but at least I make an effort unlike most Seattleites. Anyway, I would rather be getting my hands dirty. I could never just be a scholar. First, it would make Nietzsche sad if I only used my brain. Second, it's not who I am; I am not only a thinker. I need a close relationship with my body. I am beginning to realize that when I was in college, a big part of my life was weightlifting. I think motorcycle and hiking are a part of that. Weightlifting alone is too ascetic and severe—boring, really. 

...

Too much of what I say is not from my own voice. But I guess that's because my own voice never really had much to say; other people said it better first. but then the problem was that I wasn't paying attention to my own being, and other people's words led me away from myself; their-words-in-my-mouth painted over my window into the world. Most people are better off not looking through their crystal window; better to watch the veil-and-screen. Information is easier to consume and incorporate when it has already been digested and then regurgitated. We—the non-enlightened, the poor, the non-initiated—are not equipped to face our environment because it's so ugly, harsh, and cruel. But that is where value is...

...

So, what do I want?

I thought I wanted to work a corporate job in downtown Seattle, so I could get experience, find a wife, then move somewhere else and raise a family. That plan has changed. I did not fit the bill. I had no business working for a corporation. Maybe I could have survived in a small business. But I'm a fucking asshole who doesn't do exactly what he is told. I always think I know better—especially when I don't. "I learn the hard way," I have said many times.

Well, now what? 

Move to New Mexico. Attend SJC. Ride motorcycles. Probably get a dual sport like a WR250R and then maybe trade in the T100 for something tall that is good for long rides and commutes. Working with motorcycles and fixing them, sounds meaningful. Getting into something even just tangentially related to motorcycles seems like a move in the right direction. I never thought I would consider becoming a mechanic.... It sounds better than anything I've done before. I don't know if I would be a good mechanic. I wouldn't want to work in a big shop. I would do it for minimum wage or less probably, which is a good sign.

Do I want to be a mechanic? Not exactly. I want to learn how to work on my bike. I don't want to work for someone else. I don't want to make someone else rich. I hate the idea of making someone else wealthy off of my labor. It makes me sick and furious. 

See, this is how I am a piece of shit. I'm pretty sure this is how people can end up homeless later in their lives: they just don't want to just accept the opportunities society gives them, so they (read: future me) sits around being resentful with no excuse.

...

After the cafe I stopped by Safeway for orange chicken. I ate it on the sidewalk on my way to the car. A beautiful woman of mixed race, part black with pale green eyes caught me off guard and asked me what I was eating. I hadn't seen her, and I felt bad about being on the sidewalk without a mask. The most I could manage while trying to keep distant from her was to say, "—The worst orange chicken I have ever had." She left as quickly as she came. My first thought was that she must not be from around here; no one is that friendly on the street here in Seattle. 

...

Therapy was good today. I sat in my car after taking a piss behind an almost-well-enough-wooded-to-hide neighborhood bus stop in upper Queen Anne. I used refining gold as a metaphor for self-development but then—organically—by the end of the session I used growing a tree which sat much better for the two of us. 

...

I bought two bottles of bourbon, a gallon of milk, and a bag of frozen Orange Chicken. That hot blonde woman was working the register. She's tall and has a perfect figure. She can't be older than thirty. I always remember she's there. But if I saw her on the street I wouldn't be able to recognize her. She's a body behind a mask. Public anonymity. Shallow personas. Masks greeting masks—literally and figuratively. I guess it has always been that way. It is always that way. It's masks all the way down. ...No that's not entirely true. 

....

August 12, 2020

Today it feels like my frustration is losing its ability to become words and stories. Only the feeling remains; it has no object or target. Usually it generates fantasies of wild success or revenge. Today it is itself, like a burning fire, altering the shape, color, and texture of my being. 

I am in a mood. 

...

I'm sitting in the living room with a cup of black coffee from Trader Joes. This can of coffee is one of the worst we have had in awhile. My feet are cold. 

I skipped breakfast, and I will skip lunch. I'm getting fatter than I want to be.

Intermittent fasting is good. And it seems to match my mood by adding a dash of self-imposed austerity.

I keep thinking of moving to New Mexico and pacing around the house. But I should be cleaning my room—our room...

Our apartment is a metaphor for our relationship. Common area is clean, but the bedroom—where we're most intimate—is a mess. My side is messy; and she has boxes still packed from over one-and-a-half years ago, mostly her dead dog's things. 

...

If I could focus on like one thing I could probably get good at it, but I am scattered across too many things. It's nice to see the similarities across all of those things (reading philosophy, riding motorcycles, wishing I were a writer, doodling/drawing back in the day, knife sharpening, video game playing, raw denim wearing...) Man, I'm pretty fucking useless. 

Oh hey look, that fire-and-frustration turned into words again.

...

"I am nobody," a voice says. I almost confuse it for a thought of my own. It's not my voice, but it's in my voice. 

"This again?" I ask. 

The voice shrugs a pair of invisible shoulders, unsure of what it's trying to do. We've been through this before. This conversation devolves into a dialectic where the voice concedes that what it is trying to say is that I am socially insignificant and I should feel bad for being socially insignificant and that maybe I should do something to make myself better. But when I try to inquire about how exactly it is that I am supposed to make myself more socially significant, the voice becomes useless.

And now a spirit says, live the good life and know that it passes through shadows and through dark nights. 

...Yeah okay. Very deep and equally vague. Thank you. Nice. 

...

Watching Peaky Blinders (autocorrected to Pesky Blinkers on my phone earlier) with Caitlin happened to lead me across a phrase that has stuck in my mind—second sight. In the show, Polly has a near-death experience, and she comes back a broken person (who recovers). While she is broken, she caves into fringe Romani spiritualism—seances, visions, speaking with ghosts, etc. But when her family needs her, she pulls herself together and automagically recovers. As a normal, high-functioning gangster, her spiritualism becomes second sight which seems to function like really good intuition.

There is something to the idea of second sight. It's another lens to see the world through, one that primarily relies on intuition—the ability to perceive interrelated patterns that take place over longer periods of time and across wider causal-order-of-events than our senses and rationality can extrapolate and predict; it is more meaningful and less physical; it is empirical but unscientific.

I've been walking through Queen Anne in the mornings over the past few days, and I have felt like I can switch to second sight. It's my second sight. I might be better off calling it poetic sight. There isn't really anything esoteric about it. 

There is a story about an apprentice magician who is trying to learn to open his third eye. He is told to sit in meditation until it opens. He continues to sit and sit. He is a diligent and promising apprentice, so his master reveals to him the secret: his third eye had been open this whole time, the fact of which must remain a secret, and that many apprentices have cruel masters who indefinitely hold power over their students by never telling them that they already have that which they seek. 

The "spiritual world" is full of very real meaning, and it is right there out in the open for anyone to see. But, in my experience, you're not going to like it. In my experience, it has revealed a lot of poverty. When I open my poetic vision, I see an impoverished world, as if I were an urchin kid walking through filthy streets despite walking through an upper middle class neighborhood.

Actually it's more sophisticated than that. Some houses look like fake plastic shells, others warm, others overflowing with life. Churches have a surprising amount of energy. Schools beget an order. 

(Third eye? More like TURD eye... hah)

Here's my quick how-to/what-it-is guide for second sight/poetic sight: 

It's your own lens and paradigm; it is the world seen through the totality of your experiences, the books you've read, the actions you've taken, the feelings you feel; you must step up to it everytime, as if hiking to a viewpoint, and the way up changes each time; it is bigger than you realize; it is an extrapolation as far as things can get extrapolated; it also requires a degree of secrecy; it does not like to be made too public.

I think I'll call it poetic sight from now on.

August 10, 2020: a lot

 I am sitting at a beautiful but cold table made from metal and wood outside of a cafe in Queen Anne on the corner of Boston and Queen Anne drinking one of the best lattes I have had in a long time. I am sore and sunburnt, more sunburnt that I have ever been.

Caitlin and I are at odds, especially since last night but this doesn't seem like the right place to share that argument; I think she would disapprove. But no one takes the time to read these things, so it's not like it really matters one way or the other. ...one way the other, I feel the need to write it down.

...

A man walked by in a pineapple print tshirt. I think that trend is now collectively agreed upon as passe. But he didn't look like he was trying too hard which redeems him.

...

While walking up here I flipped off a fat, middle-aged bum who was bitching at an exceptionally beautiful, super-fit, interracial couple. A part of me was ready to put my watch in my pocket and confront him. The fact that I was concerned about my watch says a lot about who and what I am.

Wasting my time and effort on that sort of thing is a dangerous game with no discernable payoff that I can see. But the extent to which I engaged that piece of shit felt good.

Fuck that guy.

...

Mariah, Caitlin, and I took her sail boat to Blake Island. There was no wind, so we had to use her tiny 5hp engine. That little engine was a champ, even though it died a few times, but we got it up and running each time. We suspect that the fuel line jiggled loose more than once. 

The only occupied building on the tiny island was a small tourist-trap restaurant/bar, which we hiked to. We spent a lot of money to get drunk, but it was some of the best binge drinking we have done in a long time.

We had fun. Sailing-with-a-motor was an experience I had never planned on having.

I hope we take next weekend off and relax. 

...

I am having recurring fantasies of slamming that guys head into the ground; he dies or is severely injured, and I am sitting in a jail cell trying to figure out how to pay for a lawyer.

...

I guess at some point in the development of a self, there is no more room for reasoning. There is only an assertion of will. I can't but help think of my father. I had tried to reason with him in the past. But every time I did, I felt like I had to step onto his field and play his game. 

At some point I am going to need to tell my father that I hate him, and that I hate his beliefs, and that I hate who he is and how he raised me.

None of that has anything to do with reason. I have no "good reason" to hate him. Other people are much worse off and love their parents. As far as bad parents go, he wasn't all that bad, but I guess that doesn't matter. 

I can't help but think that my hate for my father (and now more recently my mother) is a flaw in my character. Whether or not that feeling of hate is a flaw in my character, it is a real part of my character. I am not proud of it. I'm not sure what I am supposed to do with this.

Matthew 10:35

Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I have not come to bring peace, but a sword. 35For I have come to set a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law. 36And a person’s enemies will be those of his own household. 37Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me, and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me. 38And whoever does not take his cross and follow me is not worthy of me. 39Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.

Well, they wanted Jesus, and this is what Jesus has to offer. I'm not sure how Jesus, the Prince of Peace, can also say, "I have not come to bring peace, but a sword," but that is what he said.

So, do I tell me parents I hate them? Or do I act on my hate through silence? Lying to my parents and telling them that I love them seems out of the question.

Do I express my hate? Or do I let it simmer in silence.

Someone who thinks they are reasonable, or perhaps even wise, would probably tell me at this point, "Don't say anything that you're going to regret. Your parents will be dead some day, and you will miss them." 

Well, wise guy, there is no right answer. In a Kierkegaard-like phrase: Tell them, and you will regret it. Don't tell them, and you will regret it. I won't lie though. I won't lie about my feelings. I used to lie about my feelings; that created alienation and numbness in me, and I became detached from who I was and what I felt. 

...

Life given to us by our (mass) culture is fucking meaningless. 

Life isn't meaningless. But the life our (popular) culture has to offer is meaningless.

Meaning without culture is madness.

Culture without meaning is death. 

...

Last Friday, a man approached me at the base of Kerry Park while I was exercising using resistance bands. He was short, lean, with a short ponytail, likely in his mid twenties with two very-blond toddlers.

He approached me and he said, "Hey you look like you know what you're doing."

I said, "Yeah, I did a little bit of powerlifting and strength training while I was in college."

He said, "I work out with a group of guys at Gas Works Park. I'd like to invite you to join us."

"Sure what's the name? Does the group have a website or an Instagram?" I asked with sincere interest.

I don't remember the exact name he used, but he something like, "Yeah, so we have a website, look up 3-F, Faith, Fellowship, and Fitness."

"Oh. I see. That's not really my thing. I'm sorry. I grew up really religious. And then I joined the army, and then I studied philosophy in college. And now my beliefs are kind of complicated. I know what this is about. No thanks," is what I tried to say, but I'm not sure how much of that I successfully communicated. I know I sounded really disappointed. 

"Well, we still would like you to join us. We're not about religion. It's about being a part of something bigger than yourself," he said. And as he said that, I feel like I better understood the stupid look on his face.

He had a placid look on his face, as if he was slightly mesmerized by looking up at something beautiful. —Heaven, the love of a perfect father, communion, grace-and-forgiveness, the comfort of a knowable and ordered and rational reality, freedom from the fear of death, I imagine. I do not doubt his internal state of surety, stability, fullness, comfort... And being a part of that group would, in fact, lead you to become a part of something bigger than yourself. They lose themselves and join the hivemind.

I think ponytail guy is blinded by light. When he looks up at heaven like that, he is blind, which is probably not all that different from being too stoned while being surrounded by stoners; it works when everyone is in on the same program, but that doesn't mean they're not stupid and full of shit (i.e. not paying attention or unconscious in the Jungian sense).

Am I any better?

If that christian guy is blinded by the light, then I am in the darkness: we are both likely to stumble. Now, I might be stretching this metaphor too thin, but I think that I would rather be in the dark because I think I would be more sensitive to subtle changes in light. You can't see stars if you're staring at the sun; stare too long at the sun, and you won't see anything at all ever again.

The Ghost Speaks:

Stand in the light, and you will see that which casts a shadow.

Stand in the darkness, and you will see that which shines. 

...

"The truth with set you free. But not until it is finished with you."

The thing that I have learned about truth is that it is never finished with you. It always has more to say.

...

The truth is infinite. We may grow too tired of the truth, or we may set our foot down and say that is the most truth that I can abide. I almost wish I could know it all, but I would be destroyed in the process; we are simple, temporal, limited creatures.

...

The details of how this came up are not important and they are many. 

Early last evening Caitlin looked up to me and said something like, "I think I'm getting chubby."

I nodded yes. She is. She's put on over 20 pounds in the past six months since we started dating. It's not subtle. 

She cried for a long time, and then I rushed her out the door, and we went out with friends for a ride. Things have been tense since then.

I'm not sure what the right thing to do is. I want her to live her best life. Maybe her best life is full of activity and self-development. Or maybe it's sitting around watching TV, drinking beer and over-eating unhealthy food. 

That isn't my best life. I want to stay in good shape. I want to be active. 

Or, at least, I know I'm miserable if I let myself get out of shape and don't do anything.

Complacency seems worse than death.

Mere action is not the answer. I guess the easy answer is saying virtuous action is the answer—whatever that means.

...

I'm in a bad mood...

Everything is self-perpetuating bullshit. But the lines between Selfs are blurry. Much of what we feel and desire are not us. We are the tools and playthings of greater powers and those powers are subject to greater powers.

And The Ghost says that it all rolls up to ABRAXAS. These are the ghost's words, not mine. 

Me? I'm not sure what to think. Every time I open the news it seems totally removed from truth. It's the words of a great beast; it is information running through his synapses. The words are not false; they command and organize groups of people. Those words create an order. They're doing something; they're just not describing reality, like people expect them to.

The words of the beast/demiurge/collective-man appear to be a truth that describes the world around us. They do not. Those words are either a call to action; or they mold and shape the collective values.

There is, however, sometimes, a kernel of information regarding physical happenings in the world: events—deaths, births, killings.

Those words send out the will of a god.

Much, if not most, of what we feel is not our own.

Is any of it our own?

...

Reading Educated:

It is the story about a woman who was raised to think that she is stupid and worthless, but she discovers that she is so much more—an exceptional scholar who overcame ignorance and poverty.

When I compare myself to that book, I feel like I was raised to think I was so much more, but I am discovering that I am a piece of shit.

I am continually disappointed in myself.

...

There's a lot of people who really want to make a difference and do something meaningful. I think we can call this gainful employment. It's hard to find gainful employment. There's no good collective myth to translate labor into meaning. We're all running around on our own, spinning in circles lacking unity.

Did I say we? I meant me. I don't know what to do with myself. Having a family and settling down into a career doesn't seem like the solution

...

The past—especially our individual history and genealogy—is a gamble, a roll of many dice. How can we blame anyone for who-they-are-and-where-they-are?

...

The words of the gods move through matter and rearrange it. We have little to do with it all. We can hardly understand what is being said.

August 6, 2020

It's noon. I'm a little hungover and sleepy. I read Camus for a few hours. It is raining and gray; it feels like fall. The living room was lit by warm light. I was cozy and caffeinated.

I feel lazy and like a bum. I feel like I am growing soft. I am afraid to enjoy this comfortable as an end in itself.

My hands and feet are cold. I want to huddle under blankets. A part of me is disappointed in my softness. 

But maybe there is something to be learned in this softness and stillness. Maybe there is something subtle to be revealed. I hope I can find something of future value in this moment. Or perhaps I die tomorrow and I should enjoy the day however I see fit. 

...

The conditions of life do not seem good. I mean this in the most general sense.  

August 5, 2020

We (Danni, Caitlin, and I) need to get a copy of our lease notarized, but the cat, Rockstar, (affectionately named Pukestar) puked on our copy, so we might need to print another one. I woke up this morning. Caitlin made coffee. I dialed Washington ESD non-stop from 7:55 to 8:10. I only dialed 87 times today, down from ~200 attempts on monday. I need to call every week to receive benefits because my account is fucked and I need someone with sufficient admin privileges to grant me access.

...

I'm listening to Educated by Tara Westover. I envy her success in spite of her circumstances. She had it worse than I did, and she did more with it than I could.

...

All is void.

...

I guess a bad mood is coming over me again.

...

I think I finally learned how to sharpen knives. I have gotten two of our kitchen knives sharp enough to very easily shave with. I cut a chicken thigh yesterday, and it was like cutting through semi-cold butter with an average kitchen knife. 

I don't know how old I was when Shawn Sather tried to teach me how to sharpen a knife. I must have been fourteen. We sat in his kitchen, and he told me everything. He just kind of left me with with a knife and a whetstone. I didn't get it. It didn't click. I remember not feeling present when he was trying to teach me. I was in that headspace where I was really detached and alienated from myself; I couldn't really feel my body; my vision was hazy; my legs felt weak.

I think I still have the whetstone he gave me wrapped in a leather sleeve he made for it. I also remember lines that he said:

"This whetstone is particularly hard. It's from a hard rock vein. There's not much of this particular stone."

"When I was your age I sharpened shurikens for hours and hours. I tried throwing them at a neighborhood cat with a friend of mine. We never got the cat."

"This [knife sharpening] is a dying art." He said that with a deep sense of sadness.

I'm surprised I could only pull up three lines. It felt as if there was a lot more floating around my head. But there it is. 

I've been wanting to learn this for a long time now. I tried learning sometime in 2018. I bought my stones in a frantic, impulsive Amazon purchase while I was still in school. But I couldn't get it back then for some reason. Then I tried again when I was at Kris' former house in Index, and I fixed the edge on a Benchmade that Shawn gave me back then. Then I really got the hang of it this week. It must have taken less than a total of twenty hours of practice to get here—a satisfying place.

Why now? Why was I able to learn now? Was it just time and effort? Did I just need to let those lessons sit on the back burner?

There is a mystical side of me that says that it has something to do with my relationship to matter. I have learned to approach matter in a way that I can work with it in useful ways.

What is matter? How do I make it better?

...

I went on a walk this morning from Lower Queen Anne to Upper Queen Anne. I struggled with a familiar feeling of being inferior—a useless misfit, a sentient piece of slag, a failed permutation.

I tried to wear the feeling like a crown, an excess, a flourish.

...

I am worried that I am becoming useless. I feel like I am growing away from the standard culture. But I don't know where I am growing. Am I growing up? Am I branching off only to be plucked off and cast away into an abandoned scrap heap? Am I the vanguard, leading the charge in cultural change? Am I a piece of shit?

Better to ask—Am I living the good life?