• • •
That’s enough of that. Here I say, “No more self-loathing!” Let’s see how well I do with that.
Why do I loathe myself? Because I’ve become a tyrant and a vicious monster, of course. That question was easy enough to answer.
I also come from a family of self-loathers. It’s about all we have in common with one another. I have heard my mother or father or sister or brother say many times, “I just can’t believe I did that,” or “I could really hate myself for doing something of that nature.” Of course they don’t put it that neatly—it’s never that clean. Usually it is said hysterically, or mournfully after a few glasses of wine, and never to anyone other than themselves, even if there are other human ears about. In most cases, those human ears are my own. They loathe. I listen.
And now I loathe. I loathe because I haven’t got anything else to do.
That wasn’t entirely true. It was a joke—I was joking.
I hope you’ll forgive me, but I’m going to be making a lot of jokes in that vein. Jokes like that make me laugh like hell.
I have plenty to do, in fact, and have been doing plenty. I’ve done much in the last month, maybe more than I have in years. The issue is that I can’t be bothered to give a damn about any of it.
No matter how many things I do, or how many people I meet, or how elated and content and carefree I have felt doing those things or meeting those people, none of it seems to stick. It vanishes when the sun goes down. How’s that for food turning to ash in one’s mouth?
• • •
This thing, whatever it is—let’s call it an “essay”—is me unwrapping the last month or so of my life. It’s me spending a little time with myself, so that I might come to like who it is I’m spending time with. Lord knows I’m going to be with myself for the next however many years. That could end up being a long time.
I am bonding with myself—and you, too. Please accept me, and use unkind words sparingly. I am weak. I hurt. I am also bored as hell.
And just what have I been doing with myself? Not a whole lot. I don’t regret much of it—about having done virtually nothing for six months. I read a lot of books. I ate some fantastic meals. I loved some people, and was loved in return. And, no—not that kind of love. I’m talking about the kind of love that matters. The kind of love I need right now, and the kind I miss so dearly, lord help me.
Yes, and it is love that matters most to me, I have found. I recently solved a riddle that no one had given me, and that was to figure out just why in the hell any of this is worth it. The answer is “music.” The answer might also be “literature” or “nighttime” or “the moon” or “cats”. We can sum all of this up with a single word, which is so overused in America that it has become piece of gum chewed on for too long, but which I will utter here regardless: “Love.”
Don’t roll your eyes, and for God’s sake, don’t run away. It has been nearly a year since I have sat down to write anything halfway decent. Forgive me if I end up writing something halfway nauseating.
• • •
Yes, and it has been six months since I have done anything that any functioning and sane person would regard as noteworthy. I briefly worked for a real estate attorney, which was about as much fun as a root canal without anesthesia. I wouldn’t dare utter the name of the man who trusted me to work diligently for far too much money, but suffice to say the poor bastard’s name is as dry and fun-hating as he was. It didn’t last long. I don’t feel the least bit bad about it, either. It is true that I regret having wasted two and a half months of my life staring at a computer screen and doing little else, but there’s not much I can do now other than bitch about it.
While we’re on the subject, though, I have a little gift for you. Here is a paragraph related to my employment there, which I will not explain, and which I hope you will enjoy irrespective of that:
“Mr. Owens chose not to comment or participate. Mr. Owens seldom comes to the building, about once a month. He is usually belligerent and reeking of alcohol and quite convinced that he is the object of a great conspiracy led by John Keller. He does not participate in the affairs of the LLC except to rage at any Members or tenants he might encounter in the hallways scaring some and offending many.”
Relax—I changed the names to protect the belligerent drunk and the alleged conspirator.
Hm . . . what else can I say? Oh—um.
The only positive thing I can think of is that, back in February, I found myself living in an apartment that is far too luxurious to house a slug like me. (Whoops, self-loathing.)
It’s a nice and relatively quiet place, and the rent is cheap and I have hardwood floors and a large bathroom. That’s what everyone says to me when they come over: “Your bathroom is so large!” Once someone even had the nerve to tell me that my bathroom was too big, if you can believe it.
“There’s too much space in here.”
“Oh.”
“Too much wasted space, and nothing to fill it.”
I didn’t say it then, though I’ll say it now: I am content with empty spaces. In fact I prefer spaces to stay empty—so that they may remain spaces. Otherwise a space just becomes a sky-high junk bin.
Incidentally, I don’t own a couch or an easy chair or anything of that sort. The only thing in my living room is a Persian rug and a wooden dinner table. The table is stacked tall with wonderful novels and mostly interesting textbooks, and a little paper lamp that I can turn on by pulling a cord. That’s just about all I need. I sit there when I write. I’m sitting there now.
• • •
What this is, I’m afraid, is little else than mental excrement. I’m tired of these things living my brain. And as dull and as boring and as bland as some of these stories are—and believe me, they are—they represent things that I must say, because it is my job to say things.
I kid, of course. I don’t actually have a job, or any useful way to spend my time.
But consider what I have considered, which is that I can’t move forward without stopping to look back for a few moments. Please look back with me.
This is the genesis of something that I imagine will eventually grow larger and become something else entirely. It is the shedding of skin, and a long hard look in the mirror.
I am about to look long and hard at myself. It will not be easy. In fact I am fully prepared to feel repulsed.
There will be stories of cities and of people; there will be small anecdotes and mindless little distractions involving words and sentences that have no inherent meaning. There is sex and violence and suicidal toe-dipping. There is love also.
• • •
I want to begin this by telling you a relatively harmless story about my visiting Washington, D.C., but I’m afraid there is some context that is going to go missing, and will remain missing throughout the full length of this essay. I am going to tell you a frameless story.
And, for half-dozenth time, I am going to apologize to you for something I cannot help but do, which in this case is to leave you stranded in series of stories and adventures without any clear indication as to what has preceded them.
So: I’m sorry.
If it helps you to follow along, you may imagine that my affliction is any number of man- or God-made catastrophes that befall young people. But because I am a young man specifically, you know already that it is most likely some damn fool thing I did to myself, and thus no one else is to blame for my misery. You would be right to assume that. As I have said, I am a tyrant and a vicious monster. I am fiend and villain.