“Boogie ALL Night Baby!” 87.1 FM Radio.

Lingering abbreviations meandering into nuanced sounds. Upside down triangles merging underwater into outsider gangs filled with twenty-four-year-old-men terrorizING underwear and bras. Residents feel upset and so do I about the three-legged dogs menacing neighborhoods with words that spin in circles and makes no sense but loop around in midair, at-all-times.

Why do I wander or wonder like this when time is just an abbreviated form that leads absolutely nowhere but prison houses and suffocated locations where mind is crunched and scrunched into mediocre expressIONS that are without abstract form.

NEWS UPDATE: absent people wander streets in bodies which are empty shells. Nothing inside but cell phone updates and pre-programmed identities mostly made from text messages, emails, status updates and things that need to get done. I repeat, absent people wander or wonder streets and are all around and are taking over city and country streets. Bureaucrats and business people, meaning people seeking to control minds by creating absent people. This is Randall Sokoloff reporting for Nobody News. Please stay safe out there! Now back to you Tabitha.

Orchestrated underpants moving through secret chambers while masturbating on wine stained sheets carried away by maids who stick nose and face in them. You see, underworlds are wonderful when filled with wine and weed. Ants speak through radio transmissions that inform under-educated operatives that they must move away from text messages and emails and all things internet if they want to not become absent people. Open the books and laugh and rewire mind away from ordinary constructs by deviating from norm, deviated from all things contemporary and instead boogie down in underworlds made of salt, weed and wine where upside down antics are indulged in all day and night.

This is KLUV 87.1 FM radio where you hear sounds of simulated in underpants and upside down dancing on walls while submitting to sexual abbreviations that return soul to body with penis or breast in mouth and deciding which way to go or what to do next. Only on 87.1 FM radio baby will you find these outsider antics steeped in wine and logic of centuries and space and extraterrestrial characters dictating super human forms where you can boogie all night baby!

AUTOPORTRAIT

Inspired by Edouard Leve.

I always put off for tomorrow what I could take care of today. I love coffee in the mornings. I make drip coffee in the mornings but always feel like it takes too long, even though it doesn’t take more than five minutes. I have a difficult time liking other human beings. If someone dresses in a way that I find cool and stylish, I immediately like them. I am often uncomfortable with my style. I want to be more fashionable than I am. I do not practice meditation enough. My toenails must get very long before I do anything about it. This is the final piece of writing I will post on-line. I have been telling myself for years to stop posting my writings on-line. I worry that I am losing energy with age. They are my dogs, but I still resent having to clean up their poop. I quit painting because it requires too much effort and financial investment. I also quit painting because I got tired of the mess. I enjoy the sound of small airplanes flying overhead. This sound reminds me of my father. I do not speak much with my father because I am afraid of what would happen to my mental and physical health if I did. I would like to have a lot more sex than I do. Children make me feel uneasy, but I like them more than I like adults. The sound of a train in the distance reminds me of being in college. People see me as a white guy but I do not see myself as a white guy. I spend a lot of time in the sun, so I can darken my skin and not be seen as white. I could do without art, architecture, movies, theatre, dance, poetry but I could not live without music and literature. America is not something I identify with. I am American. My parents love me but I have had a very difficult time loving them back because I feel like they failed at their job in many ways. I enjoy sitting in the blazing hot sun, with no suntan lotion on, for hours at a time and am not worried about getting skin cancer. I am worried about other physical ailments. Very uncomfortable anxiety is a regular experience for me. Anxiety for me is the immediate fear of disappearing into nothingness without feeling ready to. Riding my bicycle for pleasure, on a sunny and warm day, makes me happier than anything else I do in my life. Sometimes I like to shout out at strangers, when riding my bicycle for pleasure, because I am so happy. I am afraid of dying but I am not afraid of falling asleep. I am more afraid of dying when I am outside of my home than when I am inside of my home. I crave a glass of white wine, two pints of beer, sexual experiences, new music, orgasm, new books, solitude, knowledge, being alive, reading, coffee, doing nothing, observing people from a distance without talking to them, new shoes and clothes, Spain, a good time, being around like minded people, a nice and dark bar, a clean house. I don’t crave status, money, food, going on vacation, watching television, human company, cooking, busyness, work, spending time with more than one person, parties, airplane travel, road trips, hiking, competition, eating at nice restaurants. I have a moderate amount of confidence but not enough to not follow the rules. I do not always enjoy marijuana because sometimes it makes me feel very anxious. I avoid social interaction when possible. Women who feel the same way about sex as I do, meaning sex should be fun and kinky and there should be no emotions bound to it, are my kind of women. I once ran out in to the middle of a busy road and saved a man’s life who had been in a terrible motorcycle accident. People who do not use decent grammar and punctuation in their texts, are not people I want to socialize with. People who do not respond to texts are not people I appreciate. When I am alone I often do nothing. When I am around other people I try and make it look like I did something when I was alone. Watching YouTube, Netflix, iTunes, the news and other television shows I feel is a complete waste of my time and I only do it because I want to vegitate. I really believe that technology is causing people to become much dumber, robotic and more systematically controlled. I am concerned that I have a tumor in one of my testicles but am too afraid to check it out. Technology is something I use regularly and I worry that this could be happening to me. Life frightens me. Underwear often squeezes my testicles too tight and I worry that this is not good for me. I change my hairstyle and facial hair style more often than I would like. Literature is my religion but I have been having a difficult time finishing longer books. The fact that I struggle to finish longer books deeply concerns me. For the past 35 years I have been a full-time, practicing hypochondriac. I wish I would write more. If I don’t finish writing a novel before I die I will not feel like I accomplished what I wanted in this life. Being a recluse appeals to me but I don’t think I could ever really do it. I am dependent on my wife even though I like it when she does her own thing. A messy house upsets me. Horror films terrify me. Nice clothes make me feel happier. Good music is my medicine. I often wonder why all the sirens, all the time? Reading is my favorite activity. Sex is my favorite kind of theatre. Watching the sun set is when I feel the most calm. Working for money is not something I have ever enjoyed. Working as a psychotherapist is a very triggering job for me. Working as a psychotherapist wears me out. I am very introverted. I never work in bed. The moment I open my eyes in the morning I get out of bed. Then I will make coffee and sit down and read for an hour before I do anything else. Thursday night is my favorite night to go out. Sometimes I think about suicide but would never actually do it because I am too afraid. I don’t believe in The American Dream. I think the American Dream is a potential nightmare for most people. In my lifetime I have only had one pleasant interaction with a police officer. I have had over fifty unpleasant interactions. And I am a white guy. Watching leaves sway back and forth in a slight afternoon breeze, relaxes me. My political view is that politics are absurd. I grew up very wealthy but do not care about wealth. I love dogs but I hate the mess they make. Poetry bores me. Naked women excite me. I move my desk around a lot, hoping that if I find the right location for my desk I will sit there more and finish writing a novel. I have been doing this for almost twenty years now and have not yet finished writing a novel. I don’t trust or admire men in business suits. I wish I was working (earning money) as an artist and writer. Mindfulness meditation has helped me more than any other psychiatric, medical or psychological intervention has. I wish that many of my favorite writers, who killed themselves, knew about mindfulness. I like wearing my shirts buttoned up all the way to the top. Not wearing underwear feels uncomfortable for me. I do not enjoy being watched. I am often a lot shyer than I would like to be. I never talk out loud to myself but do not judge people who do. I feel empathy for birds, flowers and trees. When interacting with other people I almost always feel socially ackwards. I have never punched another human. People tell me that I am very tall but I am not aware of this in my day to day life unless somone points it out. I don’t like when people ask me how tall I am. In my mind, men who chose to wear no socks when wearing pants are making a terrible fashion choice. Men who expect other people to clean up after them, I despise. I worry that I sometimes expect my wife to clean up after me and get upset when she doesn’t. I wish I was better at being sexual with my wife or a girlfriend than I am with a complete stranger. When I have to do things that I do not want to do, I have a tendency to get depressed. Going through tunnels or across bridges makes me incredibly anxious. I avoid driving through long stretches of wide open space. I have not been on an airplane in over ten years. My favorite places to go are bars, bookstores and record stores. I don’t get massages. I appreciate money well spent. I am completely disinterested in business men and have no desire to be one myself. Being a mindfulness meditation instructor is challenging for me, I do not particularly enjoy it, but I am grateful that I am able to help others with what I have learned to do to help myself. I am very aware that life can end at any moment; this is why I prefer living in the moment. I do not believe in the future but I hope this is not why I have been procrastinating on several important things I have not been taking care of. Four months ago I lost my driver’s license and have not taken any steps to get another one. I have a tendency to put off doing things that I really do not want to do and will read or go for bicycle rides instead. There are six unfinished novels on my computer. When I am home alone I feel most at rest. Now that I am 45 I do worry that my penis will stop working soon. Aesthetics are important to me because I believe that aesthetically pleasing objects are good ideas in material form. I like to surround myself with good ideas. I judge and distance myself from people who surround themselves with bad ideas. I prefer going places where other attractive women will be. My childhood was ok but I do not have many good memories from childhood. My father yelled a lot when I was young. I would never wear a pink shirt. I consider the writer Edouard Leve a friend even though I have never met him in person. I like people who wear all black and don’t follow the rules. I don’t smoke but enjoy being around smokers. As far as I am concerned the vast majority of Americans are really, really uncivilized and entitled. I enjoy spending time with my small dog more than anyone else. Everytime I hear a siren I am reminded of the fragility of life and feel fortunate that this time, it is not coming for me. I really wish I could have been successful as a writer and artist but do not think that was ever really in the deck of cards for me. I think there are way too many artists and writers out there. I do wish most of them would stop. Especially the ones who do it in order to make money. If I find out that an artist or writer graduated from an MFA program, I immediately lose interest in their work. The two things that I do and really care about, making art and writing, I have taught myself how to do. I have also taught myself how to procrastinate and am really good at that. At 45 years of age, I feel very lucky to have a full head of hair and a body that feels pretty healthy. I think this is because I played a lot of sports when young. I don’t drink soda. I don’t consume fast food. I miss Leonard Cohen very much but did not know him. My hair is thinning and slowly falling out and I am worried about this. I sleep very well. Sometimes when I am in a room with other people I can see all of their hearts beating, blood moving through their veins and organs working. This makes it difficult for me to take most human preoccupations seriously. One thing I do every day is dishes. I avoid doing things that require that I bend over. I believe that I have the ability to be a really good writer and artist but have a hard time going beyond that. When I am depressed I will wear the same outfit for days on end and my wife never seems to notice. I miss living in the San Francisco Bay Area very much. I grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area. I have always had a difficult time spelling San Francisco. I do not have any friends that I spend time with regularly. Sometimes I wonder if I even have any friends that are not covered in fur. I know that my sister is seriously mentally ill but no one wants to talk about it because my sister is a psychologist. I love my parents and wish for them nothing but the best in life but am much healthier and happier when there is a lot of space between us. It is unfortunate that things are this way. I should stretch more than I do. If I drink coffee in the afternoons I feel anxious. Groups of people do not excite me. I avoid talking on the phone. I envy Thom Yorke and Nick Cave. Professional matters do not interest me. I am not afraid of losing status, high credit scores, professional credibility or possessions but I am afraid of losing my hair. Since I know it is inevitable, at any moment, I don’t fear losing people I love because I know I will be ok. I do, however, fear losing myself or my wife in a tragic accident or from physical causes because I worry that neither of us would ever recover from this. When no one else is around, I will sometimes hug trees. When on walks at night I look in other people’s windows.

On Loneliness

I wonder if dogs or cats or birds feel loneliness.

I did not realize until this morning that loneliness is the unpleasant feeling that is eating away at me, especially in the mornings. I have always wondered why I am so unhappy and negative in the mornings. Now I know.

Do I feel lonely in the afternoons or evenings? Is the unpleasant feeling still eating away at me but I am now too distracted to notice? In the mornings my wife is still asleep and everything is quiet. In the afternoons and evenings there is work, texting, email, booze, interactions with other people, television, occasional going out and having fun. I keep busy and maybe this is why I do not feel this lonely feeling as much during afternoons and evenings. Maybe. But when I come home in the evenings or get in bed at night, the feeling usually returns. So I pick up my phone, eat more, turn on the television or read a book.

Is it because of my lonliness that I can be such a jerk in the mornings? Is loneliness the feeling behind all that depresses me?

I wonder if my need to always be reading, listening to music, checking my emails and texts, is all just an attempt to flee from the feeling of loneliness inside me.

Is this deep feeling of loneliness what has been bringing me so down over the years?

Up until a few years ago, I do not remember feeling as depressed as I have recently been. I wonder, if my lonelines continues, will my depression get progressivly worse? Even just writing this makes me want to cry.

For the longest time I did not suspect loneliness. Me lonely? No way. I am married to a beautiful and cheery wife (who spends much too much time on her phone). I have four dogs and a library filled with books. I spend my days working as a psychotherapist and have non-superficial interactions with a lot of people. I lead several very full groups each week. I spend time with my sister and my wife’s parents at least once a week. I have dinner with my own wife almost every single night. With all of this going on, how could I feel lonely?

I always feel isolated inside my own inner world. No one understands or grasps what I go through from day to day. Can anyone understand what we all go through internally from day to day? Isn’t this why we all feel so alone? No other person can ever understand what it feels like to be us. The end result is always loneliness.

But to feel alone when in the presence of other people can be the worst kind of feeling. I hate it. I want to run away from it. I drink to make it go away.

To feel like there is no one who understands you. To feel like there is no one who shares similar values as you do. To feel like there is no one whom you have the same interests as. To not feel like you have stimulating and engaging conversation with anyone. To be together but still feel so alone and disinterested. To be with others but feel so unseen. It has driven many people into a self induced early graves. I believe this is the feeling that caused Kurt Cobain and the wonderful writer Edouard Leve to take their own lives.

I feel so isolated from everyone around me. I try hard to connect but there is nothing there that feeds me. I am usually left starving. I don’t find interesting the banal ideas that populate their minds. Maybe it is my fault. Maybe I am no longer open to take anything that they have to offer me in. Maybe I have shut down. Closed the doors. I feel so uninterested in what these people have to say, that I have stopped listening. I have been so bored by people, I have been so disinterested by other people that I have given up. I have become totally disengaged, thus isolating myself even more. (One main hazard of the psychotherapy trade.)

I engage when I must in order to make money, but am always left feeling flat with nothing left to give. This must be similar to what a prostitute feels when having sex for money and being so unfulfilled by these sexual experiences that he or she loses interest in sex with everyone. It is a terrible situation to be in. One that leaves a person starving inside.

I suppose I write to help fill myself up. Writing as a kind of force feeding. I write because I want to connect with someone. I write because I want someone to understand me. I want to share something in common with someone else. But even writing leaves me feeling empty. I get nothing back and this just exacerbates the loneliness even more. This is why I have started to give up on any kind of literary success.

I don’t know what to do. Maybe I should turn more to drugs. This is why people use drugs. A person forms a relationship with drugs because it is the only relationships, often, that makes them feel less alone. You can count on drugs to be there for you every time. They can make you feel less lonely inside. I don’t know if I want to do this to my life.

I will keep trying to assuage my loneliness by reading books where I feel something in common with the writer. There are not many writers I feel something in common with since most writers are just trying to make a buck. I only finish books written by writers who write because they want to feel less alone. These are the only writers I am interested in. When I find a writer who feels like a friend I feel better for a bit. But I get sad when I know that many of these writers killed themselves.

I don’t think that smartphones are helping. Sure, I use the internet as a way to feel less alone. I use text and email also as a way to feel less alone. But these interactions often leave me feeling more empty and alone. I also find myself les able to read as much as I would like because I am always reaching for my phone. I also feel more disconnected from other people because they too are combating their loneliness by going on their phones rather than putting effort into things that will make them more engaging and interesting people to spend time with.

Smartphones turn people into unattractive, distracted, bores. I am surrounded by people (including myself) obsessed with their smartphones. We have sold out for the quick fix of shallow communication and connection.

I don’t know what to do. Most of my time is spent alone. Lost in the meanderings of my own brain. I need to be alone in order to feel “better.” When I am with other people but feel alone, I feel terrible. I feel mad. I feel disengaged. I feel like I am wasting time. I would rather be alone with myself. This never feels like a waste of time. But it always hurts.

Casey Neistat, YouTube and The Decline of Art

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Casey Neistat.

Have you heard of this guy?

If not, you should check him out for a few reasons.

First reason, because he is a creative genius. The independently created, daily video blogs he made (and still makes) for several years are genius.

Second reason, because he is revolutionizing (innovating) the technological landscape in which all of us live now, single handily. It would not be a far stretch to call him the second coming of Steve Jobs.

Third, because he is a very inspiring human being.

And finally, because he could be contributing to the decline of art (unintentionally of course).

A few weeks ago, I did not know who Casey Neistat was. How is it that I am so behind on what is really contemporary and what is shaping the world in which I live? How is it that I am so asleep at the wheel with regards to what is cutting edge? I will try and answer these questions in a moment. But first….

Someone whom I respect told me that I should check out this guy by the name of Casey Neistat’s Youtube channel. So I did and thus began a week of being completely immersed in most of the video blogs Casey has created. My wife started to addictively watch as well and suddenly we were happily immersed in Casey Neistat’s world.

Now, I don’t want this to come off as a negative critique of Casey Neistat. I don’t know him personally but I really like the guy. He is someone whom I would want to be friends with. He is a freak, with a brilliant and kind mind and I respect that. But as an artist, I am concerned about how an inspiring person like Casey Neistat, who reaches a tremendous number of young people, could cause the state of art to really take a nose dive.

Casey has a tremendous amount of energy. As an older man (45 years old) I envy his immense and unstoppable energy. Who knows what I could accomplish if I had twenty five percent, hell ten percent of the energy he has. Ever since my wife and I started watching his videos, we have felt more motivated to do things. We have been getting off our lazy asses more. We have been accomplishing more. We have been busier, healthier and have taken care of many of the things we procrastinated on for years. But we have also read less, listened to music less and just hung out in our lives less. As artists, is this a good thing?

 

You see, there is an art to lingering. Doing nothing is a very important part of being an artist. Without doing nothing for long periods of time, the quality of the work will suffer. I know that Casey Neistat thinks it is a good thing to stay busy all the fucking time. I know that he thinks free time and relaxation are detrimental to a productive life, but these things are essential for the creation of a work of art which has depth and quality.

Being busy all the time works for Casey because he is a creative genius, not an artist. I fear what will happen to the quality of art if too many artists think that staying busy is a good thing. I fear that art will lose depth.

Artists linger and dwell in moments. Artists procrastinate on getting things done so they can spend more time dwelling in moments. This is an essential ingredient in any work of art that has depth. What was it that Gertrud Stein said? Something like an artist must spend ninety percent of their time doing nothing so that ten percent of their time can be spent making good art (I am paraphrasing).

Artists absorb experience and let these experiences percolate just under the surface. Their experiences often need a long period of gestation in order to turn into a work of art which stands on its own and has depth.

Steve Jobs was a creative genius but he was not an artist. In the same way Casey Neistat is a creative genius but he is not an artist. Casey has these daily bursts of inspiration that get pumped out and put into the world (as creative geniuses often do) rather than deep, lingering acts of creation (which, is what art is). Maybe all of Casey Neistat’s work as a whole can be looked at as a single art piece. Maybe the collected life of Casey Neistat will ultimately be his work of art.

Art makes us feel something on a very deep level. It reminds us of the historical aspects of ourselves. Casey Neistat is a genius but there is a difference between Casey Neistat and say artists like Joan Miro, Duchamp, Richard Brautigan, Stanley Kubrick, Kafka, Rothko and on and on and on.

 

There is no doubt that Casey Neistat’s legacy will be himself as a person. What will live beyond his death is the video blog and businesses that he created. But not one of his works (say an individual video blog) will stand out on its own. His work as a whole is genius but he will not be remembered in the same way we remember the individual works of artists.

An artist is known for the work itself. Half of the works of art that I love, I have no idea about their creator. With art, the work stands on its own. The work of art unto itself is enough. Casey Neistat will be remembered for his character, as the person he is and as a brilliant entrepreneur. His video blog is very much about the person. It is a part of his business or businesses. He basically runs a self-made video, entertainment business empire. But it is not art.

Art should not always be boring but it should not always seek to be entertaining also. Reading Infinite Jest, the reader is coming in direct contact with a very deep work of art. But at many points in the book it is hard work to keep reading. It is not entertaining at all. It is often tedious. If art is entertaining all the time, I don’t think we could call it art.

After watching a lot of Casey’s videos, I am left with the memory of him. His energy, his philosophy and his fervor for work have really inspired my wife and I. We both love the guy. But I really do not remember any individual pieces of work (videos). Casey Neistat’s work exists in my mind as a whole rather than as individual parts. And as an artist it is the parts or the induvial works that are important, not the artist’s life as a whole (this is secondary, not primary).

I worry that too many artists will be inspired by someone like Casey Neistat and other brilliant productivity video bloggers. They might feel bad that they have been lingering around, spending too much time lost in their minds and not getting anything done. Nooooooooooooooooooo! Please don’t let this happen. As artists, you are doing exactly what you should be doing. Keep sitting around!

Artists need to be good at doing nothing. Artists need to be expert lingerers. Creative geniuses on the other hand need to be good at getting shit done. But for a great novel or painting to be created, that artist needs to spend a lot of time doing nothing. They need to swim down to the depths of their beings, down where it is often dark, murky and filled with existential pain. There is no way an artist can do this if they keep busy and are always being entertained.

To answer my two questions at the beginning of this essay, this is probably why I never heard of Casey Neistat up until a few weeks ago. I spend a lot of time outside of time and just sitting around. I may not be aware of what is cutting edge and contemporary but I think I have made a lot of art that has depth.

I am glad that there are brilliant, creative and energetic entrepreneurs like Casey Neistat out there in the world. We need them to counteract all the boring crap non-creative business people make. My hope is that business people like Casey Neistat will inspire other business people to stop making crap. This is a very positive thing and I am grateful to Casey for this. But if you are an artist please don’t get depressed and feel bad that you are not up at five in the morning running and then on the go all day, every day, everywhere. This would be detrimental to you and your work as an artist. If you were always busy, if you had no free time, you would not have the time to go deep within yourself and pull from these depths works of art that in the end, if good enough, inspire people like Casey to do what they do.

For all you artists out there, please- don’t just do something. Instead, sit there and settle down.

The Internet Writer, Part One.

Why the hell am I doing this? Again.

After ten years of writing on the internet, it is not making much sense to me anymore. Why do I do it? What is all this for? Why am I giving away my literary labors for free all the time and selling myself short, again and again? These are questions that come to mind.

You or I, would think that if a person puts an immense amount of work into something and gets little back, after say five or six years, that it would be time to quit and move on to something else. If a person is still at it after ten years and still getting very little back, you or I, might think this person is nuts.

This person is me.

Writing on the internet is like a drug addiction in reverse.

It is an addiction, but where drug addicts take drugs to forget themselves, internet writers write things on the internet because they want to make something out of themselves. The drug addict seeks to obliterate their ego and the internet writer seeks to make known and solidify their ego. The drug addict can’t stop doing drugs because they are addicted to the momentary feeling of no-ego, whereas the internet writer can’t stop posting their writings on the internet because they are addicted to the momentary feeling of ego-gratification.

 

Both the internet writer and the drug addict struggle to stop. Both the drug addict and the internet writer are ultimately destroyed by their addiction, if they don’t get clean.

I have tried to quit writing on the internet numerous times. For seven years, I dutifully kept a literary blog by the name of Absurdistry. I wrote strange, mostly fictional stories on this blog, weekly, and had a religious following of two people (both of whom died during the course of my maintaining the blog). Absurdistry is filled with postings with titles such as: The End Of Absurdistry, My Final Post, No More, Calling It Quits. But, after a week or so of writing in the non-internet world, my ego would start to feel like a nobody, and I would end up writing and posting another story on my blog.

I guess I craved readers. This was my high (and still is).

For the past few years I have been writing and posting on Medium (a site specifically for internet writers) and my newer blog, The Fantastic Life Of Nobody In Particular. I spend hours a day, several days a week, stuck at my desk, writing and editing these stories and essays, to feed my ego’s craving to be somebody on-line. I always end up feeling like I am getting little in return. Even after ten years of giving this hard labor away for free.

Why do I do it? What the hell is the point of internet writing? Couldn’t I be doing so many better, more fulfilling things with my time like sitting in the sun? I tell myself that it does not matter that I get little back from what I write and post on the internet because one day I will collect a lot of my writings and publish them in a real, paper and ink, book of my own. I am just using the immediate gratification that the internet gives writers as a way to get my writing done. Eventually all of this will lead towards legitimate publication.

I have been telling myself this for ten years. Still, nothing has happened.

But isn’t the content and quality of what I write effected by having this kind of motivation? Wouldn’t I be writing more literary and in depth things if I was not trying to shape my writing to fit demands of readers on the internet? Don’t internet writers have to dumb stuff down to make their writing more ingestible to readers on the internet? Don’t internet writers end up writing for readers with attention deficit disorder? Doesn’t this compromise the quality of the work somehow?

I think so.

I have probably done great damage to the literary quality of my writing, by writing on the internet over the years. And for what? It is not like many people read what I write. The internet is not a good fit for a writer like myself. I made a mistake by thinking that somehow the internet could perpetuate and grow my literary career. The internet demands crap to fill its gluttonous bestial belly with, and, well, I have contributed to its dietary demands.

The internet is not a place for a writer who wants to make art.

You see, writing on the internet takes the art out of writing. Readers on the internet do not want art. They want quick, simplified, cold, hard, facts. They want fast food stories. This may be the future of writing and reading since my wife, who was once a prolific reader, can no longer hold a book in her hands for longer than twenty minutes without having to check her phone.

I hate that as a writer, I am contributing to things moving in this direction, by writing for the internet. I hate what I have let the internet do to my writing. But I can’t seem to stop.

 

A writer like myself can be destroyed by this addictive need for immediate gratification. Perhaps I have already been destroyed by it, but I keep posting my writing on the internet because I no longer care about my literary health, I just need my next like.

I tell myself that quality will stand the test of time. Even though what I write on the internet is now obscured by everything else, there will come a time in a hundred years or so when some eccentric professor or rebellious, alienated, intelligent kid will discover my writings on the internet. Absurdistry and The Fantastic Life Of Nobody In Particular, in the future, will become the equivalent to what, say, Franz Kafka’s The Trial or Celine’s Journey To The End Of Night is now.

I like this idea. It is this idea that keeps me writing on the internet, as deluded as this idea may be.

But I think I have written enough on the internet. I think it is time for me to hunker down and work at the non-immediate gratification labor of composing a novel in the solitude of my garage. Day after day, I need to work at finishing these novels, which have been collecting dust on my hard drive.

This is what an internet addiction can do to a writer. It causes the writer to neglect the work that brings them more long term satisfaction in their writing lives.

I am sure there will be withdraw symptoms.

My ego will want that hit of immediate gratification that comes from knowing someone is reading my words shortly after I have posted them on-line. But I must abstain. I must get sober and focus on the hard and isolated literary work that is required for writing any kind of lasting, quality, literary work. After all, there are only so many writing hours remaining in my lifetime.

So this is it.

I am getting clean.

I will not be posting any more of my writings on the internet until I have a novel done.

I am going to find a way to disable internet access on my computer so that after a week or so the pain of not having my quick fix will not force me to take another hit. There will be nowhere for me to turn but to continue to labor away in the thankless, isolated, non-immediate-ego-gratification, hard work world of no longer being an internet writer.

So long for now, internet readers.

The End (for now).

 

 

 

Incognito Libido

There are people who send other people text messages.

These are not the kind of text messages that you would want other people who know you to find out about.

There are people who send text messages with pictures of themselves naked in hot tubs sucking another man’s cock.

There are people who send text messages that ask: How many inches are you? There are people who respond by saying: I am Jewish. Have you ever met a Jewish man with a small cock?

There are people who send text messages with pictures of themselves bent over in the nude showing off their ass and other parts. It is the fruit of a lot of hard labor and they enjoy getting to share. These text messages are often responded to with comments like: Wow- that is wonderful! or You are so hot!

It gets addicting sometimes.

There are people who send text messages asking: Is it a must that you use condoms or not? Sometimes, if you respond to these people by saying it would be wise to use condoms, you will not hear from these people anymore.

These same people also ask: Do you like watching or getting fucked? Are you okay with cumming on the face? Tell me something kinky that you do? What is the biggest sized cock you have ever had? Does your husband like to watch you take it in the mouth?

These kind of text messages go on and on. People send pornographic pictures of themselves like it was running water.

These people are your mom and dad. Your aunt and uncle. These people are your doctor, your therapist, your teacher, your accountant, your real estate agent, the taxman. These are people who are students and these are middle-class people who live in the suburban house right next to you.

There are people who send these kinds of text messages maybe not every day, but a lot. Sometimes these people meet up and do all kinds of pornographic things with one another. They think of it as fun. A fantastic high that helps them forget about every single one of their human condition problems for awhile. They get off by getting it on, if you know what I mean.

These people may be me. They may be you. I know that most people would be beyond shocked if they really found out who these people really were. But in today’s world of modern technology these people are almost everyone. Really, you would be surprised. Humans are first and foremost sexual creatures. It makes perfect sense that we would create technology mainly to advance our sexual aspirations.

I don’t understand why everyone seems so surprised about this. These are obviously people who have become terribly sexually repressed.

These are people who do not send pornographic text messages like this.

Maybe like you. Maybe like me.

The Reluctant Psychotherapist

“……i was free from the horror of being deformed by another person’s needs and desires.” -J.D. Daniels, The Correspondence

My testicles are in pain. It feels like someone is squeezing them with their fingers to the point where it hurts. I have had my testicles squeezed many times before, but it was purely for fun and usually with someone’s mouth. This is different. There is now the presence of this swollen ache, which feels like it could be signaling illness.

Currently, as I write this, I am soaking my testicles in a cup filled with warm water and sea salt. The cup is seated on a small table just beneath my dick and desk chair. I am not wearing any pants (or underwear) and it feels surprisingly comfortable to be writing with my testicles soaking in warm sea water.

I have taken the entire week off. I canceled all my thirty-six clients (I hate this word, the ugliest and most mediocre word in the English language) and decided to retreat from the world of work. After seven years of spending seven or eight hours a day, four days a week, sitting in a fake leather chair, with my underwear and pants squeezing my balls, I suppose the testicle issue I am now having was inevitable. I have felt my testicles aching for years. I had to take this week off and let my oppressed testicles hang lose.

Being a psychotherapist is a dangerous job. I suppose testicular issues are just one hazard of this profession. We all know that sitting for long periods of time is not healthy (it is better for us to smoke) but we all do it anyways. Psychotherapists just do it for longer periods of time and must tunefully listen to negative talk while doing it.

I don’t care how much you know; one thing I know for certain is that human beings did not evolve to sit in a chair for hours a day (with their sexual organs being squeezed to death by their expensive pants and underwear) while listening to other people talk about themselves for an hour at a time. Being a psychotherapist is as unnatural as drinking diet coke.

I mean all you need to do is look to the guy who invented this profession, Sigmund Freud, and see how fucked up he was. It is never a good idea to go into a profession (or take someone’s advice) which was invented by a neurotic, unhealthy, introverted, hypochondriac, drug addicted, perverted, narcissistic but highly intelligent madman. This gives new meaning to that cliché idea- you are who your friends are. You are who the founders of your profession are (or were). Know what I mean?

I almost think it would be better to work as a prostitute. Prostitutes are free from the obligation to apprehend and interpret. They understand what their clients want from them. It is all usually very upfront. I am sure that if someone did a study they would find that professions which create the most happiness and health in its practitioners are the ones where everything is upfront. No bullshit. The practitioners of the profession know exactly what is wanted from them and this makes life easier for everyone.

Psychotherapists have no fucking idea. The profession requires that we spend our days apprehending and interpreting what other people are doing and needing (we usually end up doing this in our personal lives as well because our profession tends to erase the line between personal and professional life). Normally, psychotherapists have no idea what their clients want from them because their clients don’t know what they want for themselves. This is usually the therapist’s job. To help clients make decisions for themselves. To spend so much time apprehending and interpreting that hopefully, eventually, the client will know what they want and what they should do. What hell it is.

But this is not the worst part of being a psychotherapist. If what I have talked about above was all I had to deal with, the swollen testicles, the sitting and all the interpreting and apprehending, then maybe I would not be a reluctant psychotherapist. I realize that life is suffering. We all need to choose our poison. I can handle a swollen testicle, sitting all the time and people who pay me to apprehend and interpret for them. But if happiness means being able to choose the problems that you have and then being able to enjoy the process of solving these problems, I may be in trouble.

As a psychotherapist, I have to spend more than half of my life/time with other people’s problems. I am paid to solve their problems. If the problems are interesting and engaging the time goes by quick. Just when I realize my testicles are aching the session is almost over. Problems such as dying, being addicted to public masturbation, nymphomania, wanting to kill your parents, addiction to heroin, continual alien abductions, wanting to go on a shooting rampages and stalking issues keep me engaged. But the problem is that I do not often come across these sort of problems. Most people’s problems tend to be as conventional as an afternoon soap opera. Mediocrity has turned most of us into victimized door mats. And victimized door mats have the same old stuff in them whenever you shake them out.

And then there is: having to talk with parents, schedule sessions with clients, respond to client emails, call back physicians and social workers who want to consult about a client we both share, respond to client texts on weekends and at night, write notes about clients, deal with clients who don’t show up, pay money to private insurance companies in case clients try to sue me, submit payments and paperwork and take professional development classes mandated by the licensing boards and government agencies so that they can make money off of what we do (I don’t mind licensing regulations since most people attracted to this profession are nuts and should be regulated- I just think things pertaining to licensing should be free).

I could go on and on but I won’t. You get the idea here. I am often asking myself: “Are these problems that I want to have in my life and are they problems that I enjoy solving?” Right away the answer is always “Hell no.” Darn it.

But I keep working as a psychotherapist anyways. I am doing some good in the world even though doing good involves me suffering from swollen testicles, a body that is growing weaker because of all the sitting and the inner deformation of my spirit that is the result having to solve problems that I do not want to be having. But a man like me needs to get paid. I need to afford my quality of life, so I keep doing what I do. I try and take things day by day and not care too much about what may happen tomorrow.

Make sure that what you are good at doing (which in America means what people are willing to pay you to do) is something that you enjoy doing. If you don’t not like doing the thing you are good at- you are fucked.

I dream about living other kinds of lives, lives unfilled with other people’s problems, lives filled with problems I want to have (because I know this is what happiness is). But my ability to dream seems to be declining with age. I don’t have the energy to move very far anymore. My testicles are now sitting in a cup. How far could I go?

A good day for me used to be one filled with creative productivity, aimless wandering, beer, books and women. This was before the house, the cars, the boat, the wife, the dogs, the status, the suburbs, the television addiction, the smartphone addiction, the bills and the paranoia that I can have my entire career destroyed by writing honest things like this. Now my idea of a good day is a day free of all obligation. A day withdrawn from the outside world. A day in complete solitude where I can become a sibling to myself, and like J.D. Daniels writes, “gnaw at myself for nourishment in the red cavern of the womb, relaxing into my own death.”

Then, eventually, I have to return to having my testicles squeezed.