Statement of Anomie:
I have reached an impasse. Years ago I chose to become a musician. Hearing the works of Modest Mouse and the Postal Service made me feel a nostalgia for a time I never knew. It felt fated, and I swore to become like my heroes, relics that are the product of the Northwest Scene, an enormous community of musicians playing together in literal harmony.
I all so loved video games. And in time I came to realise that my much older dream of designing games could be actualised in college. After all: I had a strong intuition that ideas were more imperative than deeds (as Zizek corroborates) and so I expected my Concepts to be well-received and even lauded.
But now what? I have written four albums and produced two E.P's. I have played in a reggae band, as well as a psychedelic duo I do not like to talk about. My closest band-mates have cheated me, betrayed me, fired me, or simply abandoned me. And I am left with five USD in my pocket.
People at bars keep telling me not to "give up". Yet giving up seems not only wisest but most noble.
Every one consumes music. Yet in half a year of hustling my art how many albums have I sold? I could say "countless". But that would give you the impression that it was a lot. I could probably recount the number if I really wanted to. And you might be disappointed.
The point is that some people will not pay the cost of a Starbucks coffee that takes five minutes to brew for the music that took me twenty days to produce and years to write.
And yet they listen gladly to the artists that "made it". Whatever that means. I never figured it out. It's up there in terms of mystery for me with my old high school English essay prompt: what was Seymour Glass's tragedy?
And where are my band-mates? Fans are well enough. I can do without admiration if I have camaraderie. Yet people are not running to play with me; I am running after them. Why? I have been playing my keyboard for over ten years!
Programmers are even harder to deal with, for they are so condescending. I would learn how to program if I felt called to it. But why would they who all ready know the skills not be eager to work on an idea? After all: I have studied philosophy, both Eastern and Western. Sure: I never finished a 'degree', and my professors were more exhausted by my unconscious attempts to teach the class than excited. But I could tell you about all most every major philosopher from this past century, down to his or her astrological sign, and what I think of her, and how I've factored his philosophical view into my own.
So what gives? The argument I get is the same one as I hear from people in the music industry: there are too many of us. Too many idea people. Too many musicians.
And I think: great! The more the merrier. We live in an economy of abundance. And if it was true fifty years ago that we could feed the population of the World, then surely, granted that reproduction has not somehow slipped past production, we can still do it today! And continue to do so, for we have more than enough people willing to toil for the benefit of all, and the scarcity in jobs stands simply as evidence that work its self is not even necessary of every one!
So I am puzzled. Where is this community of musicians? Where is this think tank of game designers? Where is my family? Where is my legion?
And then I am told this: that to work with people I require money.
But other people have "money", and it is not, as Louis CK put it, "their" money but THE money. And besides that Watts was right of course that money is simply an Abstraction and an Obstruction. Besides: the post-modernists explained that currency, by the very nature of its-Being-mutable but representing an Absolute, pre-disposes us all to schizophrenia.
So why is it that when the police come to my home the officer voices his concern that I am neither "working" nor "going to school"? If my parents' only reason for calling was that I was drooling in a meditative trance, why did they not leave me Be?
School must at some time have appeared to be a viable alternative. Yet what if I should become a professor? If I am wrong or arbitrary, I shall have miss-guided an entire group of people. If I return to the Debate Team, will I finally be able to form a legion large enough to implement our ideas of reform? Or shall I encounter again this sort of sociopathic behaviour of enjoying victory and bewailing defeat, forgetting that my victory is but some one else's defeat and my defeat some one else's victory?
Some have suggested that every issue has an other side. But this is a schizophrenic delusion. If Debate taught me any thing it is to treat such thoughts without mercy. For the true aim of discourse is not to defend a "private interest" (???) but to be Objectively Right. Dissent only becomes necessary when one introduces the much less necessary sin of "competition".
Competition...
The wise would take times like these as a sign of peace and plenty. I would wait for money to come, as well as attention, sex, food, and housing. May be even happiness. For if people are not looking for me, why would I be so bold as to look for them? It would be selfish to create a demand in some one who is desireless. It would be the mentality of a drug lord breeding addiction.
I certainly cannot return to retail. The dream of independence might have died the moment that a portly woman called herself my "boss".
Yet maturity does not die so easily. Keeping a dream log every day is enough to remind one's self that one is still a child so long as one answers to any arbitrary micro-manager's authority. And were we all content then none of my colleagues at the fabric store would have been so eager each night to leave (despite their peculiar eagerness to show up at work, once a fortnight, the day that their checks came.)
I could become a comedian. But Watts was right: all humour has a bit of malice. My jokes are sarcastic and self-deprecating. They are well enough in times of crisis. I transmute my existential woes to relief not only for my self but all so every one around me. I can even make women smile, which tends usually not to be the case with me.
But to deliberately mock neurosis in an antic disposition? Nay. For that would set a standard for others to imitate, and it is unhealthy. Besides: every open mic has a limited number of slots. If I get there first to sign up, how do I know I am not operating from a position of luck, at the expense of an other who is in greater want but lesser availability?
My old guitarist once broke down crying at the wheel when he realised that no matter what he did he would be supporting the Corporate Conspiracy. I consoled him, confident that it was not so. As Bukowski put it, one should "be on the watch. There are ways out. There is light somewhere." That was our band.
But then he became a social worker, by avenue of a connection through a girlfriend, and in my personal experience social workers are polite slave drivers for a misunderstood and very enlightened class of people.
And it was not long before he started getting on my case because I "paid no bills."
I was so taken aback that the more obvious answer did not occur to me then: Bills?! No one needs to pay bills. Energy is in constant circulation. It cannot be created, ostensibly, but neither can it be destroyed, and the planet has plenty of it! As for payment, that should mimmick the natural process. People with money can pay the bills; that is their obligation by HAVING money. It is certainly not their right to refuse; I my self had to think long after I first refused to spend money on my pal Micaiah when he was homeless. I mean yes: he had broken the digital drawing pad that I had bought for him within a few days. But he was a rational fellow; I am certain he had no conscious purpose for doing so. And it would be a hideous commitment of the Naturalist Fallacy to use that in order to justify my refusal to pay my debts to him. I had really to suspend my reasoning to allow for such tenacity, but then of course I was not telling him to "get a job" or refusing to buy his meals. (I once spent forty dollars at Marie Callendar's, all in one morning, just to feed him.) I simply refused to apologise when I spent several hundred dollars in order to get a LinkedIn account with InMail so that I could contact my old friend and crush, for she was not replying to my texts.
But I did not tell him to "get a job"! That would have been an arrogance more egregious than hypocrisy, for whilst the hypocrite tells others to follow a path that he does not himself follow, the employee demands that they follow a path that he himself has blocked. So even if they find an identical path, as though one could be certain that any two paths are identical, they will only become like him: a road-block for others.
It is of course the duty of the rich to pay the poor, for the winners of any game owe the spoils to their losers, and the participants in such an absurd conflict owe the fruits of it to the innocent non-partakers.
So fuck the bills. My parents have that covered. I have yet to find an ethical path that happens all so to produce money. Tiny shortcuts do so, but only for a short time, by the reckoning of the outside world. If my parents have managed to find such a path, then they can prove it by providing for me, as they chose to undergo as parents. If not, then they owe to me their spoils for their sin. Naturally.
Sin. My ex asked whence it came from. The love of money is the root of all evil, but not, according to Old Joe, money herself. Yet the academics seem to blame capital in large part.
I know that not all money is the same. The hundred dollars I earned playing with Fourth N Cedar was worlds more valuable than the hundreds of numbers accrued at the Fabric Store. Was it simply because the check was not made of cash? That seems unlikely. I usually know how things will end up, and even if seldom I chose to avail my self of cash it was all ways available to me. I suppose that it is true, though. Capital breeds schizophrenia. In the absolute realm, ten dollars in the bank is identical to a ten-dollar bill in the hand. Yet: why does being handed one by my band manager feel so much better? Too many variables exist to say with scientific certainty, though my mind is of course not confined to science.
My plight is the same as ever before:
If I enter the military, I shall find Solidarity and Duty, but not justice. Other people who might have been my friends would either kill me or be killed by me.
If I returned to the work force, I would again be obligated to pay the Micaiahs of the world, for I took their job. To this day Micaiah, who has moved on to corporate work (good for him!) refuses to work with me and insists that my disrespect has lost me partners in the past and will continue to do so.
I have reached an impasse. Years ago I chose to become a musician. Hearing the works of Modest Mouse and the Postal Service made me feel a nostalgia for a time I never knew. It felt fated, and I swore to become like my heroes, relics that are the product of the Northwest Scene, an enormous community of musicians playing together in literal harmony.
I all so loved video games. And in time I came to realise that my much older dream of designing games could be actualised in college. After all: I had a strong intuition that ideas were more imperative than deeds (as Zizek corroborates) and so I expected my Concepts to be well-received and even lauded.
But now what? I have written four albums and produced two E.P's. I have played in a reggae band, as well as a psychedelic duo I do not like to talk about. My closest band-mates have cheated me, betrayed me, fired me, or simply abandoned me. And I am left with five USD in my pocket.
People at bars keep telling me not to "give up". Yet giving up seems not only wisest but most noble.
Every one consumes music. Yet in half a year of hustling my art how many albums have I sold? I could say "countless". But that would give you the impression that it was a lot. I could probably recount the number if I really wanted to. And you might be disappointed.
The point is that some people will not pay the cost of a Starbucks coffee that takes five minutes to brew for the music that took me twenty days to produce and years to write.
And yet they listen gladly to the artists that "made it". Whatever that means. I never figured it out. It's up there in terms of mystery for me with my old high school English essay prompt: what was Seymour Glass's tragedy?
And where are my band-mates? Fans are well enough. I can do without admiration if I have camaraderie. Yet people are not running to play with me; I am running after them. Why? I have been playing my keyboard for over ten years!
Programmers are even harder to deal with, for they are so condescending. I would learn how to program if I felt called to it. But why would they who all ready know the skills not be eager to work on an idea? After all: I have studied philosophy, both Eastern and Western. Sure: I never finished a 'degree', and my professors were more exhausted by my unconscious attempts to teach the class than excited. But I could tell you about all most every major philosopher from this past century, down to his or her astrological sign, and what I think of her, and how I've factored his philosophical view into my own.
So what gives? The argument I get is the same one as I hear from people in the music industry: there are too many of us. Too many idea people. Too many musicians.
And I think: great! The more the merrier. We live in an economy of abundance. And if it was true fifty years ago that we could feed the population of the World, then surely, granted that reproduction has not somehow slipped past production, we can still do it today! And continue to do so, for we have more than enough people willing to toil for the benefit of all, and the scarcity in jobs stands simply as evidence that work its self is not even necessary of every one!
So I am puzzled. Where is this community of musicians? Where is this think tank of game designers? Where is my family? Where is my legion?
And then I am told this: that to work with people I require money.
But other people have "money", and it is not, as Louis CK put it, "their" money but THE money. And besides that Watts was right of course that money is simply an Abstraction and an Obstruction. Besides: the post-modernists explained that currency, by the very nature of its-Being-mutable but representing an Absolute, pre-disposes us all to schizophrenia.
So why is it that when the police come to my home the officer voices his concern that I am neither "working" nor "going to school"? If my parents' only reason for calling was that I was drooling in a meditative trance, why did they not leave me Be?
School must at some time have appeared to be a viable alternative. Yet what if I should become a professor? If I am wrong or arbitrary, I shall have miss-guided an entire group of people. If I return to the Debate Team, will I finally be able to form a legion large enough to implement our ideas of reform? Or shall I encounter again this sort of sociopathic behaviour of enjoying victory and bewailing defeat, forgetting that my victory is but some one else's defeat and my defeat some one else's victory?
Some have suggested that every issue has an other side. But this is a schizophrenic delusion. If Debate taught me any thing it is to treat such thoughts without mercy. For the true aim of discourse is not to defend a "private interest" (???) but to be Objectively Right. Dissent only becomes necessary when one introduces the much less necessary sin of "competition".
Competition...
The wise would take times like these as a sign of peace and plenty. I would wait for money to come, as well as attention, sex, food, and housing. May be even happiness. For if people are not looking for me, why would I be so bold as to look for them? It would be selfish to create a demand in some one who is desireless. It would be the mentality of a drug lord breeding addiction.
I certainly cannot return to retail. The dream of independence might have died the moment that a portly woman called herself my "boss".
Yet maturity does not die so easily. Keeping a dream log every day is enough to remind one's self that one is still a child so long as one answers to any arbitrary micro-manager's authority. And were we all content then none of my colleagues at the fabric store would have been so eager each night to leave (despite their peculiar eagerness to show up at work, once a fortnight, the day that their checks came.)
I could become a comedian. But Watts was right: all humour has a bit of malice. My jokes are sarcastic and self-deprecating. They are well enough in times of crisis. I transmute my existential woes to relief not only for my self but all so every one around me. I can even make women smile, which tends usually not to be the case with me.
But to deliberately mock neurosis in an antic disposition? Nay. For that would set a standard for others to imitate, and it is unhealthy. Besides: every open mic has a limited number of slots. If I get there first to sign up, how do I know I am not operating from a position of luck, at the expense of an other who is in greater want but lesser availability?
My old guitarist once broke down crying at the wheel when he realised that no matter what he did he would be supporting the Corporate Conspiracy. I consoled him, confident that it was not so. As Bukowski put it, one should "be on the watch. There are ways out. There is light somewhere." That was our band.
But then he became a social worker, by avenue of a connection through a girlfriend, and in my personal experience social workers are polite slave drivers for a misunderstood and very enlightened class of people.
And it was not long before he started getting on my case because I "paid no bills."
I was so taken aback that the more obvious answer did not occur to me then: Bills?! No one needs to pay bills. Energy is in constant circulation. It cannot be created, ostensibly, but neither can it be destroyed, and the planet has plenty of it! As for payment, that should mimmick the natural process. People with money can pay the bills; that is their obligation by HAVING money. It is certainly not their right to refuse; I my self had to think long after I first refused to spend money on my pal Micaiah when he was homeless. I mean yes: he had broken the digital drawing pad that I had bought for him within a few days. But he was a rational fellow; I am certain he had no conscious purpose for doing so. And it would be a hideous commitment of the Naturalist Fallacy to use that in order to justify my refusal to pay my debts to him. I had really to suspend my reasoning to allow for such tenacity, but then of course I was not telling him to "get a job" or refusing to buy his meals. (I once spent forty dollars at Marie Callendar's, all in one morning, just to feed him.) I simply refused to apologise when I spent several hundred dollars in order to get a LinkedIn account with InMail so that I could contact my old friend and crush, for she was not replying to my texts.
But I did not tell him to "get a job"! That would have been an arrogance more egregious than hypocrisy, for whilst the hypocrite tells others to follow a path that he does not himself follow, the employee demands that they follow a path that he himself has blocked. So even if they find an identical path, as though one could be certain that any two paths are identical, they will only become like him: a road-block for others.
It is of course the duty of the rich to pay the poor, for the winners of any game owe the spoils to their losers, and the participants in such an absurd conflict owe the fruits of it to the innocent non-partakers.
So fuck the bills. My parents have that covered. I have yet to find an ethical path that happens all so to produce money. Tiny shortcuts do so, but only for a short time, by the reckoning of the outside world. If my parents have managed to find such a path, then they can prove it by providing for me, as they chose to undergo as parents. If not, then they owe to me their spoils for their sin. Naturally.
Sin. My ex asked whence it came from. The love of money is the root of all evil, but not, according to Old Joe, money herself. Yet the academics seem to blame capital in large part.
I know that not all money is the same. The hundred dollars I earned playing with Fourth N Cedar was worlds more valuable than the hundreds of numbers accrued at the Fabric Store. Was it simply because the check was not made of cash? That seems unlikely. I usually know how things will end up, and even if seldom I chose to avail my self of cash it was all ways available to me. I suppose that it is true, though. Capital breeds schizophrenia. In the absolute realm, ten dollars in the bank is identical to a ten-dollar bill in the hand. Yet: why does being handed one by my band manager feel so much better? Too many variables exist to say with scientific certainty, though my mind is of course not confined to science.
My plight is the same as ever before:
If I enter the military, I shall find Solidarity and Duty, but not justice. Other people who might have been my friends would either kill me or be killed by me.
If I returned to the work force, I would again be obligated to pay the Micaiahs of the world, for I took their job. To this day Micaiah, who has moved on to corporate work (good for him!) refuses to work with me and insists that my disrespect has lost me partners in the past and will continue to do so.
If I returned to school, I would be signing up
for classes that others wanted to sign up for, or otherwise accommodating
classes arbitrarily just so as to make the professor happy. And these classes I
tend to fail, for the demand is low because the class is either boring, a trade
class, or the teacher just wants more money. They can be fun, but so few people
persist with the class that by the end of it it feels like a waste of time.
Yet the crowded classes are a sin to get into.
And what am I aiming for? If I became a CEO, would the power not corrupt me? If I became a professor, would I not corrupt a few minds?
Only music seems pure.
Yet the industry is impure. Music is harmony, and musicians must live in harmony. Is it no surprise that an industry that coerces people to compete produces music that is progressively more discordant?
And is this not a metonymy for society? For capitalism herself?!
• • •• ••• ••••• •••••••• •••••••••••••
I knew a girl once who told me we could change the world for the better with music. She acknowledged the evils of capitalism as having their root in competition.
She had slept five times with my old guitarist. This was after he had concluded that life is entirely a game of zero sum. Drugs had addled his mind.
I had introduced them at one of our shows. She wanted to be a musician. I wanted to entertain her. If some miracle happened, I thought, I might finally experience intercourse. The girl was of course prone to disavow Eros, but it would surely be preferable to Thanatos. She was suicidal. It was not, of course, with any competitive intent that I observed that the guitarist too had a morbid fascination with Death. I just would not have foreseen her attraction to him, for it would have been an unhealthy prospect.
Besides: erotically speaking, despite his mortal fixation, he had boasted of sexual exploits with countless women. The thought that he would have any romantic interest in her did not even cross my mind. How would it have crossed his? One simply never abandons one's best friend to talk to a woman, without permission. That just does not happen. Right??
Needless to say, when I perceived his intent, I disbanded our duo, of which he had been the leader. He texted me to inform me that he would continue to use the name.
I am recently told he might not have produced the name himself. But as Juliet would have said... Well you get the idea.
People stare at me when I recount my tales as though I am an unreliable narrator. They said that of Holden Caulfield as well. Why? Who are we to project our own experiences onto an innocent voice?
I must have had some unconscious instinct at self-defense, as evidenced by the tension in my (para?)sympathetic nervous system (the one on my left) that had endured for months after the incident when she and he started flirting in my bedroom. I am told by her that it is the sympathetic, though it feels like the parasympathetic. Formally and dogmatically, sympathetic governs fight or flight, whereas parasympathetic does rest and relaxation. Yet I am certain with her love of Greek and Latin roots that she will sympathise, or at least empathise, with my deconstruction. Besides, since he was sitting on my bed, and she beside it (so cutely), it might very well have affected my rest and relaxation in the on-coming months.
Yet the crowded classes are a sin to get into.
And what am I aiming for? If I became a CEO, would the power not corrupt me? If I became a professor, would I not corrupt a few minds?
Only music seems pure.
Yet the industry is impure. Music is harmony, and musicians must live in harmony. Is it no surprise that an industry that coerces people to compete produces music that is progressively more discordant?
And is this not a metonymy for society? For capitalism herself?!
• • •• ••• ••••• •••••••• •••••••••••••
I knew a girl once who told me we could change the world for the better with music. She acknowledged the evils of capitalism as having their root in competition.
She had slept five times with my old guitarist. This was after he had concluded that life is entirely a game of zero sum. Drugs had addled his mind.
I had introduced them at one of our shows. She wanted to be a musician. I wanted to entertain her. If some miracle happened, I thought, I might finally experience intercourse. The girl was of course prone to disavow Eros, but it would surely be preferable to Thanatos. She was suicidal. It was not, of course, with any competitive intent that I observed that the guitarist too had a morbid fascination with Death. I just would not have foreseen her attraction to him, for it would have been an unhealthy prospect.
Besides: erotically speaking, despite his mortal fixation, he had boasted of sexual exploits with countless women. The thought that he would have any romantic interest in her did not even cross my mind. How would it have crossed his? One simply never abandons one's best friend to talk to a woman, without permission. That just does not happen. Right??
Needless to say, when I perceived his intent, I disbanded our duo, of which he had been the leader. He texted me to inform me that he would continue to use the name.
I am recently told he might not have produced the name himself. But as Juliet would have said... Well you get the idea.
People stare at me when I recount my tales as though I am an unreliable narrator. They said that of Holden Caulfield as well. Why? Who are we to project our own experiences onto an innocent voice?
I must have had some unconscious instinct at self-defense, as evidenced by the tension in my (para?)sympathetic nervous system (the one on my left) that had endured for months after the incident when she and he started flirting in my bedroom. I am told by her that it is the sympathetic, though it feels like the parasympathetic. Formally and dogmatically, sympathetic governs fight or flight, whereas parasympathetic does rest and relaxation. Yet I am certain with her love of Greek and Latin roots that she will sympathise, or at least empathise, with my deconstruction. Besides, since he was sitting on my bed, and she beside it (so cutely), it might very well have affected my rest and relaxation in the on-coming months.
I know what you will say: that he deserves my sympathy as well. He certainly was one to deconstruct things. Even when I asked him if he ever read the post-modernists and Absurdists, he reacted with rage at my condescending curiosity.
She defended him and his actions. That was why she persuaded me to let him have access to our old bandcamp account. It was the least that I could do for her, yet I suppose that it was such an indirect service, and my unconscious defenses, as hitherto stated, were so on-edge, that I ended up giving the wrong password. It turned out that we had to devise a new password, and we had fun doing so, striking a balance betwixt vengeful scorn and kindness, as a sort of compromise between me and her respectively. It TURNS out that the site I was signed into was none other than my fan account. So he had no use for it.
She must unconsciously have known, for that same night she turned bitter the moment that I had done what she requested. I would not see her face again for a long time. She never allowed me to take photos of her.
All ways she empathised with his plight. Though she claimed to oppose some of his views, it would be long before I saw this opposition for my self. Before then she ardently defended both his words and his actions. And that was fine. I only wished that she would do the same for me. My envy, mixed with pain at his betrayal, turnt to a most indecorous rage. Yet I am told that scars are a man's adornment.
• • •• ••• ••••• •••••••• •••••••••••••
So here I am, one year later.
She told me a year ago, or nearly, that I would have to wait a year before she might be available to me for sex. It simply was not "in the cards" back then. She seemed surprised that I would wait that long, and perchance for nothing. Why the surprise? A year is nothing.
A year after I saw them walking through the golf course, having abandoned me to a seat that night, for my head was spinning and my nose bleeding, and I saw that they were holding hands, (I must have felt psychic for having produced the paranoid fantasy in my kind before it was made flesh before my eyes.) I decided it was time to "let him out of the ice box" as my old friend Jay would have said. (Don't try to sue me, Jay. I know how you are but trust me that I have no money to give you, save for these five dollars.) i thought he would have changed. The last I had seen him had been in Autumn, for the girl had so successfully intervened that an unsteady but passive-aggressive truce was struck for some time before this. Yet this time I had not heard from her in months, despite my faithful stream of letters to her. This time, I took the path my self, and with a whole heart ready to forgive.
But he no longer wished to play in a band with us. The last I saw of her was the night that she and I last tried to persuade him. Yes: she was adorable that night too. Though she does not care for such flattery.
Now all my old friends have either left me, or I have left them. Mother is right: every one has gone. I am alone, without job or degree. I dropped out of college as soon as I could to make this band with the hot rocker girl work. The platinum blonde beauty has returned to whence she came, for I had met her quite by chance one night in the Parking Lot of San Diego State University. She has chosen graduate work over music, though for an entire year she had said that she wanted music more than any thing else. The fantasy [the melody, if you will] changed but the beat remained the same: Music would heal all wounds and absolve all debts. Whether she and I were together, working to supplant him, or he was with us, but she and I were romantically involved, or she was married to him but I spent more time with her, in the studio (presuming now that for some reason he would be less often at work), or she and he were dating but I would never have to see it whilst we were together as a band (though paradoxically the band would become our life, our family, and thus a perpetual state of togetherness), the goal was the same. And if he failed us, there should be no problem. We would simply find an other guitarist.
It is hard to say, as Woody Allen would put, "where the screw-up came in."
I suppose that I got too touchy when I heard him say, whilst we were all together hanging out, that I would not be singing in his band. What I took personally she took professionally. She explained that pitch was an absolute thing and that he had it and I did not. I had my doubts and counter-arguments, having grown up on Modest Mouse, Dinosaur Jr and Tom Waits. But she did not understand that I was not trying to supplant her as the lead vocalist. It was simply that I had taken a walk through the old high school, listening to my old recordings with him, and I had found compassion in reprieve; whereas before this I had felt self-conscious of my voice, now I could hear how beautifully our voices sounded together. Harmony. Solidarity. Family.
He would be the business mind, I would be the musical genius, and she would be the leader. What could go wrong? What went wrong?
I finally severred ties with him after a tormented altercation via text. He refused to do that which would make her most happy. And he tried to accuse me of harbouring self-interest. Every concession was met with five counterarguments. It was like fighting a Hydra. I could not take it. For the first time in my entire life, I found that I had a peculiar gift:
I could block a person's cell phone number.
Last time I had simply ignored his texts. And that was difficult enough. Though she had insinuated that I was a coward for doing so.
So alas and a lack, a lad loses his lass. The Valedictorian of Communication Studies goes off to Graduate School, and I am here at year's end. Her excuse is that music is corporatised. Every day I find more evidence for this. And yet is she not committing the Naturalist Fallacy? It was our entire AIM to redeem it! That was why I loved hearing her rant about music over the phone, venting her frustrations with the status quo.
And I recently asked again if she would sleep with me. I got angry that she did not reply. I wrote her this poem, mere minutes before a twelve-hour period had past without answer:
You have nineteen
Minutes to answer.
I thought I would have woken up to your reply.
If not, then this correspondance
Is a cancer
And good
Bye.
Sure. It was cruel of me to write this to her. But even a simple "No", without warrant, is preferable to Silence.
Dm.A.A.
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