Tired Ontology

[Edit: I hate this post, but my new policy is to not just delete everything I hate. Don’t waste your time reading this though.]

So far this is just turning out to be a harrowing personal journal. Well, maybe not harrowing. Even if that’s what blogs are for, I’ve got aspirations beyond, man. Oh well. Aspiration implies something not yet achieved, right? Wouldn’t be aspirational if you had everything you wanted. As a bit of random trivia, this bloke Anselm once tried to prove the existence of God using a similar argument i.e. by fucking around with words.

Me: 1. I have aspirations, which are important. 2. But aspirations stop existing once fulfilled. 3. Don’t need to achieve anything. [this argument is bullshit]

Anselm: 1. God is the greatest possible being. 2. He couldn’t be great if he didn’t exist though. 3. God must exist because he’s the greatest being. [this argument is bullshit]

It’s funny. Both of these arguments can lead to some interesting philosophical conclusions or explorations, even if they are, essentially, bullshit. Their processes can still be useful. My nonsense could be talking about the need for us to have constant purpose, and the broader necessity of constant change. There’s never a final fulfilment, except perhaps death. Similarly, Anselm could be saying something interesting if he did a better job of defining God and/or “greatest possible being”. A good definition of it is existence itself. Get it? “Greatest possible being”? Existence also fits Descartes’ four omni-attributes of God if you’re into that sort of thing.

Ah, but enough of the ontological bullshit this morning. I want to complain about myself. I’ve had a binge on a video game about the zombie apocalypse. I’ve been binging on video games too much during this lockdown generally, and fuck, I can’t quite work out why. I mean sure, it’s lockdown, you’re supposed to stay at home etc. But this is not how I’m supposed to behave. It’s pissing my eyes off bad, I have weird aches in my main gaming fingers and their related forearm. Probably some kind of repetitive strain injury. The binge is strange because of these things. Apart from the time wasted, it literally, physically hurts. Is damaging. I’d be healthier, if not wealthier, going back to the drink. And if drinking heavily is healthier than something else you’re doing, you probably need to stop that other thing. Gaming. You need to stop, Rosa.

I’m having an AA moment, except the alcohol isn’t the thing I’m worried about.

Why gaming? Well, I’ve fucked up my sleeping pattern, so I rarely feel rested when I wake up after my 5-6hrs sleeping in the daylight. Gaming can be like a caffeine high – it wakes up your brain, fools it into elements of emergency action mode. This creates a vicious cycle though, because it’s also easy to get lost in the gaming stimulation, especially when you’re in lockdown and there’s no work around. Basically it’s making my sleeping problems worse. So, I can’t use it as a wake-up stim. I can make espresso, I should make espresso. And sleep for fuck’s sake.

Apart from the sleeping, well, I’m depressed, about the state of the world mainly. And if not the world, then I’m sad to see my own country going down the tube. I’m not a patriot at all. In fact I hate the very concept of nationhood, but I also recognise it as a ‘necessary evil’, and so I think nations should be done properly where they have to be done. Right now, coronavirus is like the 60th nail in the country’s coffin. I don’t know. The political, governmental situation feels bad. Really bad. Like we basically don’t have a government, just a weird company that has public meetings in an old building. This is perhaps far more unsettling to me than it should be. I was supposed to have known it’s like this all along. Also, not entirely related, I’m out of work. Well, paying work. Well, mostly. Before the crisis I had a nice regular job lined up, great opportunities for growth and such bollocks. Now I got nearly nothing.

Haha, but the list goes on. I regularly get terrified of the fact I’m eventually going to die. Not of cancer or anything, just natural whatever-the-cause death that happens to everyone. I’m also struggling with my housemate. I just don’t get along that kind of well with others. We share everything, and after three years, it’s just too much for me. I need a tiny box to myself. Where I can have days of quiet. Where I can live in filth if I want to. Where I can be weird and talk to myself and not worry whether I’m going to be judged for it or not. And it often feels like that personal space is my only way out of this current bout of sadness. Gaming meanwhile helps me to forget. I’d drink to forget, but it’s too expensive.

The problem is, I’m not likely to get my own little private space. I’m not the kind of charge in and get it done character who’d demand their own space. It seems more righteous to me that I should just suffer. And that attitude is a longstanding problem. I’m not sure I remember a time when I didn’t assume that my interests are less important than other peoples’. Is that an illness? Well, if it is, I’m not overly keen on some quack recommending me happy pills or whatever. I prefer earnest contemplation. It’s helped me a fair bit over the years, and it’s another thing I struggle to do while constantly distracting myself, or being distracted. My head space is a mess. I need to sort it out. I’m going to try and get some sleep.

Emotional Instability Might be Genetic But It’s Probably Just Life

I realised on a late night walk down to the sea that I’ve been making the same relationship mistakes my Dad made that helped to get him killed. Stress and nutrition related heart attack, also bad heart runs in the family. As do broken marriages. He used to try and give out all he could, he used to try to fix our lives, mine and the mother’s, even when we didn’t want him to. And, in constantly trying to do the superhuman thing of ignoring himself, he ended up just miserable, and just complaining that we should do what he thinks.

You can’t fix someone else. You can fix yourself, and you can try and help someone fix themselves. You cannot make the changes for them, even assuming you actually know what they’d need to do. This is just a fact. The impetus for change, the willpower, comes from within. Not without. It can be, must be inspired by the rest of life, but the rest of life will not fix you. You will fix you.

Dad forgot that, and me too, though this “fix yourself” message is a little too simple for either of us, even if it’s true.

The problem I’ve carried over is that I can’t get enough motivation from things I want to do. He ended up this way: only ever active when given work or given a problem by someone else. Left to his own devices he’d keep up basic vital signs and otherwise just mess around on the internet or watch tv, and, eventually, drink some whisky, make a cheesy meal. I’m now doing more or less the same. This doesn’t describe either of us completely, but the lifestyle fits. We’re mostly fucking hopeless without other people to give us a reason to live. Simultaneously, other people seem like the cause of all our problems.

Really, we just seem incapable of allowing that little bit of room for the self. That’s what I’m trying to fix by writing on here and the poetry site as much as I can. Trying to convince myself that I have a space where it’s worth being, just for the sake of me. Even with that attitude, I’m desperately clicking the notification bell to see if I’ve got a couple of likes yet. Still looking out for justification and meaning. Yeah, I mean, you have to get your meaning and value from the world around you, okay. But you can also get a bit of emotional fucking willpower, drive, a sense that you have meaning, from yourself.

I’ve grown to doubt that quite a lot: that I mean anything. I think Dad did too, though he was from a generation that would never say so. He preferred to pretend like everything is fine, and either pretend or exist in an alternate reality where he conversed with spirits. I believe he had the experience of conversing with spirits. I just don’t think of it in the same terms as him. For me it’s dreams, vivid imagination, and a serious appreciation of the way all life is interconnected. He would’ve said something similar, but with references to mythology and dragons. Fair enough, I mean everyone loves a good story, and the movie theatre in his head seemed like a uniquely fun one to be sitting in.

Part of it is him being dead. I mean he was easily the most important person in my life, and he just died while sleeping miles and miles away from me, without even knowing he might have to say goodbye. There was no warning, there was just “oh I’ve got some indigestion, might sleep on the couch tonight”. When the mother woke up and found him, he was dead asleep. But mainly dead. I don’t cry myself to sleep at night, I didn’t even cry at the funeral. I didn’t fall to pieces with the pain that I’d never see him again. My memory of him is pretty good. I see him whenever I want. The thing is, if the most important person in my life can just die like that…what’s the fucking point?

And I have some good explanations lined up discussing what the point is, but I’d already been wondering to myself before he died, ‘what the fuck is this shit all about?’ and then he just goes and dies, spirits be damned. He was having a stressful time though. I reckon his last dream was another one of those meetings with the myths-turned-real and dragons, and he went to join them, and finally fucking get a break. I don’t have his faith though. I have a weird kind of love of life, but not my life. My life is a small, possibly irrelevant piece of the puzzle. No I mean it is relevant, but mainly to me…and I’m the only idiot doubting it, so it’s relevance diminishes every day that I think “meh, I could just drink and watch tv and wait. Won’t make a difference.”

This fucking coronavirus, man. I like my politics but this era of airheads in government has really ruined me. There’s nothing to report on, because every time you break open a story about how shit they are, they get more money and more votes. If you mock or torture or murder them, they get more sympathy, more support, more airheads to fill their gap. And I believe in nonviolence and democracy. Feels like there’s no point for society, and no point for me. I’m not a happy bunny.

So, in what might be a bunny-like kind of behaviour, I mostly sit on a dildo and write poems about old lovers. And drink. And watch tv. And drink. Watch tv. Let my knees click for lack of use, fuck up my lower back. Occasionally I remember to do stretches and go for walks. In this virus world I can’t work. I can’t use this dead feeling in me to go and do some shit job and earn minimum wage at least. I can’t do anything, anywhere. Everything is fucked. But that’s not true.

It just feels like that. Feels, more so than in a long time, like it’s all hopeless. Somehow I got into the habit a while back of stepping out of my feelings. Doesn’t always let me act different, but it does help my understand what the fuck is going on. There’s this me that isn’t the same as what I feel, and that me has an amazing clarity. But it’s usually just forced to work out how to quickly satisfy the feeling me. “Where’s the food? Can I be bothered to make a proper meal? Where’s the remote? Where’s the bottle of rum from yesterday? Make the wank last longer this time.”

Those philosophers are onto something you know. And that Jung guy. It’s worth separating out the different parts of yourself, at least in theory, so you can see a bit of how you’re working, and maybe see what needs fixing. Not right now, but when you’ve got a moment.