fight the grind

I continue to find this recurring theme throughout all of my journal entries.

I’m having a bit of an existential crisis right now, but it’s a lot different from what I normally go though.

I can’t communicate what I’m thinking. I’m afraid of diminishing what I’m thinking. NO, it’s not that I’m afraid of diminishing it. It’s that I’m afraid that I just flat out can’t communicate it. I don’t know enough to communicate it. I don’t know what my voice is right now. I don’t know what I’m standing for. I want to be able to create something that shows people what I’m thinking.

I know I don’t know enough to do so though. I know there are people that can do so through art or through song, okay, just art period whatever, but you know what I mean. I can’t come up with an idea, a way , or even a formula, to really materialize what I’m going through in my head right now. And the fear at the heart of it all is that it’s just ignorance. That it’s not worth a damn. It’s not so much a fear, it’s just an understanding. A knowing. But isn’t that in and of itself ignorance?

I want to be able to show people what I’m thinking, but if everything comes up short in terms of photography being concerned, how the hell am i supposed to do so? If photography is my “expertise” and I can’t think of anything how am I supposed to successfully communicate with ANYONE. This isn’t what everyone thinks, is it?

It’s the same circular argument that I have with myself just about every day. I want to give people the benefit of the doubt that they think the same things that I do. As David Foster Wallace puts it, it’s not impossible and that’s all that matters.

He killed himself.

What the hell kind of a precedent does that set? Talk about a tough act. I mean, this is the same guy who delivered this great commencement speech that basically talked about our shared humanity and so many people connected with it, myself included, and yet it wasn’t enough for him. Was that what drove him over the edge? That so many people connected with it and that they didn’t truly understand what he wanted them to understand?

He made a living writing, and if he felt like he couldn’t even connect with people despite his speech being shared by millions and selling millions more of his books... what kind of validation did he need? Was it with his own self? Was he just self destructive and not appreciative of his own work for being the best it could be and that that was good enough?

I understand that this is hypocritical coming from me.

So I’m stuck trying to come to terms with the limitations i place on myself. It’s a huge struggle for me. I don’t know how to begin to remotely catalogue this struggle. Or to communicate it. So out of fear of not being good enough or just flat out getting too frustrated to do it, I just end up doing nothing at all. So instead of even making an effort I do nothing, suffering in silence. That’s worse in a way. But this way I may not come across as sounding like an ignorant asshole. At the same time, I won’t come across as anything.

The problem is that the people who have the most to say actually end up saying nothing at all. I need to bear this in mind throughout my day more. Interact with those that don’t come to you. Go to others. Seek them out. Figure out what they’re thinking. Maybe this small exercise will help you come to terms with humanity a little bit more than I currently am able to handle. Because right now I can’t handle much of anything.

I don’t think I like smoking but I do it anyway because it’s something that reminds me that I’m alive. I’m human. I react to things. As though my daily reactions to just about everything aren’t enough, I have to do something that physically requires my body to react. I feel sick and dizzy. Did I really need that cigarette? Probably not, but I convinced myself that it was the shakeup that I needed in order to get a worthwhile brainstorm session going.

Instead, it made me more anxious and now I’m just typing as much as I can in hopes that I can make this pen run dry but I’m concerned that my mind is a bottomless ink well. If I keep going for long enough maybe the works of Shakespeare will eventually start pouring from my fingertips. Or the works of Jung  and Wittgenstein and Kant and Chomsky and whoever many other people regard as thoughtful in the least bit.

This smell is what makes it the worse. I can’t take a breath anymore without catching a whiff of cigarette smoke and it just makes me feel more sick. Maybe I need to eat something.

I want to figure out how to best communicate what’s going through my mind. My struggle (how vain). I want to make a project that will show this to people. There just has to be a way for me to create a workflow that will allow me to be okay with what I’m creating. I don’t have an objective aside from trying to communicate what’s on my mind and what I see, but at the same time a lot of the things that I’m most passionate about and which cause me the greatest distress are the injustices that I see against others... but that’s just so vague because there is SO much going on at all times that I can’t even begin to imagine trying to pin it down. It’s like being lowered into a million-bear pit and picking out a single one and wrestling it down and taming it before it mauls me and then expecting myself to present it and then going back into the pit and doing it all over again. Something along those lines. It just seems impossible. I can’t even think of a good analogy to describe how impossible it seems to me.

So instead I rant. I write. I let this all build up to a boiling point where I can’t think of anything else to do and I just blather on and on in a computerized diary to an audience of no one in hopes that this will help me clear my mind.

I need a focus.

I’m afraid to get a focus because I don’t think it will ever be focused enough.

Still Relevant

_______________________

My problem is that I can’t allow myself happiness. And it’s not because there is “nothing good” in my life: there are plenty of things that I am happy about. I think I’m beginning to figure out the crux of the issue at hand: where I have minor OCD about being mindful, misunderstood, rejected, and alone. But who doesn’t? Oh, and that’s something else, too, actually: wanting to believe that I really am a unique individual and that I’m the only person in the world that thinks the the things I do which is why no one could ever understand me when the odds are everyone actually does think about the same things that I do. I’ll get back to this.

I was listening to a podcast that was talking about obsessive thoughts. It went on to discuss the case of a man they referred to as “S.” “S” was plagued by extremely violent thoughts of murdering the ones that he loved most, and he was absolutely disgusted by having these thoughts. However, he was so afraid of acting upon these thoughts that he began to physically deteriorate. He couldn’t sleep, he was losing hair. The more he tried to repress these thoughts, the worse they became. A Freudian therapist stopped returning his calls after he had 4 appointments with her. He felt like he was crazy, isolated, and irreparable.

He decided to give one more therapist a shot before he committed himself to some sort of institution. This therapist was more inclined towards a new wave of thinking. This therapist handed “S” a knife (his weapon of choice in his violent thoughts), and said to “S,” “Here, hold this up to my throat. Right on my jugular.” Crazy right?

So this story really starts about 2 months ago. I received a package sent all the way from Oakland by my dear friend Kelsey Doenges. In it was a Zine that was both perfect and imperfect. Short (20 pages), black and white, a cluster of images, text, one liners, what-have-you. It was a lot of fun to look through. An excellent, thoughtful gift on Kelsey’s part.

And that’s it.

“Cool story bro.”

Yeah, I know, but bear with me here.

As a creative person (who isn’t, honestly?) it was invigorating seeing something pieced together so haphazardly. Paging though it forced me to confront my own perfectionism and how it is more of a detractor from creating anything than a motivator. I’ve been toying around with the idea of starting a magazine for several years now. While I did create one in collaboration with some of my closest friends, I was unhappy with the final product. It wasn’t because of a lack of quality content, but more I was disappointed in myself and not adequately executing the shared vision we had for it.

So beyond that first issue, there has been nothing with the exception of the occasional “We gotta get it going again!” conversation. The idea of the effort required getting everyone together and on the same page seems overwhelming, and maybe I’m just lazy, so I’ve been figuring out how to get something off the ground where the only person I need to hold accountable for the product is myself. The problem is that I think about the product to the point that the effort seemingly required to create “perfection” becomes greater than my will’s ability to conquer it. I could have a weak will or an overactive imagination. Depending on who you ask I’m sure people will tell you both.

Hello, my name is Ian. Nice to meet you.

But even though I am able to identify (part of) the problem as I have before this, I still do nothing to pursue a solution.

To the point where I find myself *here* again. Another night of meaningless consumption: talk shows, sports, sports highlights, news, social media, video games. Constantly checking my phone, eyes and ears bleeding. Becoming numb to the same thing day-in and day-out. I’m beginning to recognize that this is the root of depression: when you willingly participate in activities again and again that you know aren’t in the least bit fulfilling. It’s easy really: sitting, doing nothing, consuming. It is much harder to face the malaise and create something out of it.

But this is where it gets a little complicated.

Putting this together is not easy for me, and sharing it is an even greater obstacle (case and point, I’ve been editing this article and sitting on it for over a month and half now). I read other people contributing to public discourse (mostly Facebook) and it’s infuriatingly oversimplified (so I think). That their ideas are either not very well thought out or they are missing something entirely (so I think). That clearly I am different. That I am unique and struggle in a way that no one else does, and that all of these tormenting emotions mean more to me than they do to other people. Hey everyone! This is my pity party! Feel sorry for me! Cue the music!

On a more serious note, you might find yourself thinking the same exact things as you read this, and I would be just as upset by you having that thought about me as you would be of me having that thought about your content. It’s reciprocal. Very meta.

And who knows, maybe I do think differently and struggle differently, but in the grand scheme of things, I don’t. I really don’t. You don’t, either, whether you (or I) are aware of it or not. And no matter how many times I tell myself this, I still don’t believe it; all of this despite knowing that if I want to connect with anyone in a more meaningful way, I need to believe in them. I need to trust them.

But this isn’t about me. Because we all need to trust each other! Have some faith! We all share the experience of the human condition. We just don’t talk about it because hyper-political, sensational social-networking/television content is the norm of water-cooler talk, not existentialism.

Is that a rabbit hole?

Whatever.

What I’m trying to get at is that I’ve finally reached the point where the consequences of doing nothing (depression, cynicism, disconnection, existential angst (oh the angst)) outweigh the consequences of saying too much (judgement of others which will occur whether I share anything or not, the pressure put upon myself to create something I’m proud of). I’ve been paralyzed by the thought of coming up with a mission statement for the past EIGHT MONTHS since I announced Luciforms as an upcoming project. I’ve been “planning” it for months, when really it’s been more or less wheels spinning.

But what I’ve been coming to realize in these months of planning is that we all have this secret that we are keeping from one another: Life is incredibly difficult/frightening. We don’t think that other people could possibly understand, which ultimately makes it taboo to talk about because then we’re “dramatic” or “weak” or “taking things too seriously.” It’s about time we start to live honestly with ourselves and those around us.

So this is the jumping off point. This is my invitation for you to take part. Read. Write. React. Photograph. Paint. Draw. Compose. Create. Share. Contribute. This is an empty vessel waiting to be filled. Whatever it is that you need to do to connect. I’m over this being perfect. This is me letting my guard down and having faith in others to join me in an earnest pursuit of answers to the big questions about life, love, happiness, fairness, meaning, motivation, what’s getting you down, and anything else that raises more questions than answers. And I know that all sounds awfully weighty.

I hope to curate content that not only attempts to provide answers to these questions, but perhaps some of the projects that will arise from this will at least bring one to attentiveness, which is a small victory for “meaning” in and of itself.

I’m not doing this for any other reason than to connect people who think alike to let them know that they are not alone.

Once the online content reaches a critical mass, I’ll piece it together and share it with the hope that others can connect and seek understanding from an imperfect world in an imperfect magazine. Because we are not alone in this. And we never are.