The Chosen One must speak on this,

We’ve all been going about this all wrong.

There is no such thing as The Great American Novel. No one has achieved riches from one idea. We – you, I, your friends, and everyone around you – have been going about this all wrong.

Myself and Q, we discovered this Great Truth whilst discussing the future of our lives: It’s not about the destination, but our focus ON it. So many of us, myself included, assume that, with one brilliant idea, with one unique talent, can achieve fame and fortune; that we can give up our nine-to-five lives and lounge upon waters of lenient indolence, if only we could write that one great novel; IF ONLY we could create that one amazing film.

To quote Tyler Durden, we’ve been raised to believe that one day we’ll all become Rock Gods and Movie Stars, but that’s IF ONLY we create that ONE GREAT SONG; if only we could BLANK that one BLANK BLANK.

But we won’t, will we? We’ll never be able to achieve emancipation from daily lives; we’ll never be idolized through marble statues or given granite stars. You and I, like our fathers and our father’s fathers, will simply whither and die in shadowed-obscurity.

I discussed this in great length with a very good friend of mine, whilst bemoaning the state of our lives. It was discovered, through great debating, that it was not WE who were to blame, but how we FOCUSED ourselves. Like so many billions of individuals, we sought out RICHES and FAME, refusing to consider the WORK and SACRIFICE required for achieving those ends. We never once figured in FAILURE; we never asked ourselves if what we were doing was worth no one caring for; we never asked if we would continue sacrificing our free-time, our sleep, our SANITY, to achieve.

Everyone wants to be rich; everyone wants to be famous; very few of us want to WORK.

But therein lay the rub: To be rich and famous, you have to WORK for it; to be successful, you have to give more effort than you EVER could to just survive.

Every day, you are bestowed twenty-four hours; every week, you are gifted one hundred sixty-eight hours. Still, the majority of us will only spend forty ours of those weeks working and fifty-six of them sleeping; the rest of those hours will be spent in front of the television or accomplishing menial tasks. No one, not a one of us, will be willing to sacrifice that last forty-two hours we are provided towards achieving ANY of our goals, no matter how menial OR lofty they may be.

This is, and even *I* am willing to admit this right-out, because we are too focused on the DESTINATION and NOT the journey.

We all want to be Rock Stars, but how many of us are willing to put forth the HOURS of practice required to master an instrument; how many of us are able to compose a song or devote any of our ever-so-valued free-time towards finding a band to join or exposing ourselves to an audience-at-large, without considering the POSSIBILITY that no one would ever care to listen to us? How many of us would-be-writers will *ever* devote ourselves to putting down our sewing needles and putting our calloused fingers to the keyboard; how many would put our thoughts onto paper and type them out and not CARE if anyone else liked what we wrote?

How often do we hear the successful complain about what they do? How many of the Starving Artists go to work smiling along the way? Who is the more successful: The person who hates what they’re good at, or he who is terrible at what he loves?

Not all of us are made to be writers, despite how EASY it may look; only a few of us can be movie stars, regardless of the glamour they produce. This is because, and I say this with a heavy heart, that it takes more WORK to become RICH and FAMOUS than it does to be MEDIOCRE and UNKNOWN.

But therein lay the rub: We ALL own stories that, we feel, are worth telling; we ALL have something we LOVE to do, with our talents being incidental in the overall scheme. The difference between we who WANT to do them and those who are SUCCESSFUL is that THEY do it REGARDLESS of whether they will become rich and/or successful for it. Those who are most joyous do what they do BECAUSE they enjoy DOING it and NOT because they stand to gain FAME or RICHES from it. For the creators of Penny Arcade and for writers like Steven Spielberg, they became successful AFTER THE FACT; they achieved success REGARDLESS of their goals. Spielberg’s goal was not opulence, but to get his work PUBLISHED; success, overall, was a side-effect of his novels being well-written and excellently-executed. J.K. Rowling wrote “Harry Potter” NOT to be famous, but because, she felt, her story NEEDED to be wrote; the success and fortunes PROCEEDED from the excellence of her writing style.

I wonder, though, out of those few who grace our newspapers and adorn our bookshelves, how many more did NOT get published; or, better still, DID get published but did NOT find success? Would you consider them failures? Or, having actually BEEN published, or having been rejected but still gone as far as to COMPLETE a whole novel, are they still more successful than ANY of us could EVER hope to be?

So I ask: If you knew, with certainty, that you would never become rich or famous, DESPITE how much you wrote or WHAT you filmed, or even how WELL you acted, would you still attempt to write “the Great American Novel” or audition for “that Amazing Stand-Out Role”? Would you try to invent that fantastic device, which you KNOW will improve the lives of all Mankind, if you KNEW that it would NEVER make you Rich or Famous?

Fools; you are all fools, for you number yourselves among those Selfishly-Wicked, who expect fortune with Minimal Effort. Glory to those who write because they LOVE writing; blessed be the inventor who builds The Great Device NOT because he demands a parade or a mansion, but because he feels it NEEDS to be done.

Do it, not because it’ll make you successful; do it to DO it. Write because you love to WRITE; build because you love to BUILD. If you are GOOD ENOUGH, fame and fortune will FIND you; if you are terrible at what you do then you are always able to return to your Day Jobs with the knowledge that you did that which you enjoyed doing, regardless of what the hecklers screamed.

In this world gone upside-down, simply ACCOMPLISHING something is worth note; SUCCEEDING at it is an exception that should be accepted graciously but NEVER demanded. If you want do be successful or rich, you must first be willing to accept – with full KNOWLEDGE of the consequences therein – that you will never be Rich or Famous; that women will NOT crawl to your feet, nor will awards be given from up on high. You must first find JOY in what you DO long before you can discover SUCCESS in the doing of it.

Success is never guaranteed, but love of what you do is, provided it is something which you enjoy doing. Don’t write to be famous, but, instead, write because you LIKE writing; act, because you LOVE acting; and, if you’re good enough at any of these, someone will come along and pay you to do what you were initially doing for free If, though, however, no fame or success comes from it, you should do it because you LOVE to do it, and not for anything else.

Fame and wealth shall come AFTER; until then, do what you WANT to do DESPITE the fact that you will not find success, as you will finally find something that you enjoy.

I implore you to share this philosophy with all those you know, and those you don't, so that, finally, those naive few who expect to become the next James Dean or Stephen King will now how best to adjust their focus for maximum enjoyment and minimal dejection.

For the rest of you, I wish you God's Speed on your journey. Even if you never find Wealth, may you be burdened with a surplus of Happiness.

The Chosen One has spoken. Heed and obey.

The Chosen One must speak on this,

I've never believed in Fate. Destiny is the illusion of Retrospect: The trick of looking at things as they are now, and, through hind-site, experiencing the events as a preplanned narrative; forgetting the paths we could have taken and the choices we decided against.

The things we do set-up the changes we will experience down the line; the Outcome is determined not by Divinity, but by Decisions. If you push one domino against another, in all likelihood it will cause the entire line to fall. But there is nothing that says that you *have* to knock them over; there is nothing that says you can’t stop the chain of Effect.

The dominoes fall because of a conscious decision to push them and the resulting outcome of collapse, and not because they were destined to do so.

But face it: dominoes are no fun if left to gather dust. While there is always a choice, some choices are just more fun than others.

All you need is one little push . . .

And everything starts falling into place.

The Chosen One has spoken. Heed and obey.

The Chosen One must speak on this,

If not for the situation behind the Situation, I wouldn’t be so upside-down. But when you waste half a day, waiting in line for new identification, only to get a call from your supervisor fifteen seconds before your turn is a fantastic indication of a terrible situation.

Ominous waves cascaded over me the instant I walked into the building. His office looked like something out of The Sting, with desks cobbled together with balsa and the carpets freshly stripped. It was Fannie Mae, right until the bailout check cleared. I felt like I should have brought a case of money and a safe place to stash The Goods, instead of . . . well, cupcakes, I guess. Or booze. Cupcakes and/or booze. “If you’re going to go out, go out right.”

Turns out, all the haggling and snaggling to get me into this position Right Away, was for naught: the heads of the contract, the Parent Company, had altered the Scenario. All the requirements that I had met previously were no longer the requirements, and all the skills and abilities I had honed were no longer sufficient for what could and would be considered a mindless Monkey Job.

He offered only scare eye-contact and only the barest of improvised lip service. I knew I was being lied to, at a base level. It wasn’t that I wasn’t qualified. It was that the Parent Company, the Great Contract Owners, had a straggler or two left over. And, with no place to seat them, they decided to throw me under the bus. After all, I hadn’t even been with them for two hours. Where was the harm?

So there I was, out in the cold without so much as a loincloth for protection. I should have been incensed. I would have been, too, had the same maneuver been pulled by *my* company several months earlier, for *my* benefit. But that’s what you get when you’ve situated yourself as a cog in the Military Fascist Device: In the jungle of Military Contracts, it’s every man for himself.

It's been a fancy ride up until now: Smells and sights and the occasional color. I’m unemployed now; unemployed, hopefully, for the time being. I had a job for almost two hours, if it's anything (which, incidentally, it's not). Now I have all the time to accomplish all the nothings I'd been missing these past two years.

Unfortunately, my budget no longer provides me a buffer for the slacking I'd really like to do. A long-planned Florida vacation bled me nearly-clean. Living beyond my means, assuming that I'd have the means to live when I returned, is the first and worst way to die. Nothing is guaranteed, not even a Guarantee. Mussolini taught us that, right before Patton drove into his palace, offering free colonoscopies. Sometimes you have to relearn the Hard Lessons the Hard Way, all over again.

Riding the pendulum all the way around, but, for some reason, my Spider Senses are quiet. Like none of this is happening; like I'm not even here. It's possible that the Cosmic Me knows something that I don't. It's a greater likelihood that it hasn't sunk in.

Then again, I've been nose-deep in five kinds of sugar. Baking is my Zen Garden. Nothing relaxes me like baking. Cookies. Cakes. Nuns. Politicians. If it can go in an oven, I can make it; and if I can’t make it, I can ruin it in a brilliant and unrecognizable fashion. When you’re buried inside a Box of Calm, there’re very few items than can break through. Possible eviction? Destitution? Resorting to prostitution to make ends’ meat? These are not among those. Don’t even register. Not even a dent.

The tunnel has a light at the end of it, if it’s any consolation. I’m meeting a job contact for coffee and conversation in the Too Early of tomorrow. It’s a candle, but it’s a light. All it needs is a little gasoline and a gentle breeze.

Coffee and cigarettes and mild delusions: Thursdays have a subconscious appeal in this sense. If not, well, I guess I’ll have enough time to finish those cannolis.

Thursday will tell.

The Chosen One has spoken. Heed and obey.

The Chosen One must speak on this,

Ti~~~~~red.

Sleep-depravation. Mental faculties taxed. Weary. Too much on my mind. Too many thoughts clamoring at once – choking the synaptic pathways. Am I finding all the wrong “Whys,” or am I asking all the wrong questions?

Bed – mm, so cozy. No sleep for the wicked, though. It’s the march into May for me, and I’ve miles to go before I sleep. So I’ll endlessly stream my consciousness until I get to where I need to be.

I’ll close my eyes for another minute: There, I see a smile. The smile warms me; the smile cures. A Cheshire Cat grin with a Madame Curie glow. It’s warm under the blankets; cozy behind the eyelids. So hard to let them go. So hard to leave that smile.

Rain gathers and readies itself for the fall. I rise and ready myself for the drive.

It’s going to be another Thursday.

. . . Aw, fuck it! [smashes alarm clock and goes back to sleep]


* * * * *


It's when you can't have something that you *re~~ally* want it.

Right now I'd murder a small bus load of clowns for a cigarette. But I can't, because this damndable canker sore hurts like S&M and smoking will only exacerbate it (that and a few other reasons pertaining to exercising and gasping like a beached trout when I'm doing it). Which is tragic, because the nicotine numbs the pain.

Short-term misery versus long-term relief.

I think I'll get a drink instead.


* * * * *


I've been obsessing about a few things these past couple days. Well, really just one or two things, but they seem fairly obsessable. Thing is, I hate obsessing. Obsession leads to exaggerating the situation, which prompts desperation, and ends with exhasperation followed closely by excommunication. I tred a tricky track. Must not let go to the railing of common sense.

All will work out in the end. Whether or not they work out like I'd want them to is another matter, which requires vigilance and visualization. I remain hopeful -- I haven't been given much to worry over yet.

[raises drink] Here's hoping for the Best-Case Scenario. If not that, then at least the Best-for-Me Results.

The Chosen One has spoken. Heed and obey.

The Chosen One must speak on this,

You’ll never guess who got back in touch with me?

That’s right. The Hurricane herself! After a two year hiatus abroad, ravaging coastlines unseen, she’s swept back into my Doppler Field – no alarm, no warning, not even so much as a darkening of the clouds – with a bit of her wind taken out of her blow but still no less frothing. Could it be that she’s been downgraded to Tropical Storm? Or is there more to her than meets the eye? What dark motives does she have? What secrets does she hide? And who is that intimidating midget lurking in the shadows? Tune in next week for the next exciting episode of Atomic Ex-Girlfriends from Behind the Iron Curtain!

Is it a trend? I think this could be a trend. This is becoming a trend. No, scratch all that, this is a trend. A trend, a pattern; clues at the scene of a soon-to-be crime. Ever since Redhead McCrazyton moved away, I’ve been tossed into Plot Twist after soap opera-ish Plot Twist. Twosomes; threesomes; eightsomes; a Noah’s Ark of womanly degenerate possibilities. And NOW! . . . This makes the THIRD ex-girl who has wafted back into my life in as many days! Seriously, it’s some kind of wave! “Dear Penthouse, I thought these things only happened in magazines, but never did I think it’d happen to me” scenarios dance in my head. Oh, it’s almost too much for one libido to handle – I may need to outsource this to some Asian lesbians.

Of course, I’m exaggerating the whole situation. Proportions are being blown left and right. For all I know, she could be IMing me out of some bizarre sense of priority. Unfinished Business, if you may. (Thankfully, the other Sequels have been . . . well, I don’t know about the rest of the audience, but *I’m* certainly enjoying these rethreading of old stories (provided, of course, they have better endings this time around. But I digress.))

Still, I’m reminded of an old proverb: “You can't do anything to make her want to come back. But somehow they know not to come back until you really forget. That is the rub.” She was the one who *really* hurt. She was my Charlie Nicholes (see “High Fidelity” for reference). When she left, I would’ve bitch-slapped the Pope (John Paul, not Captain Nazi-Pope) to get her back. I got over that, eventually. Then, eventually, I forgot why I wanted her back to begin with. Then, I forgot her, period.

And she knew to come back.

If the past is prologue, then I wonder what story these events are setting me up for.

Grab some popcorn and hurry on back. You’ll miss the best part.

The Chosen One has spoken. Heed and obey.