Every Speed On Our Knees Is Crawling
It's coming on the turn of the year, a time to draw up to my full height and survey the scene. I've been going around and seeing people I've not seen in a while, which has revealed that I really don't have a good 30-second explanation for myself these days -- you know, the kind of quick encapsulated "elevator pitch" of what's new and exciting in your life. It's not a particularly great or important thing to have in the can or spring on lots of people, but it's usually something I've got down pat, and the absence of this trusty bit of performance is indicative, I think, of the larger ennui with which I grapple.
Intention is a tricky bitch. It's hard line to walk between trying to force yourself upon the world and taking a back-seat role in your own life. One wants to be an active participant, to listen and respond in conversation with the universe, but at some point you've got to pull the trigger; and it sucks being wrong, to gamble and lose. It burns rare and precious soulful fuel taking these shots, runs down some energy reserve that seems to take an aeon to recharge.
I haven't done too well with decisions over the past four years. Most of the big things I've set myself towards doing intentionally -- personally, professionally, creatively -- have ended up going bust. In spite of this, or probably because i've had the good fortune to have so many fine at-bats, I've landed amazingly well: poised on the brink of a the best jobby-job ever; living the neobohemian dream; penetrating the global power-elite seemingly without even trying.
It's an old story. "...And I stumbled to safety" was designated the title of my autobiography years ago.
So I don't lament my lot in life. I am lucky and blessed beyond knowing, and everyone seems convinced that I'm bound for some sort of glory or another, an opinion I don't necessarily dispute even if it can get to be a bit of a weight to carry at times.
However, I do lament this lack of direction, and I lament a shortage of the aforementioned soulful fuel. Life feels becalmed, which is a naval term used to describe a vessel adrift due to a lack of wind, and it's not at all relaxing.
It's this feeling I think, that's driving my discontent, this sweaty-palmed shifty-eyed lust that's bubbling up, this sense of struggle with worky projects, the tick-tick clock in my head tightening the vice for various life choices. It's a jittery place to be. Make something happen, Koenig!
On the personal front, if I'm going off the notion of cycles, this nervy horniness combined with lovelorn sighs leading to staunch resolutions should be followed by some kind of relaxation or release, and then maybe some actual movement. Hang on tightly, let go lightly. At least, that's what its been like in years past.
The difference now is age and experience, and this accursed lack of wind. I don't know what metaphor is right: a spell of bad weather (external factors) or a run-down battery (internal), but I worry that the water table is dropping either way. How many more times can I return to the well?
This little Los Angeles visit has been good though. It's reminded me of my ambitions. Entropy is only a problem in a closed system; there is a dynamo inside of every heart.
And even though it feels that way, it probably wouldn't help much to have a girlfriend, or a big project, or a crazy production. It might be nice to have more people to talk to, but things are tough all over. The crisis of meaning doesn't ever get solved. Really it's only a matter of time until this passes, until the pendulum swings.
Indeed when I lick my finger and put it to the air, there's every now and then a flutter. Momentum is afoot...