Friday, November 07, 2003
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Like most of the others, I was a seeker, a mover, a malcontent, and at times a stupid hell-raiser. I was never idle long enough to do much thinking, but I felt somehow that my instincts were right. I shared a vagrant optimism that some of us were making real progress, that we had taken an honest road, and that the best of us would inevitably make it over the top.
At the same time, I shared a dark suspicion that the life we were leading was a lost cause, that we were all actors, kidding ourselves along on a senseless odyssey. It was the tension between these two poles – a restless idealism on one hand and a sense of impending doom on the other – that kept me going.
- Hunter Thompson, "The Rum Diary"
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So there I was. Sitting on the edge of a line of boredom, searching for an adventure. At this point, anything would do. I had been living the past several months, more than a year, mired in my work. Work. I. Me. Mine. Work. I. Me. Mine. Work.
It all seemed to flow together. I wasn’t sad at my choice; I never once regretted the time I dedicated. I was quite proud of my work, and took great pride in what I had accomplished. Not only had I been making a good amount of money for myself, but I had helped to make things better for everyone. I went to these communities, and picked up the trash, kicked out the trash. I wasn’t necessarily the most popular person for the standards I imposed, but I could see the relief and the thanks in the faces of those whose communities I had made better. Hey, it’s a nice feeling, pride in your work, to know that you’re doing well for the world around you.
Being productive is great, and it is a most satisfying feeling. Any day I spent working hard, whether it was doing paperwork or laying concrete, I felt an immense satisfaction with myself. The satisfaction made every beer I had that night that much more satisfying. Yet, no matter how happy I could be with my work, every night when I sat in the soft light of my living room, listening to music, I felt something. A twinge, a knife in my side. The perennial pinched nerve in the neck that never allows you to relax. Indeed, what I felt in all those late nights, was the pang of discomfort, of unhappiness, of desire. I missed the life of writing & drugs & music & very little responsibility.
I am a torn creature. Most people in this world tend to be morning people. That is to say that they are at the top of their game in the morning, and wear down throughout the day. Their energy starts at a peak in the morning, and then steadily drains all day. Some people are night people, which is precisely the opposite – no energy or ability to function in the morning, but with a drive that steadily grows throughout the day until late at night, when they’re at their best.
I don’t know the actual statistics as to how many day people vs. night people are out there. I do know that the Western world is built around day people. The PMSers of the world must be day people, and if they’re not, they must convert. With a good amount of practice and patience, the Dayers out there have learned they can convert the rest of the world. As a result, you can witness the world *daying* as they age. As adolescents and early adults, most of us are inclined to sleep until midday. Early in our careers, we start to notice that we can’t help but be awake at 9 on Saturdays and Sundays. And, as it continues down to the final stages of our lives, there we are at 4am, still dark, but we’re up and ready to go. This is just another of the strange realities of our world, the why to which we’ll never know.
However, as I said, I’m a torn creature. Late at night those questions arise to which there are no answers. The satisfaction of the day’s work isn’t so beautiful in pale moonlight. Work is the drug of the day. Longing is the cancer of the night. Nothing I can have accomplished in the morning means anything if I am doing nothing at night. I have always been a beast of the night; I say this even as I witness my conversion into a productive member of society waking at decent hours. In the daytime, I am too busy working to worry about the whys. But the peskiest of the five W’s comes up with the stars, and you find yourself asking that about each of your actions. Even though you may have many solid, rational answers, the questions do not cease. Why is an infinite question. Like staring into opposite mirrors, there is never an end to the question.
And what I long for at night are adventures and stories waiting to happen. I long to live like I have before, with little worry. I know, of course, that I am working hard now so that I may do that longer and with less worry in a few years, but that hardly satisfies the desires of my youth. I want to go to Costa Rica and reside for a while, learning the culture, hitchhiking and doing those things which, as we’ve been told, have negative future consequences. I want to spend my nights in taverns and pubs in Ireland, talking about my next adventure in Kiev. But much as I am plagued by the whys for my daytime activities, the whys of these activities exist as well. To what end will I reach? I’ll get to write something nice or funny or deep about an adventure, then seek my next one. When will the deep satisfaction of relaxation ever arise, and will that ever exist for me? Is that even a good thing to have in the world? Does it seek to improve the world? Why should I be so concerned about the world and not about myself? Will those adventures help to cease my never-ending questioning nights? Wherefore art thou Romeo?
And so I found myself sitting on the edge of a line of boredom. Release is my only chance, my only way to exist at night. Drugs get you so far, but the line of boredom can go on a long way. Living is the only way to get adventures, and action is its only tool.
The line goes on. I leave every morning on the winds of hope, and come home every night, with my tail of delusion between my legs. If I work harder tomorrow, I’ll have more of a chance to ride that hope next week. I must be careful to see that next week comes up before I’m 50.
Wherefore art thou you?
Like most of the others, I was a seeker, a mover, a malcontent, and at times a stupid hell-raiser. I was never idle long enough to do much thinking, but I felt somehow that my instincts were right. I shared a vagrant optimism that some of us were making real progress, that we had taken an honest road, and that the best of us would inevitably make it over the top.
At the same time, I shared a dark suspicion that the life we were leading was a lost cause, that we were all actors, kidding ourselves along on a senseless odyssey. It was the tension between these two poles – a restless idealism on one hand and a sense of impending doom on the other – that kept me going.
- Hunter Thompson, "The Rum Diary"
************************************************************************************************
So there I was. Sitting on the edge of a line of boredom, searching for an adventure. At this point, anything would do. I had been living the past several months, more than a year, mired in my work. Work. I. Me. Mine. Work. I. Me. Mine. Work.
It all seemed to flow together. I wasn’t sad at my choice; I never once regretted the time I dedicated. I was quite proud of my work, and took great pride in what I had accomplished. Not only had I been making a good amount of money for myself, but I had helped to make things better for everyone. I went to these communities, and picked up the trash, kicked out the trash. I wasn’t necessarily the most popular person for the standards I imposed, but I could see the relief and the thanks in the faces of those whose communities I had made better. Hey, it’s a nice feeling, pride in your work, to know that you’re doing well for the world around you.
Being productive is great, and it is a most satisfying feeling. Any day I spent working hard, whether it was doing paperwork or laying concrete, I felt an immense satisfaction with myself. The satisfaction made every beer I had that night that much more satisfying. Yet, no matter how happy I could be with my work, every night when I sat in the soft light of my living room, listening to music, I felt something. A twinge, a knife in my side. The perennial pinched nerve in the neck that never allows you to relax. Indeed, what I felt in all those late nights, was the pang of discomfort, of unhappiness, of desire. I missed the life of writing & drugs & music & very little responsibility.
I am a torn creature. Most people in this world tend to be morning people. That is to say that they are at the top of their game in the morning, and wear down throughout the day. Their energy starts at a peak in the morning, and then steadily drains all day. Some people are night people, which is precisely the opposite – no energy or ability to function in the morning, but with a drive that steadily grows throughout the day until late at night, when they’re at their best.
I don’t know the actual statistics as to how many day people vs. night people are out there. I do know that the Western world is built around day people. The PMSers of the world must be day people, and if they’re not, they must convert. With a good amount of practice and patience, the Dayers out there have learned they can convert the rest of the world. As a result, you can witness the world *daying* as they age. As adolescents and early adults, most of us are inclined to sleep until midday. Early in our careers, we start to notice that we can’t help but be awake at 9 on Saturdays and Sundays. And, as it continues down to the final stages of our lives, there we are at 4am, still dark, but we’re up and ready to go. This is just another of the strange realities of our world, the why to which we’ll never know.
However, as I said, I’m a torn creature. Late at night those questions arise to which there are no answers. The satisfaction of the day’s work isn’t so beautiful in pale moonlight. Work is the drug of the day. Longing is the cancer of the night. Nothing I can have accomplished in the morning means anything if I am doing nothing at night. I have always been a beast of the night; I say this even as I witness my conversion into a productive member of society waking at decent hours. In the daytime, I am too busy working to worry about the whys. But the peskiest of the five W’s comes up with the stars, and you find yourself asking that about each of your actions. Even though you may have many solid, rational answers, the questions do not cease. Why is an infinite question. Like staring into opposite mirrors, there is never an end to the question.
And what I long for at night are adventures and stories waiting to happen. I long to live like I have before, with little worry. I know, of course, that I am working hard now so that I may do that longer and with less worry in a few years, but that hardly satisfies the desires of my youth. I want to go to Costa Rica and reside for a while, learning the culture, hitchhiking and doing those things which, as we’ve been told, have negative future consequences. I want to spend my nights in taverns and pubs in Ireland, talking about my next adventure in Kiev. But much as I am plagued by the whys for my daytime activities, the whys of these activities exist as well. To what end will I reach? I’ll get to write something nice or funny or deep about an adventure, then seek my next one. When will the deep satisfaction of relaxation ever arise, and will that ever exist for me? Is that even a good thing to have in the world? Does it seek to improve the world? Why should I be so concerned about the world and not about myself? Will those adventures help to cease my never-ending questioning nights? Wherefore art thou Romeo?
And so I found myself sitting on the edge of a line of boredom. Release is my only chance, my only way to exist at night. Drugs get you so far, but the line of boredom can go on a long way. Living is the only way to get adventures, and action is its only tool.
The line goes on. I leave every morning on the winds of hope, and come home every night, with my tail of delusion between my legs. If I work harder tomorrow, I’ll have more of a chance to ride that hope next week. I must be careful to see that next week comes up before I’m 50.
Wherefore art thou you?
