Tag: journal

I fear that I might have convinced myself of my own stupidity.

In the years following a formal education, I developed a self-deprecative streak that locked me into routine revelry and an insatiable need to achieve laughs and dazzlement through anything but my own intelligence. Granted, the path to get to some of those laughs took some clever leaps and bounds — self-deprecation runs deep.

Any type of screw-up, minuscule to moderate to historical, the explanation was likely punctuated by, “because I’m such a dumb-[whatever expletive],” to perhaps incite giggles among a by-standing coworker. Sprees of talking to myself during ‘side-work’ yielded whispered jabs at my own IQ for no presentable reason. Sometimes those cracked me up.

Short story long enough, this continued array of life’s miserable-isms, light-hearted self-loathing, and empty ribbings apparently snuck into my conscious mind. Now I think I’m, like, actually dumb. Or stupid. Whichever is the less permanent one.

When it comes to book smarts versus street smarts, I am the former. Which means I can slurp up a ton of information, in a short time and spit it all back out at you in the proper locations and order. It might also be accurate that I take up large hunks of my head with this material and quickly empty them to make space for the next batch of information (whether relevant or trivial).

This almost seems counter productive, because slowly I found that book smarts only bangs on paper. Otherwise, common-sense people take the reins of life, quit schools and systems, whatever else, and they succeed. I, on the other hand, got confused as to why I wasn’t getting all the accolades and job offers in the world and got jaded and pissed off like a petulant brat.

I packed in my absorb-deploy ability for information and swapped for in-and-out abilities with drugs and alcohol. I wasn’t cramming anything for out-dated standardized tests, job-applications, whatever the rest of you were doing while I was ‘out.’

I was ineffectually flattening out the crumpled files of my mind, trying to impress deaf ears.

I still read somewhat, and I was passionate about the lyrics of good songwriters just enough to mash together their thoughtfulness into my own poetic nonsense. I’d like to say I maintain a convincing cadence, complete with affirming head nods and eye contact that any half-tossed fellow like me could associate with and trust enough to laugh along with.

I placed these insipid conjugational craft-cocktails above all else — from good arguments to gripping stories to cascading embellishments. And my accomplices in life did the same right back. What the hell did we ever talk about most the time? No idea.

Not to say that all of it was for nil, of course.

Repeats occurred that could be manipulated for sport–in favor of a different, meaningless result. I mean, for real: tell me you haven’t stolen the spotlight upon noticing someone else was about to tell a rerun at least once in your lifetime. No?

How about jokes? You never stepped on someone’s punchline knowingly just to nullify your homie’s thunder. God bless your friendship if it’s still a no.

Anyway, the boozy back-and-forths soared deftly into my ego — or clumsily over my head in those unmemorable evenings and mornings. I was floating in my own thoughts, paying attention occasionally only to land a ‘good one’ because I was ‘smart’ and ‘brilliant’ to everyone. That narcissism was always, is always and will always there for you. IYKYK.

So it’s strange now, that this weight has revealed itself to me. Weight pun here for you: that time made me dense in the fog of this hefty, revelrous era. I think [do I though?] I halted any higher creative or logical functioning in my fried little brains just long enough to fulfill the colloquialism: If you don’t use it, you lose it.

And all this in a time where — ironically — my only ambition was using.

Though I’ve chewed chin at a championship level throughout the years. I’ve pantomimed intellect and forgotten many a debate topic simultaneously. I know this because a whiskey, amphetamine-rasped drawl loves capturing an unwitting audience. Even the witting ones are doomed.

But, now: I’m in recovery. Which means rebooting my thoughts and having a punishingly clear awareness of my slumbering potential, similarly soaked in flop sweat on a couch we’re both not paying rent for.

Easily, I might let that self-pity paralyze me but it’s nothing different than my stagnancy in the face of any challenge. I could misread this lack of growth as if it were showing me I had peaked in this realm and ought to stay here forever. Settle down, get a divorce. Or don’t. Have a kid. Or Don’t. Start drinking again. Or don’t.

Pretty simple I suppose, sacrifice potential for simplicity and security.

Of course I’m not choosing that. Those occasional tales where a person lives in a wet, devil-may-care way for eras [plural] of their life and get it together. I’m sobering the-fuck-up, ’cause I want to do more cool shit.

I’m addressing that I feel dumb at this juncture, that I’m not stuck an ignoramus. I’m making a last minute attempt to kickstart my cognition.

I imagine there’s plenty of empty lots with potholes to be filled. Might need to hire some crossing guards to help new ideas along to class. I’ll run my highlight reel during recess like a scared-straight program in in case any rowdy ideas start fucking up in my figurative public school system.

…If only I kept track of how many folks told me I was smart while stumbling in the throes of a bender, another lost job, a neglect for a significant other, etc. — I might not even feel so self-deprecative toward myself. Maybe I’d actually believe how brilliant they said I was. Not that their opinions are harder evidence than my own; compliment’s a compliment.

It soothes this thought somewhat: that half of me was ever there, when it comes down to it. Potentially, and I mean potentially, I can restore myself to near perfect capacities, just in time to pretend I was just messing around back there.

As 2022 rolled in — among other changes — I began to treat every day like I have to understand something for a class, or as if work requires it [they currently don’t, just to be clear]. I now occasionally pretend my brain still requires that daily fix –but of a more wholesome variety.

I decided to pump an inhumane amount of this healthy behavior into myself all at once — you know, to make up for all the lost time. This was where I fucked up a little bit.

You know, I really do love me some excess.

Reading multiple books at once, taking copious notes and essentially trying to accomplish way too much had me short-circuiting. It’s as if the books are going to up and run out on me, every stack of them on my dresser, the coffee table, the floor.

Last week I overwhelmed myself adding an old, out-of-print book of my mother’s called Become A Writer to my stockpile. After I tossed it onto the stack, I ran my hands through my hair, like: I don’t have fucking time to learn how to write.

I enjoy rereading thoughts like in that previous sentence. I find a sort of backwards solace in how easily I rile myself up. It’s end times all the time.

Despite of my insane diligence, Googling every sexy word [proof: salacious, elucidated, mercurial… oooh wee] regardless of necessity or context yanks me back from the big picture most of the time. So, unless my subconscious is digesting the info while I sleep, it’s highly probable that my retention volume is taking a loss.

My father jabbed me, asking, where the fuck was this in college?

Again, the archaic educational system was set up for people like me to conquer without much regard. Load me up and dump me out. Don’t care how suggestive that phrasing is — and I’m not trying to brag, I just have test-taking brain.

What’s that translate to in life, really?

What my Dad was razzing me for is the ensuing lack of intrigue or initiative in nearly everything that happens after achieving that degree. Once again, all I had going for me out that gate was predominately absorption.

In the back of my journals, I have this sloppily etched dictionary of those words I find poetic or intelligent, like the lurid ones I mentioned some hundred words ago. I imagine lyrics and future conversations might either enhance or suffer due to my newly discovered eloquence.

If this is how those writers’ favorite writers write, then of course I must look ’em up, learn ’em and rocket them into the ether at will. That way the next reader won’t know what I’m talking about, just like the tradition established by my heroes before me!

But honestly, what do I really look like when I brandish words such as picayune (worthless) or lolloping (clumsy, ungainly series of paces or bounds) or supercilious (behaving of looking as though one thinks the are superior to others)?

Writers’ favorite writers’ works appear to be loaded with such verbiage. They seem so cool and heady when they use them, those writers do. So how could I not mistype new collections of characters into my Chrome browser every six sentences throughout a passage. Just for the ephemeral bliss of being as brilliant as a ‘confirmed’ brilliant scribbler may be.

I can binge and purge information when that information had a planned destination. I’m addicted to repeated formulas, to obtaining more of the same thing all the time, to loading journals past their brim with Pilot G2 0.7mm ink, and so on.

It’s this fiendish behavior that I’ve hit a new interesting vein in my recovery:

Instead of five thousand push-ups a day or baking intricate pastries or building birdhouses, I might have replaced my insatiable need for my drug of choice with information (relevant, or otherwise).

Perhaps this is utterly useless. It’s just another ritual. But that doesn’t mean I can’t make some internal progress with these adorably trivial tidbits and alliteration that really gets me going. It is extremely likely that this (re)starting point yields more comprehensive ways to consume information and apply it when the time proves opportune.

A helpful essay on how to be a knowledge-sponge may emerge. Probably not, because I’m not confirmed brilliant. I’m just working on that self-deprecation and becoming aware of my adult-onset stupidity.

I’ll continue to pour things into my head [phrasing], in hopes that it flexes my the right muscles. It’s possible I’ll still have no idea what to tell you if you ask what I’m reading about. Whatever. All I know is it’s hilarious and great and you had to be there.

I imagine by some sort of divine chemical reaction, more content is retained than I’m even able to take inventory of. It’s just enough to drop a timely line [phrasing again] and feel the rush of being clever with witnesses.

If you read this far, we have a shared hobby or two,

so here’s to figuring it out as we go.

xx,

Lou