I’ve fucked up. Profoundly. Repeatedly. Obstinately. Diana Coman graciously deigned to help me, and I did… nothing. No – perhaps worse than nothing – a blink of activity, followed by a return to hibernation. I can no longer even pretend to be unaware of my failings: they were quickly exposed, and I quickly returned to their sclerotic comfort.
As is my habit, I waited until crisis to do anything. My last published article is dated June 12; I then reappeared 20 minutes after closing. What did I do in that 3-month interval? A whole load of idle, aimless leisure.
Diana asked what I got out of Young Hands; it’s more than just a highlighting of my weak-willed laziness. I’ve gained an appreciation for the importance of blogging; the fact that there’s no meaning outside of a structure of authority (and meaningless existence ain’t a lotta fun), and that I have a retarded mental model when it comes to work – despite having breifly experienced the satisfaction of productivity, and the strangely liberating sensation of a heavy workload and something important to prioritise over vacuous frivolity.
I’ve also had my habit of settling for good-not-great pointed out. I’ve not strived for excellence in poker, or anything else, for that matter; and when confronted with this reality, my reaction has been to give up, not work harder.
I don’t know what I want. I do know I don’t want what I’ve been doing – or rather not doing – the last couple of months; to wit – nothing. I am what I do, which means I’ve been a sort of ghost over the last quarter; let’s see if I can become a person.