Libra Season, For No Good Reason

I didn’t plan on letting this takebucket go dark as long as it has. I have the time to write. I have plenty of pop culture artifacts at my disposal to blab about. I could always embellish a extemporaneous twitter thread or update something I wrote ages ago. I’ve got a backlog of playlists and checklists I could annotate. There’s no reason I shouldn’t be pumping out posts once a week at the very minimum. No good reason, at least.

Except I didn’t. Essays were started but never finished. Spontaneous blurts went unrevised. Hours flew by, that “one solid half-hour of writing” I promised myself never arriving. No “good” reason for it. No reason my super-ego has any respect for. The super-ego: the part of my brain that keeps me high-functioning, but always thinks I could be higher-functioning.

It’s a rough fall. Some ugly anniversaries came around (including my birthday!), where I find myself still left to deal with the discrepancies between peoples’ kind words and cruel actions. Anniversaries of moments that led me to discover I’m not just “anxious” but an “anxious codependent.” In part, that's someone who has a hard time getting past themselves if it doesn’t overtly benefit others. The laundry gets done. The place gets cleaned, at least in time for my kid to have the comforting home he deserves. If it was situationally logical for me to get a job (like, if I didn’t have spousal support or if preschool couldn’t be replaced by two weeks quarantine at the drop of a thermometer), I’d find one and do it. I’m reliable, considerate and responsible. But writing? For myself? If the self-amusement isn’t strong enough, or the self-exasperation not extreme enough, it’s more likely I’ll just crash on the couch, alternating between sleep, self-reproach, meals (put off, then too big) and the occasional rush of an online game or a social media scroll.

It’s not as bad as it used to be, at least according to that super-ego. Once, I used to sleep on broken hide-a-bed couch with my legs over the side, letting 2 liter soda bottles collect into pyramids. I’ve done enough cognitive behavioral therapy to know when a shower or a walk or 15 minutes with Insight Timer is overdue. I know to break down larger tasks into smaller ones. I know I shouldn’t beat myself up. I know pandemic life is making everything more purgatorial than it would feel otherwise. I know my job right now is to be a good Dad and stay zen. I know that sometimes getting through the day is enough. I know, I know, I know.

But, again, it’s rough. Along with those anniversaries have been new intersocial disappointments, different but no less heartbreaking. A youthful determination to stick with a dysfunctional relationship can evolve into a wisened determination to avoid one. Even if two people are aware of their demons, and determined to treat each other with respect, that doesn’t mean they're what the other needs, or even willing to risk finding out. Sometimes all you can give each other is the assurance of worth and the closure you deserve and didn’t get from others. You can walk away with knowledge that there are people out there like you, doing their best to be kind and not pay the pain forward. It’s as mature as a depressing, isolating experience can be.

On the lighter side, Midnight Mass was a disappointment too. Crossing my fingers Mike Flanagan will regain his taste for masterfully edited horror sequences, and never again let a show - not just a movie, a limited series more than seven hours long! - spend more time with two people on the couch discussing the afterlife than with the good kind of scary. Revisiting Beats, Rhymes & Life confirmed its status as one of my favorite music documentaries ever, perfect for audiences both familiar with A Tribe Called Quest and not. The structure is straightforward and informative, but vibrant with detail and direct quotes, capturing both the excitement of their innovation and the charisma of the performers. I don’t know how the fuck Michael Rappaport of all people managed to provide such a selfless service to the planet, but I’m grateful. In a better state of mind, I could have written long posts about both, complete with fun screen-caps. Hell, here’s the twitter threads where I did! And here’s one about the breathtakingly half-assed Halloween Kills! Here’s hoping I’ll remember to “save it for the blog” next time, and stop giving Team Dorsey my best zings for free.

My goal writing this all out is to clear the deck and move on. I’m trying to acknowledge where I’m at and convey that experience, rather than just working the blurb muscle irrespective of enthusiasm and inspiration. After all, I’m not getting paid! Might as well do it for truth if not beauty, then, right? Radical subjectivity, that's where it's at.

I think I'm ready to write something really slight and silly by next week, if not earlier. And this mea sulka will let me post that whimsy without thinking I’m hiding what a relative sadsack I’ve been of late. In other words, Libra season 2021…three stars. Not without its rewards but clunky, scattershot and hopefully transitional.