Driving Drunks

I’m trying to write like nobody is watching. Truth of the matter is, that no one IS watching, except me (unfortunately I’m a huge critic of every word that stares back from this screen). But shucks, here we go.

I just finished Elizabeth Gilbert’s Big Magic. All about creativity, heavily focused on writing (which I love dearly), though I tried to morph everything as if she was talking to me about Choice. She wasn’t. But let’s pretend.

Instead of talking about the he, said, she said (let’s be straight she said it, and someone likely said it before her), let’s just talk about it. The thing that was said, those multiple things. Fucking anything to get me to transform my relationship with Choice. ANYTHING.

The amount of times I said it’s my baby, and the amount of times other people said, it’s your baby, are innumerable. Then this concept visited me, from a book that I read… It is not my baby, I am it’s baby. Sure, I birthed it into existence one day, a couple of years ago, by some transcendental procedure. Now, I’ve related to it as if I made this thing up, because I was a fucking rock star genius at 23 that somehow recognized that something was missing, and how did none of these pros see if for themselves? Seriously, that’s how I’ve been relating to it. Which also explains why I refuse to let go of it until I get something big back in return. For this this thing, that I made up, and made happen.

But let’s get back to the transcendental procedure. What if, I didn’t actually make it up. Not in the sense that I’m some asshole that stole it and claimed it as mine (though I have been doing that second part all along), but what if the idea was out there and I merely picked it up? It was floating through the universe, it made it’s way to Earth, it disguised itself as a drunk who was barely able to cross the street, and I, driving by, didn’t think I’d be able to sleep that night not knowing if he made it. So I pulled a u-ey, asked if I could help him out, and before you know it he’s in my car and I’m putting on HIS seat belt.

What if it went something like that?

Let’s go over how that night ended. So he gets in my car, I put on his seat belt, and I ask him where he lives. Now, my phone is almost dead, he gives me an address that is nowhere near where we are, but he claims he lives nearby. I tell myself I put the address in wrong, and I follow his pointing hand. Straight, right, straight. All the while we make small talk. The smallest of the small talk. He’s drunk and actually doesn’t know where he lives at this point. So I go on following directions, only to catch on that we are getting no where fast. He has no idea where he lives, I have a phone with one percent battery, and at this point I’m actually scared.

I turn around, tell him I’m taking him to the gym (because, every time something is wrong I end up there anyway) and that it’s open 24/7 (things can go wrong at any point in the day and night) so he can use their phone. He’s totally cool with it…until we get to the gym. He gets out of my car, and starts yelling at me for taking him there. “You’ve done a bad thing!” he yells. But I do what I have to do to make it home that night whilst knowing this man has access to a phone, a drinking fountain, and a toilet if he needs it.

I drive off, and for the sake of sleep, which I love, I imagine he eventually made it home, but we can’t be sure.

So, let’s say Choice was something like that, though, I’m not very fond of the ending. Let’s say Choice, or this idea of unity, was simply looking for a ride. A vehicle tough enough to make it through a very bumpy ride. And there I was, driving by in my Toyota Corolla (I understand this doesn’t fit the desired description), and this idea eye balled me, was about to look onward, but happened to look down and see that I had just slapped on a fresh pair of winter tires and was cruising through the snow completely unfazed. So it jumped in, and past the initial shock, I was good to keep driving.

And I did.

Now, I haven’t always been great at directions so, we made some wrong turns. And the thing about this passenger is, is that he wasn’t a lone drunk man, he was actually accompanied by others. Well, he wasn’t but as we kept driving he kept telling me to pick the others up and we ended up renting a van. So as I made wrong turns, everyone was watching, but faithful as they were, they stayed along for the ride. Now it’s important to note, that past that initial pick-up, and vehicle change, I wasn’t even the one holding the wheel. I was the shot gun passenger holding a map (likely upside down).

Which brings me here. As much as I initially developed Choice, it has been developing me even more. I have been its baby more than it has been mine, and I hate to admit it, but I think I’ve hit the teenage years where I fucking hate my parents and I can’t wait to get out of this house (car).

Even in this writing, right here, is where I want to quit. I’m so, so over it. I’m over being tested, I’m over being unhappy, I’m over being stressed, I’m over identifying with it (but holy shit what do I have if it goes?!!), I’m over, EVERYTHING. But over it as I am, I have yet to let go.

I’ve done this before, I’ve written about Choice to transform my relationship to it. “Creating Passion on the Spot.” I wrote that piece to remind myself why I started it and why I have to keep moving forward. And it was ridiculously significant, like super significant, and heavy. I basically ended that piece with a do or die, if I didn’t keep moving it forward, people would literally die. And for some time, that heaviness, and significance, did the trick.

But now that heaviness and significance is nothing but a wall to our success. Like one of those big walls, that I’m scared to shake because it may just crush the entire van. And I apologize guys, I built it myself…

So how about, a new approach? A light approach, which is unlike anything I’ve ever done. In fact, I don’t even know if I’m capable but this shit just isn’t working anymore…

What if Choice is a game. The phone calls I’ve been avoiding, are all just a part of the game. And every phone call, really, really matters, while simultaneously, doesn’t matter at all. The only important thing, is that the phone call happens, because all we need is motion, any motion at this point, though preferably forward.

I think Choice has led me in the right direction when it comes to my life. I think it brought out in me some suppressed desires and creative pursuits that were stagnant and dying; mainly speaking and writing. Choice had me knock on the Devil’s door and ask him to bring forth my fears. And how alive I felt then, and how stuck I feel now. Wallowing in significance, and darkness.

What would it look like if it were light again? Not a baby that became a burden, but a passenger that showed up for purpose, for amusement, for jokes, and consequently some other cool shit that allows us to say we made a difference?

Maybe then I could finally let it go, because maybe then I could finally get it to a state where it’s let-goable, or at the very least, fun to play with. And sometimes it might not work to make it light, sometimes it might be more useful again to make it dark and heavy. Maybe it’s not one or the other, but a play between the two.

You know. A game.

It’s all just a fucking game.

And maybe it’s just way better that way.