June 8, 1999. Tuesday

 
    During my 9am donut run, I was waiting for the elevator, when I asked myself "what do I want out of life?"  Actually, I think I really meant "What do I really need?"  Not much, really. But I sure do have a ton of "wants."  Do I really need tons of money? Do I really need all my technology and gadgets?  If all this moving wround for the past month has taught me anything, it's that I have way too much crap.  I mean, how much do I need to survive? I guess this was all spurred by a passing thought of Rodzilla going to France next year. You know, some sort of self-defense mechanism.  I'll be fine without her. Or so I tell myself. I can be fine without a lot of things. So I thought, I don't really need that much at all.  I won't claim this as some sort of original, profound thought; more of a cliched, short-lived  epiphane.  The short-lived part is really my problem. There are all sorts of problems that I have that I know the solutions to, and there's a ton of stuff that I could do to make my life better, but I just won't do them for some reason or another.  I'm pretty sure it's a mix of laziness, complacency, and fear.  I'm too settled in my ways to want to make any real change, i'm too lazy to change even if I wanted to, and I'm really just scared to take the chances if there's a 1% chance that I'll fail.  I'm getting better about the scared thing though. I hope.

    Basically, I've decided that all I'm really seeking is external validation.  As long as I have that, I guess not much else really means that much.  Ok, that's not entirely true. But I think I devote a lot of time toward it. Everyone does.  How many people can say that they really, really do something just for themselves?  I don't care if you call yourself and artist or poet or whatever, a large part of what you do is motivated by the need to be accepted by others, no matter how small the group.  Unless you're an Emily Dickinson-esque tortured soul, all your suffering and heart poured into a poem or song or painting is largely done for the enjoyment, or more likely, to impress others. Or at least to find someone who identifies with you.  A from of validation, if you will. Not that I have any way of knowing nor am I that familiar with her work, but I don't think Emily Dickinson would've really called herself a poet. Just from what I remember from school, I don't think she had many, if any, of her poems published while she was alive.  I'd venture to say that most "artists" need external validation much more than other people.  Why else would they put themselves on display to be judged by others?  How many VH1 "Behind the Music"'s have there been where some washed-up has-been professes that they're finally happy being where they are in life, that they're happy just being themselves.  I'm not faulting them for needing the love and adoration of others. Who doesn't?  But... I guess it just bothers me that normal people can come to this realization without having to say it on TV. It's like, by professing their happiness to the world, it makes it true. But it's still seeking the approval of others. They want people to know that they're ok, that they're happy with who they are. Well, if you're so fucking happy, why do you have to go around telling people all the time?

I really don't know where I'm going with this.  It's just something I was pondering, and I don't know why I feel like I need to form really coherent thoughts or spell properly or have good  ideas about stuff. This is supposed to be a journal, afterall, and I sure write differently when I know no one else will be reading it. But even then, I sometimes write thinking about how it would appear if someone were going to read it. Then again, I'm sure it's just my need for that pesky external validation. I just want everyone to think I'm cool or smart or deep or whatever. Why else would I keep a journal online, for christ's sake?
 

    So that's my thought for the moment. I'm sure it'll change by noon. That's another reason I keep a journal. I really enjoy reading it. Or them, actually. My offline journal is really quite boring, just a chronical of what's going on, with little emotional commentary besides how depressed I am. I usually only write in it when I'm depressed and have no one to talk to.  Were I to actually commit suicide one day and someone found my journal, I'm sure they'd say, "well, that explains it!"  Actually, there's a also a good amount of humor in there. Just for me. I also like to read it to see how much I've really changed.  I suppose I've changed a lot. Nicole always tells me that I've gotten meaner over the years, but I think I've actually softened up. Just yesterday I sent an email to my friend Becky who I've known since 4th grade, telling her how I've had this inexplicable desire to talk to people from highschool.  Especially since highschool sucked so much.  I haven't seen her in years, and only recently have I heard from her through email. Anyway, here's part of her reponse:
 

Dear G(-Rock),
    WHOA!  Is this really G(-Rock)??  G(-Rock), the always sarcastic, almost mean little boy who used to throw eraser bits into my hair??! You're being way too nice to actually be the guy I know and love!  Has being a teacher softened you up, or do you actually just miss me!

You know, I've re-read that a few times, and I'm only now starting to recall that I did used to throw eraser bits in her hair. She's Indian, you know, and they've got really thick hair. And she had it kind of curly. So all sorts of debris would stick in there. Now that I think about it, it wasn't usual for her to get up after English class and have all sorts of stuff in there. I think my friends and I would actually compete to see who could get the most pieces of paper to stick to the back of her head.  It was really funny.  But also kinda mean, in retrospect.  Then again if you recall The Meanest Thing I've Ever Done, I'm sure it doesn't seem out of character for the me that existed back in the early 90's.  One of the funnier things I remember from highschool also involved Becky.  I think it was her birthday or something, and our friend Brad got her a present. Now, as I've said, she's Indian, as in she has her roots in the Indian Subcontinent, not a Native American. Brad's gift was a little wooden totem pole with a little note that said "A totem of my appreciation."  That still cracks me up. We were horribly un-PC, and thankfully, we still are. We'd often ask this kig Shazad, who was from Pakistan, I believe, if he got turned on if he saw a girl's ankles.  You know- how Muslim women are all covered up except for the eyes?  He took it all in stride though. I mean, I got my fair share of Chinese jokes thrown my way. I'm never really offended. They're either funny or they're stupid. Either way, I don't take that shit too seriously. Unless someone's pointing a gun or something at me when they say it.  Then again, I guess it's safe to say that if someone's pointing a gun at me, I'll take anything they say seriously.
 

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I've finally complete my page on my "Babe Magnet Theory."  Mimi was asking about the theory, and that just reminded me. I've been meaning to So find it at the South Pole.

Actually, I don't really feel like updating the South Pole Page just yet, so just click here.
 
 

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