There must be some kind of thing to possess

There must be some kind of thing to possess, to have, to own, to consume, that will make me happy. All of this spiritual nonsense is surely bunk, and so is the intellectual world. I am a visceral being, a physical thing, a man of appetites who has gladly bound up his appetites and tried to keep them penned in so that he could mingle with normal folks walking about in a normal society.

I want to possess a pickup truck that smells of the decade in which the American factory gave birth to it. If it is a truck from the 1970s, then only music from this decade will be allowed to be played inside the truck. I want a job that could have been done by someone back in the 70s, like Park Ranger, Custodian, or Gym Teacher. This world of computers and smart phones and constant connectivity is a world of the airy spirits, the ethereal demons, Lucifer himself perhaps.

I might even change my name, or just start going by my last name. My first name is kind of airy and breathy to say, and I used to be ashamed of it, because no other boys I knew had my name. Though now, there are many boys of a younger generation or two who carry my name.

It’s not that I want to be a manly man, but I want to be a physical being who interfaces and engages with physical objects.

Will this make me happy? Or should I put all of my efforts into trying to lucid dream each night and astrally project myself and all that bunk?

When did I turn weird?

What was the official date that something or someone weird came to roost upon me, and make me the mixed up, half-nerd, half-brute that I am? Was it in a previous lifetime, in the womb, in infancy before memories appear? I remember very much being a boy that manly men hated. Some of them put up with me, seeing my childish ways as being nothing more than that. Others assumed I would grow up to be gay, and that was no good. Still others simply saw me as a proto-yuppie, destined to be helpless with mechanical things while living in the suburbs with a college degree in finance or English, doing advertising or investing or lawyering at a weak and effete firm downtown, making more money in a year than these manly men would ever hope to make in their lifetimes for doing things that were superficial, superfluous, and of no substance whatsoever.

Or, since these were manly men, they likely had no idea why they hated me–they just knew I was different. The gym teachers, the scoutmaster, the grandfathers, the neighborhood dads and 4-H dads and the band director. Why couldn’t I be more like my older brothers, who were very cool and were proper boys?

Through a series of incidents and choices and bad information, I found myself bearing a heavy load of karma by the time I was 12. This load has never completely left me.

But, what was I going to write about, anyway? Was I going to try yet again to write myself to freedom, using only my brain, fingers and my crusty laptop? Surely this was a fool’s mission, the work of so many devils pushing me onward…or was it the Spirit, and by mistaking the Spirit for the Devil I was incredibly doomed? Or, by mistaking the Devil for the Spirit, was I hopelessly screwed? Or, was I mistaking my own puny, worthless, unoriginal voice inside my own head for powers I would never really want to possess inside my head?

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