It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

Tonight I sit to write in the midst of a slump, admittedly. I've shirked my daily "freewriting" duty after laying an ultimatum of sorts in my other blog, and I'll continue to shirk it in favor of writing this post. It's snowing outside, and I just went out for a walk. The beauty of the winter's first proper snow is merciless. I walked down the unplowed streets in the bitter cold. One might take many walks in his life, but few are as eventful as those in a blizzard. I encountered many facets of life in my short walk. There was a man plowing the parking lot of the office supply store at one AM, which reminded me of the efficiencies of government in contrast to the snow-laden city streets. I trotted across O Street to help shove a compact car over the drift in which it was interred, as its teenage driver spun his tires to little effect. Then I walked back in the direction of my house as the wind stabbed at my face, armed with flakes and devastating cold. I cleared my car of snow in preparation for tomorrow's work day and cursed at the pain of my frozen fingers as I fought to brush everything away.

But the obvious conflict and struggle of the cold wasn't the rub for me. The first thing that hit me after I kicked off my snowy shoes and returned my coat to the hanger was the thaw. My fingers screamed in ache as the blood was finally allowed passage. I had to lie down to avoid the queasiness caused by the sheer pain of it and I knew that when they were warm that I must write.

All my life I've expected complex problems in the context of a simple life, and I've been frustrated at every turn as I encountered the exact opposite. The problems I deal with are boringly simple. They aren't even taxing, physically, emotionally, or intellectually. In comparison, the bigger picture becomes exceedingly complex. I'm a man concerned with making some difference on a macro level, and I don't have a grasp on the simplest macro endeavors that are generally accepted as staples of American life. I'm not well-read or well-dressed. I have made virtually no progress in regards to a lasting romantic relationship in the whole of my life. A bachelor's degree, which maintains essentially the equivalency of an early 1900's high school diploma, took me six hard-fought, harrowing years to accomplish. All these years I've prided myself in attaining for a unique standard, and I'm now more convinced than ever that I'm not living up to it.

In my musing I'm brought back to the thaw. The freeze is a soft prick in comparison to the thaw. There was a quotation at work yesterday that good habits are as easy to form as bad habits. I agree with this entirely, if the starting point is neutral. However, breaking bad habits is more than just forming good ones. Breaking bad habits is brutal and disappointing. It hurts to the center of your knuckles and makes you want to vomit. Second-guessing is not allowed. The mirage of reason leads to complacency. I can't handle it. I'm not strong enough to tackle reason and thawing simultaneously. I feel simultaneously over- and underwhelmed. I'm impotent.

I'll be damned if I'm going to give up on this struggle for whatever success I'm after, but damnation seems like a viable option to me right now. Not two months ago, I went to one of my favorite spots on the planet, a valley on the Platte River, with a friend of mine and explained to him that I was dreading something terrible. I didn't know then what I expected, nor do I now, but I felt it. We had an intimate and encouraging talk, and I was pacified by my bolstered resolution to pour my efforts into my writing. I thought that, regardless of the resistance I encountered, some specificity would do me good. Now I look back and realize it may be that it's only for the progress that I'm susceptible to the stumbling, and the anxiety returns. I read what I've written in dismay. I can see no progress, and I wonder where I'll find sufficient gumption to continue before I cower in the insipid motionlessness I'm used to. I try to use an arsenal of vocabulary words to craft some grandiose thought, but I read back what I've written and I don't even want to post it to a blog that no one reads, in the off chance that they might. Things will get worse before they get better. At least, I hope so. I desperately need to thaw.

Housekeeping

Well, I failed to wake up this morning with sufficient time to do some serious writing, but I've made up for a bit of it this evening with my first freewriting session. Due to the nature of the blogosphere, the "reader" version of myself doesn't want me to post all my freewriting sessions to "Terminal Genius". He's a purist, you see, and a bit of an ass. However, for the sake of accountability, he wants to make sure I'm writing regularly. Despite his gruff exterior, he's a huge softy and just wants what's best for me and my writing career. Fine, reader-me, I'll make you another blog with only bare (and I mean BARE) minimum editing done to the fruits of my freewriting. I'm going to give it the working title, "Off the Cuff", which is super lame. I'm open to suggestions. Anyway, if I come up with anything good there, I'll edit it and post it to this blog. Look at me being all professional. I've already posted the first one.

PS - Buzz off, spell check. If "freewriting" isn't a word, it is now.

I Only Write After Films

Time for an update, lest this blog become an annual occurrence. I'm sure there would be many tears in that event. My resolve to write is usually eclipsed by my resolve to do 7,000 other things - things that may actually be more valuable. But probably not.

My whining has come full-circle now. I haven't known what the hell to do with my life for the past six years, but now I have a bachelor's degree. The ideas that most incessantly wage duels in my head are these:

1. There are wise men surrounding me who know how to live my life better than I do, and
2. I'm sunk if I can't do anything with the quarter-century of wisdom already bestowed upon me.

The lacking elements of self-actualization flutter in my head with varying levels of clarity. I need to formulate an identity; I need to gain perspective; I need to be content with remaining; I need to do my work. True that, double true.

Post-Sherlock Ramble

Every time I sit down to write in this blog, I am whelmed with the emotions that accompany resistance (a la Pressfield's "The War of Art"). Firstly, I am reminded that I am about to spend time writing in a personal blog, and blogs are generally accepted as a vast sea of ignorance and posturing to gain attention with a few shining stars of originality. I am obliged to surmount this obstacle instead of going around it, being a picky fellow and rather obsessive with protocol. If I'm going to accomplish anything with this blog, it must stand out from the others, and the reason the others are so obsequious is that they cut corners. They skirt around the stark fact that no one cares what they have to say, and say it anyway. But I am able to quell this red flag by remembering that this blog shouldn't be a channel of conformity, but a pure expression of my musings. It's easy to regurgitate information; it takes effort and intelligence to process the hell out of it, keep the good bits, and create something that is simultaneously unique and expressive. So my intention with this blog, as with all creative endeavors, is to turn it into an ATV with the purpose to not only break free of the superhighway of public outlook, but actually to work toward getting somewhere new. This in turn reminds me that in the voyage, I must ultimately be accountable to myself, and not to the established road system.

Secondly, I must acknowledge (quite paradoxically to "The War of Art" and the first paragraph) that there are people who, if I were to pump out boatloads of sensationalized, mass-opinion, group-think crap, would read it and love it, because they love me and somehow find me interesting. This step is vital for me to fight any notion of self-pity that lessens the value of the relationships I have with my people and shrug off "doing my work". Although I am internally accountable, relationships with people are central to my humanity. Being accountable to those connections isn't even necessarily contradictory to original thought; a healthy relationship should desire an ocean of creative freedom, as it benefits the writer to write and the mother to nurture.

These two aspects are where I see resistance most frequently, but today there is another beast that materialized the second I sat down to write. I had nothing I wanted to say. If I've learned anything about the writing process, it's that writer's block is best solved by putting words on the screen. This allows the thought that we're trying to reach to come out like a diamond in a stool. It also leads to a mass of writing about writer's block, but a turd is easier to polish when there's a gemstone at the center.

That said, I don't have anything to write about, but this post is for my benefit anyhow, right?

Identity

It's 7:00am and I've had less than three hours of sleep. I suppose I'm still jet-lagged, but the real ailment is lack of discipline.

I have very few habits in life, and of those, most are destructive. Lately I've finished full-time school and I'm facing independence more fully than ever before. There are certain emotions and reactions that are typical of kids in my situation, and the first mature step I want to take is to admit I'm not immune to them.

One of those feelings I am constantly tempted to believe is to doubt my readiness. Self-reflection is almost always appalling. I'm just a kid. How will I be able to do anything on my own? My habits will stifle any in-born greatness I could have hoped to realize.

Since I talked to Caleb Baber the other day, I've been thinking about identity a great deal. I think identity is a huge factor in the struggle for a life of greatness. There are many things that change the identity we use to make decisions and motivate ourselves to overcome the difficult things we need to do in life, but I think that there is an ideal identity we can strive to become. This ideal gives us the perspective we need to use our meta-knowledge to develop systems that avoid using inherent, immutable weaknesses to overcome those weaknesses caused by habit and lack of vision. I think mastery of these systems is the key to weed out the kinks keeping us from our ideal image. I'm sure this will keep me occupied for the rest of my life.

However, even mastery of this art is an ultimately negative pursuit. Like cleaning, eating, exercise, painting your house, and morality, it's an uphill battle that will remain until we've breathed our last. Familiarity with these sorts of things is non-negotiable in the process of growing up. Entropy is a reality with endless manifestations (ironically) and it is relentless in driving men crazy. Fighting it can be one of the most difficult things to decide to do when we wake up every day, but it can also turn into one of our great joys. What I am starting to understand is that our attitude toward such activities has very little to do with how good we are at it and a great deal to do with how it matches up with the identity we've set before us.

Identity is the gemstone in the crown of greatness. It gives us purpose to do things more difficult than we ever thought ourselves capable of. It is also a many-faceted stone; one can find his identity simultaneously as a businessman, a father, a brother, a friend, a husband, a hobbyist, a genius, a conscious citizen, and a Christian. Different facets are visible in different company, different places, and different times of day. The variation of these facets that comprises a single person's identity, some times additively, and others contradictorily, is beautifully complex and is the inspiration behind every permutation in every narrative throughout time.

Thus, what I am beginning to understand and prod with my thought experiments is the postulate that there is for each person a unique identity to idealize and pursue to the abandonment of certain comforts and even certain friends. The idea is very exciting, especially at this juncture. I want to live as if there is a switch to flip and be certain of every choice I have to make without deliberation and, when pressed for justification, simply cite, "Ibid". This ideal was preached to me often as a child - most frequently within a church context. At times it seemed to be touted almost exclusively as the fulfillment of righteousness. "Pray the prayer and be saved, and in all hardship refer to that day and the path will be clear." This is a great truth that is very effective in my life and will grow in its effect more and more the older I become, I am sure. But it is only true for some of the facets of my identity - the "larger" of them if you will; hinging the weight of personal righteousness on the others may well cause early hypertension. There are so many choices to be made in life(school or work? German or Computer Science? white or wheat?), and as you mature, there are smaller and more arbitrary choices to which the above philosophy provides no reference. In my case, I learned of the theology behind an entirely other Will of God that made almost every decision appear whimsical in comparison to my expectations. I thought that if my moral identity was established the other facets would follow. I had the good sense to realize that, in the event of a morally neutral decision, a wise man could take personal preference into account. But when even that became scarce, I chose based on ease, which quickly led to the absence of both choice and (presently) a college degree.

Recently I was offered the great blessing of traveling to Laos with my parents to visit my brother, who is working as Head Chef/Manager at a restaurant he helped develop. He, unlike me, actually believed that liberal arts is a heap of bunk, at least enough to forgo the typical four-year experience. Instead, he went to a two year trade school and learned solely what he wanted to do. Then he freaking did it. Since his graduation less than three years ago, he's worked on a ship, at a ski resort, and at his current position in Laos, which required him to learn the language, and where he's already been for more than a year and a half and will likely take a greater role if he wants to. His idea for culinary school began as nothing more than a whim, but while I was excusing myself from any actual responsibility to pursue my major field of study beyond graduation, he was becoming a chef. He's been many things his whole life, and a chef for three to five years, but when the acquaintances from high school see me, Eric's restaurant is most frequently the first thing they ask me about. His dedication to his identity has changed even my identity.

In conclusion, University is a terrible place to decide what to do with your life. Also, Eric - you're my hero, dude. I pray for an ounce of the balls it took you to just go into something without knowing if it would make you happy or lead to anything greater. I know far too many fun people to be bored, too many beautiful girls to be single, have too much food in the fridge to be hungry and too much brains to be poor.

I think I'm gonna go in a bit of a different direction with this. Stay tuned.

There ya go. The previous two were from my Writing and Literacy class, so I'll probably be posting more of the same in the future. But I'll try not to use them as my weekly post.

Fingers crossed.

I also wanted to make it clear that, although I haven't mentioned specific anecdotes in which my mother plays a role, she was indescribably important in my spiritual and literacy growth. That is all.