Circa 10/31/96

He sat alone in his apartment, waiting. This was nothing new. In fact, it was pretty much an established ritual. Not that he minded, though. No, it wasn’t waiting for friends to call that caused him annoyance. Often he was left hanging by one person or the other. Hours spent waiting for plans to take shape. It wasn’t this at all.
It was the fact that he spent this time so idly that ate at him. The period between getting home from work and actually heading out for the evening had the possibility of being constructive time. Time spent catching up on the perpetual maintenance of his apartment. Time spent paying bills, or pouring over the flood of magazines and newspapers that came in daily. Time spent organizing and throwing out. Instead, this down time was often spent in front of the TV, accomplishing nothing. He could perhaps rationalize this if he was absorbing something useful from the TV- even pure entertainment. But as of late he could not even remember what he had watched five minutes ago. Truth be told, it was time spent slacking- physically and mentally.
Projects left uncompleted. Phone calls put off. In his own low-rent psychoanalysis, he felt this was a result of childhood development (or lack there of). His parents, however eager to encourage his myriad hobbies and interests, never put any pressure on him to follow through and complete something. They never required him to become proficient in any endeavor. He saw the tenfold uncompleted model kits of his youth. All were projects begun with enthusiasm and intent. All were begun with diligence. However, when it came time for the tedious assembly of engine parts or the like, he lost his steam. All were left half finished. He saw these incomplete kits reflected in the semi-chaotic clutter of his apartment. He saw it in Mark’s music video he was creating-mired at the three quarters completed point.
As far as the apartment clutter, the problem seemed to be that as long as things remained at a level he considered manageable and livable, it was OK to leave it be. Occasionally, it would sink lower. He would spend several phrenetic hours "cleaning house" until again he reached the acceptable level of disorder.
As for the music video, that was more complicated. He truly desired to complete that, if not for himself then at least for Mark. What had been completed had been done in a burst of creative energy. He had stopped to rest and contemplate how to arrange the ending. During that hiatus he had lost his momentum. Now the stress of wanting to finish the project, coupled with the stress of other pressing matters, chocked his creativity. Those bursts of inspiration were coming less and less. It truly upset him.
Chris sighed and snubbed out his cigarette. He looked at the mashed filter thoughtfully. Smoking helped whittle away the time. It was a sure way to kill seven minutes and take the edge off of boredom. Also, it kept him from actually doing anything. To get up and clean would mean leaving an unattended smoking article. To read or pay bills would distract him from smoking, leaving the cigarette to burn into a cylinder of ash. At three dollars a pack, Chris did not feel quite so rich as to allow himself such shameless waste. So he let the habit remain what it was. A crutch.
Now he sighed more loudly and stood up. The cat, which had been sleeping against his leg, looked up quizzically. Petting Quentin on the head, Chris reflected on how his reflection also ate up a lot of time. He never made any serious effort to resolve anything. He would just sit and reflect on his life. He would acknowledge his problems and shortcomings to himself, and then let them be. No plan put into motion on actually addressing and redressing them. If knowledge was half the battle, then it was one more thing he spent his life in only going half way.
For someone who supposedly craved resolution in life, he had developed a rather pernicious habit of leaving loose ends.
The tolls of his inaction were beginning to show, however. It was this more than anything else that made him realize it was time to break this pattern. It was one thing to wade in mediocrity and lack of initiative* if it only hurt yourself. But others were affected, and that he felt, was unallowable.
He felt that the center of this mental holocaust was the quagmire of his adolescence. Those years were a juggernaut of turbid emotions he could not reconcile with. To avoid the confrontation with his own damaged soul that he felt was unavoidable, he intellectualized rather then emoted. To open that flood gate would be overwhelming. Perhaps though, he feared, it was time to do just that.
The Great Flood. Sacrifice. Rebirth.
It was without a doubt frightening. His own emotions were his personal Gethsemane. He would drink the cup of his psyche only with grave resignation and dread.
Chris S

I found that entry on my journal file. Were it not for KG and Nick, I'd probably be singing the same song these days.
Just for shits and giggles, I googled my blog name. Only two hits came up: the blog itself, and this. Interesting, someone is keeping track!