The Good Life... I Might Need Some Serious Guidance... A Love Letter

Note: This post operates under an assumption that is quintessentially American. That is to say that it is a marriage of the ambitious and the industrious. Seeing the successes of Henry Ford and George Washington Carver, I have come to believe that I am above average. Since the age of eight I knew I could achieve something big and beautiful. 

Additional Note: Though we dabble in personas and fake personalities here at Hindenburg, these are the pleas of one Joel Walkowski. 

It feel like Atlanta, it feel like Miami, it feel like LA - Kanye

***** 

It's Spring Break! 

Half-way through the semester, studies halt. It's high time for college students to let loose, get drunk,  throw confetti and assume the future will wait for their hangovers to dissipate.  It couldn't have come any sooner. It couldn't be any sadder. 

I have barely lifted a book this semester. The prospect of school has been but a blip on my mental radar. Don't let this laziness fool you. I am exhausted. Utterly tired and unable to wake up. I've hopefully sat at my computer and waited for great words to pour out, but they haven't. I've had the freedom to enjoy every human interaction, but haven't. I've made one film this semester and hoisted boom for another. I am learning skills that could pave the way for some semblance of an adult life but can't pay attention for the (adult) life of me. I see all this and know I could save myself with the lift of a finger, but I might as well be Steven Hawking. 

In the past two months, I have felt the "general malaise" slip it's clutches around me for the first time. This is a big deal to me.  A HUGE DEAL. The closest I've come to an all out state of emergency. I've had near death experiences without any real urgency. 

To wit:  

I awake in Berlin. That is the first thing I know. I know I've been sick. I know I just had surgery and that no Dallas Mavericks games will be on TV. I know because I asked about Dirk Nowitzki while being  put under. 

A pretty doctor hovers over me. She is assigned to me because she is the only staff fluent in English. Four others linger over her shoulders, peering at me, checking the tubes that descend into my testicles to drain the poison spouted forth by my ruptured appendix. 

"What is your name?" she asks. 

"My name is Joel." 

"Why are you in Germany?" 

"I wanted to go to Europe and see my sister." 

"Oh yes. Really?" 

"Yes. Is there something wrong?" 

"Yes. You have some bleeding in your abdomen. We need to have another operation." 

"Will I be ok?" 

"That depends on the surgery." 

"You better heal me. I'm gonna go to school in California. I'm going to make movies with my friends. I'm going to do good." 

*****

Here I am, living my dream situation. Everything I've ever wanted laid out on a silver platter. It could all be mine. I could conquer every dream, diminishing them as mere childish ambitions on my way to conquest pure and true. There is something to be said for not knowing your limitations, how you work, or what's required for greatness. 

It's two years later. I am living in Los Angeles with the two best friends I'll ever have.  (There are other great friendships, apologies to Mr. Bianco, the Silly Italian, and Cicadas.) Their impact is so great we no longer have friendship. We say hello, we play sports, and have good conversations, but we aren't friends by the college definition. We don't invite each other on night time forays, we don't bring our sexual partners around, we do our best to make our own lives. In essence, we have to. Our friendship is so great, so all encompassing, it transcends typical boundaries. We could easily stay satisfied in our tight circle but have opted to branch outward to other kids, drugs, and exploits.  If not, we'll stay 17 forever. Looking back, that might not have been a bad thing. 

We know the power of our love. It  goes past friendship and into brotherhood in it's purest form. We aren't linked by blood. I know we'll forever face the share of barriers and obstacles that come with human endeavors. Somedays I will hate you. Somedays, you're the only reason I'm here. Without you two (3=Bianco), I'd have long ago followed the Updike route, running away from it all. Sometimes I expressed this. Rabbits need to run. There are no conquests on the horizon.  I have nothing left to talk about, no jokes left to tell. With nothing to chase I begin to feel small. I get scared. 

Whether I want to or not, I'll love these two silly bastards for the rest of my life. 

I'm attending the best film school in the world. I have a spiritual and literary advisor who doubles as my  nurturing boss. I have a bevy of good ideas. An inspiring  first draft of a novel sits in front of me. On my hard drive are several short stories worthy to be printed at this current moment. (I am a severe critic of my own work and know these are among the best things I have ever done). Over the past year and a half I've obtained knowledge of what makes a good movie, how novels work, and what is inspiring. This has been bestowed unto me as an unprovoked blessing. 

Given the wealth of knowledge while being cognizant of my lack of insecurities it would be safe to assume I'd be stretching these boundaries to show what I can do. (You should know I wasn't always this lovable flake. I dreamed of movies so vibrantly, approaching them like a Mussolini inspired imperialist. I directed absurd plays. In short, I achieved where I shouldn't have, along with these friends, of course) I didn't ask what was expected. I did not do what was required. I set forth with a lack of conscience that Lil' Weezy would envy. 

I am here now. In the place I always imagined. It looks like I pictured it, better even. 

*****

I am in the midst of living moment to moment. Everyday is an adventure. Great people, delicious meals,  La Dolce Vita to an infinite degree. The problem is...  I don't feel it. At least not now, it's such a battle to maintain ownership of my life, that I struggle to expand the parameters. This means I don't care. I DON'T CARE. When I am out, riding my bike, living life, making jokes, drinking wine, smoking pot, there are so many inspirations. The average thought can be utilized, groomed into some fun, beautiful idea. It might not be great but it will make me smile at the very least. Out in the world I am awash in these ponderings, lost to the point that I forget myself. As an aspiring creative person, this is the mindset you strive for, save for the fact that it empties when it's time for self-expression. 

I know I can get there, to this fuckin' Zion, but I'm struggling. What was once fresh is now stagnant. I ain't hungry, not like the Brandon Jacobs of the world, striving for every yard. I feel like Maurice Clarett, a couple steps from jail, especially with this credit report. A few days ago, I began to view life in a van as my best possible prospect.  I see all this in front of me. So many ideas, so many opportunities. I seize these some nights, stumble on great success and feelings of exaltation. The other nights, I sit,wait, and pout. I think back to the great nights, instead of being quelled I get damned irritated.  Watching as my potential turns into disappointment. Tim Thomas all over again.  All I have to do is consider, analyze, and type. I know it's there.  Fascination and immersion could make all the difference, but these aren't the sort of things you can force. 

The past few year's diligence and effort have been put forth towards the moment when something is so great that I'm left with no choice but submission. Now that it may be here, I am shrinking away. 

I adopt a facade that I don't care. I CARE. I pretend the bad nights don't get to me. THEY DO. I pretend I'm capable of everything I imagined myself to be. TO BE DETERMINED. This is not to say I don't love my life. I DO. The friends, the laughs. the Japanese food. Somedays are so good, I can't do anything but smile, but that isn't enough. 

This is no coincidence. As of late I have been overcome with the malaise, thinking that nothing matters. Feeling as if there is no escape from my current life. There are so many ways to pull myself out,  but I find myself in hiding. When I feel myself hiding from my abilities, what have become duties I go out and have fun. Because of this strange loophole in causality I sometimes feel guilt alongside my fun. This is against everything I believe in. 

*****

Life is about the journey!

*****

My initial plan for Spring Break was to hunker down, alone in my room, and write. I've had writing hanging over my head like a cleft lip for months. This was my chance to tackle it. To spark the inner renaissance I've been pining for since I realized it was possible. 

This will not do. I am terrified of this prospect. I can't bring myself to care. I can't allow it to take over me.  I get ready to surge forward with nothing but free time ahead of me. 

I'm going camping instead. I will have a great time with exceptional people, but I won't be doing the thing I feel I should be doing. Maybe someday. Something needs to happen. To scare away the fear. To awaken the beast. I know something else, something bigger and better, lies dormant within me. I've seen it. I know what my drive can be. I know the feeling of wanting something so bad it hurts. I used to go to sleep inspired and troubled with the idea of doing myself justice. 

Lately it's a burden. Maybe we'll have to settle, find zen in basketball, eat zucchini, and have eight daughters. It'd be a great life, but deep down, I'll know I'm settling for less. 

SPRING BREAK!!!!!

How do I want it again? 

In closing, my credit score is shit, I owe money for something I am unsure of, there are no tags on my car, I don't do my taxes or fill out vital financial aid forms, I can't bring myself to write, and am incapable of caring about anything besides friendship and love. Witness 21 year-old Joel Walkowski, months away from testing one's ability to coast through life on charm alone. 

Who Needs Sleep

Benders have a way to make you feel beautiful, or at least a little like Freddie Prinze Jr. Upon further consideration they feeling is more Freddy than beauty. Sopping wet in your own system, life becomes a slush. Four days of booze, drugs, and sleeplessness? I can go for that provided you're good company. Which I have a feeling you are. The non stop cycle of aggressive and humorous behaviors tends to take you up in it's wash and leave you to wonder how the hell five days can pass so quickly.

Like Freddy Prinze, Jr the luster washes off quick. Without the sleek veneer and momentum of young teen girl appreciations, you're nothing more than a schmuck. 6 hours of sleep in 3 days can do that to you. before you know it, your sitcom has been cancelled after only 3 episodes. And to think we thought Richard Karn had it tough! Oh boy!

Sitting in my place of business I was so tired I almost threw up. There was nothing I desired more than to go home and lie in bed welcoming the oncoming burst of dear sweet slumber. these ambitions weren't so difficult to sccomplish and moments ago I found myself on the verge of exiting my binge and entering the realm of the never world. For added luxury I opted to take off my clothes.

It was a beautiful thing, but by some far fetched reason a razor blade had found it's way into my bed and consequentially into0 my buttocks. Instead of sleeping I am nursing a somehow self inflicted wound on my ass.

I might have left the bender, but I can't stop it from following me. This is the sort of thing that only happens to Tommy Lee or Charles Bukowski. It looks like I'll be making it after all!

Two Girls, Not My Cup of Tea

In this post I am being held hostage against my own will. Ummm, you can probably gather from the previous statement that this was not my idea. Gist of it is, I found some great works and in order to publish them I had to offer my peculiar insight on a subject that otherwise escapes my frame of reference.

While I find 2girls1cup.com to be the most tasteless, distasteless, flavorly dull website I've ever consumed I have to grant that they, with shit in all orifices, are at the very least using thgeir imaginations. While not the most daring fetishist I smile in chagrin at their daring, cadence, and sensual swagger. I have never been friends with a star athlete or Johnny Knoxville but I imagine that they have very similar attitudes about sensuality. This might not be a compliment but at the very least it lets me appreciate something I would otherwise vomit at.

This next post is by my good, introverted friend Daniel Lawlor. If he was a girl he would like to be tied up and we would be married by now. We plan to turn Homosexual and wed at the age of 25. I am not sure who will tie up who, but I promise to use square knots.

When I was in first grade, my teacher had placed a major focus for the year on spelling and reading. To this end, we were separated into different groups and whichever group had done the best in spelling that week would be allowed to select a special prize from a table she’d set up in the back of the room. Usually the toys were shitty dollar-store fare – a bouncy ball, a cheap plastic robot, whatever. But one week, in which I had the distinct good fortune of being in the best group, was the prize of all prizes: a bird’s nest. A pristine bird’s nest, sitting along among children’s books and colored pencils. Naturally, I had to have it. So when we all got up to line up in front of the prize table, I made sure I was first. Now, it didn’t matter what order we lined up in as the order in which we picked was purely at random, based solely on the teacher’s whims. But it didn’t matter – I had to have that bird’s nest, so I lined up first and kept my eyes on the prize the whole time. Maybe it was the gleam in my eye, maybe it was the fact that I hadn’t yet been chosen first, maybe it was just luck – but when she called my name first, it felt like fate to me. Striding up to that table and selecting the small brown bird’s nest, I must have been the happiest boy in the entire world. After I made my selection and returned to the line, the teacher casually asked “Who else wanted the bird’s nest?” And I wasn’t surprised a bit when every other kid in that line raised their hand immediately.

Continuing on the found poetry motif I have recently been innundated with Penis Enlargement emails. These are not the normal fair. Someone out there must know that I want my penis to be huge if only for hilarity's sake.

This next entry is from one Lillian Dailey

Greeting Hoofing

It is the size of ones c nlz oc eei k which determines success

Lilian Dailey

This next entry is from Roderick Chaney. I swear to God it is taken word from word. I think I owe it to them to order.

Compliments Kareem Virgins always whooped at me and even youths did in the urban comfort station! Well, now I whoop at them, because I took M mrx E sds G xoh A ny D lmy I xwn K for 6 months and now my p hiz en en is is immensely lo bu ng uby er than federal.

I do not know how to respond to this. Should I question them to prove it or should I immediately worship at the alter of their wisdom? Given such literate lingo and grasp of slang I can only hope that Compton has developed to the point of trying to scam my credit card number. Either that or Allen Ginsburg faked his death and finally found an applicable outlet. Fuck that, Ginsburg was a bottom and probably didn't care about his cock size. Brautigan. Richard Brautigan. You old Berkley hero of my Dad's legends. You of the horn rimmed glasses. You of the trout fishing brilliance. You of the imagination, guile, will, and flat out scary honest whimsy that makes my fucking ignorant heart ache at the mere mention of "Halloween in the Sea". Richard, do you want me to have a bigger penis? I doubt the pills will work but I'll do it for you. I'll do it immensely longer than federal.