Listen, guys, I thought that writing letter exclusively to Anthony Bourdain’s corpse was a sustainable idea.
Turns out I was right for about a month. We all make mistakes.
In saying that, though, it allowed me to connect to a part of my creativity that I hadn’t for years. So, for that, Mr. Bourdain, I tip my hat to you. Catch ya in that greasy spoon diner in the sky (hopefully) years from now.
But if this damned thing is going to work out and keep doing what I want it to, I’m gonna have to nail down something a little more tangible than writing letters to a man who died almost a year ago. As sad as it may be to say, his inspiration and contribution to the creative endeavors have since reached a stopping point, and to spark and retain what I need out the the writing process, I need to make it live again. I need to get it’s heart pumping, force it to run a mile, even if it barely breaks the 10 minute mark and forgot to bring a change of clothes to gym class. This is gonna be awkward, clunky, tough to get through and probably hasn’t figured out how to use deodorant yet.
Tl;dr: this shit might stink.
I don’t know what this will become. I am doing this now because I am currently in a very low spot in my life. An upheaval of great volumes is approaching. I am scared out of my goddamned mind. I have a new job back in the kitchen (I’m as surprised as you are), I’m leaving rideshare (I was in a fender-bender… I’m fine). There are other changes happening; things I’d rather not toss into the public scope, but they are currently negative and of my own doing, which is just a terrifying thing to admit to myself, let alone accept responsibility for in its entirety.
Things I thought were behind me and resolved came back to haunt me while I was busy faking happiness. I had wrapped myself in the idea that “fake it til you make it” was a workable strategy for mental and emotional health. I had swaddled my own logic in an air-tight cocoon of false security and now, here I stand, no shell, no comfort, and my sense of hope in tattered pieces at my feet. Right now, as I author this, I have no idea what my life is going to be like tomorrow. I want my normalcy back, the sense of routine, but not under the circumstances I had it before. If things hurt, I need to be honest about them. If I am hurting or suppressing someone else’s hope (and this is the important one), I need to own up to it and the consequences that lay in their wake. I can’t keep bouncing from place to job to friend to partner to creative endeavor to idea to comforting habits and expect to grow as a person. I can’t expect anything to improve if I don’t make an active effort to do so.
So yeah… I guess this is my diary until I figure out what I really want to do.