pigeonholed by one (in)coherent myth

So I got the job. At first I was mad, as if some principle had been violated, as if I’d been slighted, as if it was an offense or an affront or a dis. Then I was sad, as if I’d been uprooted, or would have to uproot, leaving the home I finally made for myself here, here in the nook of the city where I found myself, and found her (well, she found me), and grew, truly grew, to move fifteen miles north. Either way, it happened to me. The job happened to me. The move, or its necessity, happened to me. I don’t like when things happen to me.

By “things” I suppose I must mean offenses and violations. And also commitments. It’s an ontological problem. Plato wrote of these things called “forms.” Those forms were perfection, they were absolutes, ideals. And the world as we experience it is just a big mess of approximations. Spacedust or stardust or whatever. You could say beauty is in the effort to make the very best approximations we can out of all this dust, knowing the truth. You could say that, and I did, today.

Because I, in my worry and emotion, masterfully made my quintessential mistake of conflating approximations with ideals. I wanted perfect and thought perfect wasn’t what happened to me. And it should’ve, because I work so fucking hard to do the right things and be good and not suck at stuff or be a piece of shit of some variety or other. I, like nearly all seventy zillion of us, want to be respected and liked and be appreciated and given the things I believe I deserve. Without me having to fight or ask for it. I wouldn’t have had to ask Plato for it.

Well, I might’ve. Maybe he was a dick. And I do make it hard for people, with how I keep to myself and all, obscuring the talents and qualities for which I wish to be admired. But whatever Plato was, and whatever I am, we are people. And people aren’t perfect. And people are the ones in charge of jobs and affronts and uproots and happenings and misperceptions. Like mine. That’s why it’s stupid and ordinary and usual and ok. It might even be beautiful. I might even be, even if I still make my rent money working at an office for a company, rather than writing stories and books and prosetry and little vignettes and everyday shit like this.

What happened today with the job people was not a violation of any principle or a mistreatment of things, or forms, or things like forms. It was just a bunch of things like forms. A bunch of incomplete, imperfect, struggling, conscious/unconscious things striving in their way for things like forms. That’s what I’ll chew on tonight. And I got the fucking job after all anyway.

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About mischa

I write things about stuff, and sometimes stuff about things. Depends on the day.