“I Seek Comfort in Rejection”

Photo by Michael Competielle

Normalcy and normal people bore me. I’ll glaze over during monotonous dribble of conversation as people will often tell me the things they are going to do. I’ll yawn and think about pairing my socks. Actually, I don’t even pair my socks as that’s boring too. My latest quest would be to own 10 pairs of unique socks that I care to wear as the mood strikes me and certainly easy to pair.

I can generally entertain conversations based on what people have done if they’ve actually done something. Ironically most people haven’t done anything. Sold a bill of goods by mass marketing and propaganda I find many people are living a life curated by their parents, who were curated by their parents who were curated by… nobody cares.

Shallow existences hidden behind suburban homes with white pickets fences (do people still put up picket fences or do they now hide behind privacy fences.) Boring cookie-cutter homes built conveniently close to cookiecutter shopping. The same boring place, town after town, state after state.

Excessive consumerism has modeled a fallacious facade hidden behind limited choices and repetition of the same old same old. I can hardly walk through a mall or big box store without becoming bored and disengaged. The same crap lining the shelves regardless of the corporate brand. Safe, secure and I’d assume maximized profits.

Critics no longer are critics and reviewers no longer reviewers. Seemingly just puppets marching in step behind the next payday. I never really feel th sincerity of the review. Lacking passion and conviction.

Recently I’ve been reading a lot more, which in turn has inspired my writing. It pains me as I follow certain writers, having found a lucrative payday and stick to a lane we know isn’t actually real. A path I refuse to take I’ll write based on my current mood, reread briefly and hit publish.

Metrics and metering mean nothing and general acceptance possibly less. My charge comes from my volumes of work based purely on self-expression. I create mostly for myself and therefore mainstream acceptance isn’t required nor desired.

I’ve never fit in anywhere, always the odd duck with nicknames like Weird Mike. Kept at arms length for fear my oddities might be contagious.

I feel warm and complete in the outside world, surrounded by the outsiders. The artists, poets, and painters. Those that take risks, the ones who say fuck it. The ones who sit alone on a bus praying no-one takes the seat next to them. Mortally in fear of the pressure of small talk.

I seek pleasure in the eccentric, the independent, the extreme.

My favorite music, films, and art are often viewed as avant-garde, experimental and unique. All of which have multitudes of layers only discovered after continuous revisiting and review.

“I think it’s terribly dangerous for an artist to fulfill other people’s expectations. If you feel safe in the area that you’re working in, you’re not working in the right area. Always go a little further into the water than you feel you’re capable of being in. Go a little bit out of your depth. And when you don’t feel that your feet are quite touching the bottom, you’re just about in the right place to do something exciting”. David Bowie

Daily I write and for the most part daily I’m rejected. I’m uncertain if what I write is pure slop or am I unearthing another unique version of me. What I can say with all certainty is for the few that get it, that reward is immense.