On Dreams: When I Grow Up

 You don’t have to have a dream. People always talk about their dreams. Fine, if you have something you’ve always wanted to do, go for it. If it’s a big enough dream, it’ll probably take you most of your life to achieve. So by the time you get to it and are staring into the abyss of the meaninglessness of your achievement you’ll almost be dead so it won’t matter. 

                                                                                    --Tim Minchin

My earliest memory of being asked what I want to be when I grow up was @ age three. The bishop of my LDS ward asked my 8 year old brother and I what we wanted to be. Big bro said "A millionaire." I replied "A Chinaman!"
After about two years, when that wasn't working out, I wanted to be a stand up comedian. 

I have always loved making people laugh. More than pretty much anything else. At first I think it was something to distinguish myself as me. My older brother (who I compared everything to, and always came up lacking) was and is very funny. But, whether or not I was funnier, I was the "funny one." I could try to be funnier than everyone as a way to establish my identity. Being a solid 5 in the looks department, brains, and athleticism most of my life, funny was and is most of what I had/have going for me. 

Comedy has been a huge part of my life. If I'm willing to watch a movie, 9 out of 10 times it's going to be a comedy. I listen to comedians practically as much as I listen to music. I have several stories where my sense of humor has made enemies into friends, bullies into allies, strangers into loved ones. I don't want to say it's changed lives, but it's enriched and defined mine. I love being the "funny one." But the comedian wish died probably in late high school or early college, when the dream was to be an actor, an artist, a writer, etc. (A funny one, but one nonetheless). I stopped wanting to be a comedian when I considered the logistics of it. Why try to be a comedian? The life doesn't sound like one I want. Sleeping in and telling jokes all night yes. But being away from my loved ones while I'm touring most of the year? I hope to like my wife and children, I said to myself. Why would I want to climb that pyramid only to discover after years of effort, that I'm at the apex, and utterly alone. But, I couldn't shake that it was in my core, my heart was the heart of a comedian. (imho obvs). I tried squashing that dream under the guise of practicality and reality.

Books like "The Alchemist" and "The Artist's Way" mask guilt as inspirational. (Or that's how I perceived them.) Reading "The Alchemist" reawoke the dream to be a comedian. The universe would conspire for me to succeed. But I ignored those promptings/hopes/dreams in favor of a more realistic education and career. I (IMHO of course) remained "the funny one," the friend who jokes and plays the role of jester in most situations. People would tell me I was funny, and I believed I was. 

Fast forward to this year. Middle age, COVID, losing 3 grandparents within a year of each other, and other factors makes one take stock of their lives. Am I happy? Sure. Could I be happier? Sure. 
None of my hobbies were bringing me the same joys or satisfaction/contentment they used to. I had an "itch" that felt unscratched. What used to excite and interest me caused ennui, and the ennui caused more ennui. (Confession: this whole post was just so I could put "ennui" thrice in a sentence.) My thoughts of standup comedy moved to the forefront. I realized I didn't have to quit my job and pursue the dream full time; I could make it a hobby. Once a month, once a week, whatever. I could be a local comic. Having my comedy cake and eating it too. So I googled "open mic comedy utah," and it seemed like the only game in town was Wiseguys in SLC. They had open mic night EVERY Wednesday. I thought it would be like once or twice a year, where I could work up the courage for the big day. Every week seemed more daunting somehow. Like the casualness and predictability of it made it harder to apply. Maybe because I told myself since it's every week, I could put it off more easily. But eventually, I stopped putting it off, and started putting out. 

I signed up, and got put on the list (!) I began working on what I wanted to talk about. My wife wanted to go to support me, but for some reason, I told her and myself that going solo was the best idea. (Spoiler: I was wrong.) So I planned a set, and drove the 1/2 hour to the Gateway mall in SLC on the big day. They give you three minutes of mic time, which seemed like a tiny amount for the time and energy. But I told myself it would be worth it. Not only would I be discovered instantly and be hilarious, but the missing hole in my being would be filled by living my childhood dream. This was my destiny. 

Fate's an asshole. A long boring but legitimate problem at work meant I would have to cancel. I made sure to notify the comedy club, so as not to blow my chances for the future. I signed up as quickly as I could for the next open mic night, and got in. I again told those closest to me NOT to come. This was for whatever reason something I wanted to do alone. Maybe because I told myself that bombing wouldn't be so bad if the ones who loved me didn't witness it. 

Two of our friends invited us to go as attendees. I liked the idea as a way to scout the place, see what it was like, compare myself to the comics, etc. Roughly 50% were funny, maybe 10-20% were funnier than I thought I was. I liked those odds. Also, quite a few of them were introduced as it being "their first time," with a reminder to be patient and extra supportive to those brave souls. 

One Wednesday evening in August 2021, I drove the 30 minutes to Wiseguys comedy club. I arrived at the club at the Gateway mall, by the music artist mural, and sought support from one of my heroes and rock god: Farrokh Bulsara. 

I arrived at the club and signed in, among 20+ other hopeful comics. Thinking I had at last found my tribe, I tried initiating conversation with multiple people. Unfortunately for me and my dream, I was snubbed, rebuffed, tolerated, and/or ignored. It felt like Jr. High school: cliquish, selfish, somewhat smelly, and rude. Except I was this old man with an artificial hip, rather than the pimply boy unknowingly growing a cancer in his leg. 

I bought some liquid courage and studied my "set," hoping to get the timing right and remember the jokes. It was a story I've told multiple times, embellished and modified in effort to get the maximum number of laughs of course, which I will not repeat here. I may still perform it on TikTok or something, but don't hold your breath. It was about "being walked in on" by your child during that intimate time with one's spouse. 

I finally found someone who would talk to me, an out of towner who, coincidentally, was ALSO performing for the first time. The conversation was great. Relaxing, comforting, relatable, and funny. We agreed to take photos of one another on stage.

I watched many of the same comedians from the first time I went get up there, and most of them told the same jokes as before. Quite a few were the same ones announced as "first timers," telling the same jokes they told before as well. I found this mostly amusing, and anticipated the audience's support at when they inevitably announced it was my first time.  

I waited and waited for my turn. Wiseguys open mic is about 2 hours, and I spent another $20 on drinks to quiet my nerves and steel my concentration. I waited about an hour and a half. The least funny person got up, and made inappropriate/disgusting/unfunny jokes. The crowd was annoyed, I was pissed, and even more anxious. And then of course my name was called. 

I expected them to inform the crowd of my comedy virginity. They didn't. A little flustered, I told the crowd it was my first time. And immediately regretted it. I felt awkward and out of sync. Following the worst performance of the night already made it feel like an uphill battle. Like I had to get the crowd on my side, get in the groove, and go through my set. All in three minutes a big timer clicks down, like some Roman patrician I waited to give me a thumbs up or down. I stumbled my way through my set, forgetting half the jokes, but the gist was there, and, maybe more importantly, I did it. I may have forgotten a lot, but I still feel like I got quite a few good laughs. And, despite the hour drive time, the 2 hour wait, the $50+ in gas, parking, and booze, it was overall a positive experience. It wasn't the amazing thrill I expected or craved, but it was nice. And I did it. 

Very soon after, either that night or the next; I signed up for the next week. As is my wont, I listened to standup comedy in my spare time. Although this time, it was as much for research/inspiration as it was entertainment. One of my favorite comics has always been Emo Philips. His unique style, method, delivery, and crafting is underappreciated but truly genius. Inspiration struck as I was preparing my next bit, it would be in the style of Emo Philips mocking those lovely Mormons who are suddenly offended at the word "Mormon." I've heard some say it's a slur now, despite its very founder embracing the appellation. I may also post the bit on this blog, on TikTok, or both or neither. Our friends who came with us before, came again to show support, and I again asked Tracie to NOT come. I felt not having her there would be easier. Despite her misgivings, she agreed. The night came, and I got to visit with another first timer, we joked and laughed and had a great time, halfway through we were joined by my friends who put me more at ease and boosted my confidence. I also felt vindicated AF when the new comic I visited with said he had come the week before, and said "I remember--you were after the worst one of the night!" So it wasn't just me who thought that. And yes, it WAS difficult for me, thank you. It took a long time, but I finally got to do my bit. Fortunately the audience were mostly Ex-Mormons judging by their "woos" when asked, so they were my target audience. In my humble opinion, it went better than the first time. I wouldn't say I killed, but I at least crippled a couple of them. It went very well. As I'm sure is the norm, some jokes I thought would get small laughs got big laughs, and some jokes I thought would get big laughs got smaller than anticipated chuckles. But, I felt good. Better, even. Even tho I was literally second to last of the night, and the anxiety of waiting and waiting and waiting for my name to be called meant they got my money's worth buying comfort and courage on the rocks.

But, this time was better than before, and so I signed up again. I obviously expected to be put on the list as I had the previous three times. But I wasn't. "No big deal, I'll sign up for the next week." No response. This happened about 3 or 4 times. Signing up, bupkis. I was a nervous, anxious, suicidal wreck every week. I watched my email obsessively, waiting for my name to be put on the list. Waiting for the acceptance filled with exclamation marks. My mind flooded with questions: was I too offensive? Too edgy/offended Mormon sensibilities? Worst of all, was I not as funny as I thought? 

I spoke with my therapist about it. She asked what was the worst part of not being accepted. I said "not knowing why." So, with her and Tracie's suggestion, I emailed the comedy club, inquiring as to my snubbery. They responded quickly and very kindly. No, I was not intentionally being left off the list. I wasn't offensive, crude, or unfunny. (At least not to the point of blacklisting.) She (we'll call her "Rachel") said that it was actually quite a fluke I got on the list 3 out of 3 times. Their process was somewhat random, and she encouraged me to remind her when I hadn't been accepted after a few weeks to improve my chances. She also said I should introduce myself to her next time I came.

I felt so relieved. The uncertainty was gone. So I signed up for the next week, clearly anticipating my acceptance. But nada. (deep breath) Ssssssssssssssiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

I didn't just think about this on the acceptance deadline or the days leading up to it. Throughout August and September and October it was constantly on my mind. Any given second, I'd write down funny thoughts until I had over 20 pages of jokes or potential jokes and funny stories. I didn't know what to do. Most of the time, when making pros and cons lists, I told myself that it was barely worth my time and money to go; even if I was accepted. To go just to be supportive seemed pathetic, and a waste of time. And money. But, again in therapy, I realized that the thing I enjoyed most was going early and talking to the (very fucking few) other comics who would deign to speak with me. "Shooting the shit" as I've heard it called. It's a very common expression. But hanging out, drinking and laughing is one of the most fun things to me. Way better than nervously stammering my way through 3 minutes of jokes, terrified of heckling or worse, the MC kicking you off early/kicking you off because you're past your 3 minutes and you suck. 

Around this time, my amazing supportive friends who hopefully don't know I still write on my blog 2-3 times a year encouraged me to try other avenues. One ran an open mic night for poetry in Provo. I've wanted to go for several years, but for one reason or another (Provo is far) I never have. But I showed up one night, which may not have been the best night to do so. There were maybe a dozen people there, I knew more than half of them, the mic wasn't working, and no one else was telling jokes. But, I told my list of one liners I was most proud of, and they laughed hysterically. Maybe it was because they knew me, maybe it was because I could see their reactions better without the combination of spotlight and terror, maybe it was because I was actually funny, maybe it was Maybelline. But it was great. I felt like an idiot for not letting people come in the past, but c'est la vie, amirite?

Back to the comedy. After a few more times of rejection/radio silence from the comedy club, I figured I could at least go to "shoot the shit" with the comics who weren't pieces of shit and actually worth talking to. So I decided to try that avenue. (Tbh I also hoped that in showing support without being called on, it would improve my chances of future acceptance as well). Showing up an hour early, I noticed several others being put on the "standby" list. I figured what the hell, right? I'm here, I have tons of jokes that my friends found funny. So I asked to be put on the standby list. They told me I got the last available slot. Cool. 

I visited with two hopeful comics who were fortunate enough to be on the official list. One seemed nervous and nursed one drink quietly. One was an out of town semi-regular who I thought was my age but turned out to be @ 15 years my junior. But that was the best part. Hanging out, relaxing, making others laugh. I met some of the staff, and I asked who “Rachel” was. They said sometimes I’m Rachel, sometimes he is. Apparently it was more of a title than a name. Which in retrospect seems kind of rude. “Rachel” told me to speak with them. I didn’t ask their name or request a meeting. It felt somewhat disheartening, if not outright rude. Open mic time. Fast forward through many of the same comics telling many of the same jokes, being lied to by the emcee that it was their "first time," the two hours passed, some 3 minute increments were longer than others. Near the very end, the quiet, nervous guy I had tried visiting with apparently had several hundred more drinks between social hour and his turn to get up. He drunkenly and incoherently rambled through a couple minutes before being asked to sit down. It was over. Or was it? "Last comic of the night is Austin Beckstrom!"

Hooray. I get to tell my one liners. To a crowd tired and ready to go home. On a Wednesday night after less than 1/2 the comics made them laugh. After someone being rude and embarrassing and plastered and unfunny. Goody for me. Uphill for Austin, here I come. I told my jokes, but I don't think my heart or the audience's hearts were in it. Oh, and the emcee told me (and the crowd) I only got 2 mins, rather than the much more luxurious: three minutes. It was pretty shitty. Both the circumstances, and my performance. That one I probably won't be posting. Maybe I'll do the one liners. Follow me on Twitter, more than half of them are already on there. But I disliked it so much, I realized it was probably time to give up. 

Comedy was not what I had hoped for. Not what I anticipated. Not what I needed and not even what I wanted. The cons outweighed the pros by more than double. But I felt conflicted. "Am I letting down my inner child by giving up so easily on my childhood and adolescent dream?" "Am I too old, too late to do this? Not to make it a career, but even a hobby. It's a big commitment time wise and money wise. Is it worth the stress that comes with signing up and waiting for a response? Is it worth the drive, the gas, the food, the parking, the booze... for 3 minutes of time from an audience that's ready for you to get off stage to make room for someone they find funnier? That's another thing. Are my jokes good? I think so, obviously. Do others? Debatable." I decided to retire. To quote Lane Smith in the Mighty Ducks: (my references are so current, as are my jokes) "You're not even a has-been. You're a never-was."

So here I am. Giving up on my childhood dream, because it's too late, too hard, too much commitment for not enough return on investment. I don't think it's a case of bitter grapes. True I didn't get embraced by the more "serious" (successful) comics of Utah like I had hoped. True it wasn't this illuminating Proustian moment of clarity when I finally achieved my dream of telling jokes in front of a crowd. But I had fun, I think I made some people laugh. But it's too much of a commitment, even one night a week. A night I could spend with my kids, my wife, playing games, watching movies, telling jokes. 

I could try to keep signing up. Being Borderline (I've posted about this before; deal with it) means I have a tendency to "split," or think in an "all or nothing" manner. And it's true. I could make it less of a "I must do this every week and get accepted in order to do this as a hobby where I get paid to do it, or it's not worth trying." But no. Quitting altogether honestly feels like the right choice. For my sanity, my happiness, my bank account, my family, my life. (Not in that order.) 

But, I'll still be "the funny one." Still embrace comedy in all its forms. We still have friends over and we go places (fuck off, omicron) and hopefully will have more company and outings in the future, (as our fears of dying or inadvertently killing loved ones with the plague diminishes). I still (hopefully) have half a life left. Lots of potential to make jokes, bring laughter, and shoot lots and lots, and lots of shit. Am I ok with this? I think so. Maybe it's denial (probably Maybelline), but I think it's healthy to examine your dream and see if it's worth it. It feels silly to pursue your heart's desire, or what you thought was your heart's desire, when it turns out to be middling to fair. Pursue a nonsensical dream, or ask yourself: is your waking life better? Yes. 

I'm glad I tried it obviously, (another check on the bucket list), but I feel like I kind of missed my chance. It's not what I thought, what I wished or wanted. And that's okay. Maybe it's time to give being a Chinaman a try...

On Transparency: Being Authentic

Social media is one of the greatest inventions of the internet. So naturally, corporations and companies and criminals (the big 3 c's) have found ways to ruin it. One of the most scary and dangerous in my opinion, is spreading of hate and lies in order to get more clicks, "engagement," and money. Another, and the one currently troubling me, is the fear of authenticity. Being afraid that having an opinion will be used against you later. Either at work, socially, etc. I love being able to retain friendships, sometimes with people I met once, some with people I've never met in person, some from decades in the past, and some that I see regularly/semi-regularly (thanks a lot, COVID). 

But it's something we don't talk about, or at least I don't talk about; or see talked about. The thing is, I want to talk about my feelings, my thoughts, my likes, dislikes, etc. I want to talk about what my children are doing, how I feel about being a parent, struggling with mental illness, complain about things from my job to my home to capitalism. But what once seemed to be a way to connect more intimately than ever before with people all over the planet, for me is now a superficial place where I am mostly bombarded with ads with increasingly creepy accuracy. 

I've heard before "if you're not buying it, you're the product being sold." And I agree; that's what Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, etc. etc. are doing. It makes me sad, and it makes me angry. This is a vent post if you couldn't tell. I still don't know if anyone is even reading this. But I'm writing it for me. 

I've written 496 entries on this blog over the space of 14 years. Quite a few years ago, I spent time trying to scrub my name and the names of others from this blog, for fear of it someday being used to keep me from being hired, to getting me fired, to getting my identity stolen, to getting someone to doxx me and finding out where I live, or whatever else they can do. What the actual fuck? 

I truly think the cause of most if not all society's problems is our lack of communication; lack of connection. And the way it's set up, it's only getting worse. I realized I haven't posted anything personal on Facebook for months because I'm afraid. Just funny memes that made me laugh. I'm sad and angry. I know that there's so much worse too. Echo chambers magnifying hate and intolerance, literally leading to murder in multiple cases. 

I don't want to blame it all on capitalism, but I want to blame a lot on it. I also hate how it seems so often the response is "yeah, capitalism is bad. But everything else is worse! Yeah, America's justice system is bad, but everything else is worse. Like I read the other day about a woman who was murdered, and her killer "had a good lawyer" so he got off with a fine or minimal jail time. And we just accept it! 

I'm going all over the place, but whatevs. If you know who this is, you may know I like filling out questionnaires on Facebook. I like to answer with inaccurate, nonsensical answers. This is because a) I enjoy making others laugh, b) I want to point out how often these answers are common password hints and you're just giving the big 3 c's more ammunition to use against you, and c) I thought I had a third one, maybe I combined b and c into b. It makes me sad tho. I'm afraid to tell you my favorite seasoning and my favorite pet's name, because I know that someone can use that information to rob my identity, my money, my future. And then we shrug and say "yeah, but it could be worse!" 

As a exmormon atheist, I'm a big fan of Brene Brown. (Not that either of those are requirements to like Brene Brown, but I've found that many exmos gravitate towards her.) If you're not familiar, her 2 big things or topics of discussion are vulnerability and authenticity. I truly believe (yet have difficulty practicing) that being vulnerable and being authentic are the best ways to live your life, the best methods to find lasting happiness, the best ways to connect and have healthy relationships. But social media seems set up to punish us for doing those things. If we're too vulnerable, we run the risk of being cancelled. If we're too authentic, we run the risk of criminals using your truth against you. And like I said, I don't know the solution. 

It's no surprise to anyone that America is divided right now. And it seems to be only getting worse. And god, I'm sick of it. I'm exhausted by it. I'm no democrat, but I am pretty fucking leftist. While I disagree with the label, most of my views are pretty communist. But I'm so sick of all the strawmen, on both sides. Tim Minchin described the arguments of the left and right being incompatible because they both begin with differing belief templates and assumptions. "Like 2 tennis players trying to win a match by executing brilliant shots from either end of separate tennis courts." We need to communicate better, more authentically, more transparent. An example I've used for years that I may have said on this blog is the arguments aren't to have a resolution; they're to win. One side wants to spend money on defense, one wants to spend the money on education. Rather than discussing the pros and cons of that, they say "my opponent would rather spend money on killing children rather than teaching them." Or, "my opponent doesn't care about your children's safety." We're not communicating, or at least not in a healthy, sustainable way. 

Another thing I hate about living in this age of post-modernism and superficial electric connection is what the fuck are we supposed to do about it? Many people agree politicians, lawyers, pundits, lobbyists, etc. are corrupt, selfish, dangerous, if not outright evil. But we throw our hands in the air and piss and moan because what the fuck can we do? We've built our cages and discovered no way out. I stopped arguing about things I care about like abortion and gun control because I realized it was completely pointless. Even if a miracle happens and I change their mind or they change my mind, so? We're nobodies doing nothing trapped in a rat maze of metaphors and helplessness. 

Life sucks. All modern American adults should be in therapy. Therapy has changed my life. And I feel I've grown so much recently. For so long I thought (one example, but applicable to others) that my loved ones would be so much happier and have more rich and fulfilling lives if they could see through (what I see as) the bullshit of organized religion. But I realized that what I also wanted was for them to accept me as I am. Not wanting to change me to come "back to the fold," but accept me as a person with autonomy and agency. And I (sadly) just barely realized I wasn't doing the same thing. I wanted my close friends and family to love and accept me for who I am and where I am in my spiritual and material journey; but I wasn't giving them the same courtesy. #LightbulbMoment

Not saying I'm cured and will never act that way again, but it made me think about social media and authenticity, and I figured I'd journal about it. But journaling has lost it's appeal; why be private about your private thoughts when authenticity is so marketable? ;) I've been so desperate for those on the right to see things the way I do, that I've been forgetting to see things the way they do. 

This is not me "coming out" and resolving to be more open and authentic online. Because I'm still afraid my leftist views may affect my career. I'm afraid my preferences and favorite things will be used against me when someone tries to use a credit card with my name or find out my bank account info or something. I'm mostly lamenting the sorry state of our shit world, and our escape into our virtual world is getting worse. I'm mad as hell, and I guess I'm gonna keep taking it some more. 

On Grief: Ted

On August 25, 2020, I lost my first grandparent. I've been dealing with it for awhile, and now I want to (and finally feel like I can) write about it. 

First of all, I must admit how fortunate I have been to have all my grandparents in my life nearly four decades. And even more fortunate, that they were all remarkable humans and loving role models of the type of person I could and strive to be. 

But to lose this grandparents first is possibly the hardest. Nothing at all against the other three. This man more than pretty much anyone else was who I looked up to, loved, admired, and wanted to be like. And approved by. 

It's been especially difficult, as an unbeliever, to lose someone. Death is final. I don't hold out for a hope that he is rejoicing with those who died before him and preparing a place for those of us left behind. Keanu Reeves of all people said what I believe in an afterlife. When asked "what do you think happens when we die?" He thought for a moment and said "I know that the ones who love us will miss us." 

I felt many things after his death. Pain that he believed I was on the wrong path, that I was wicked, deceived, or unhappy. The last thing he said to me was "I hope you feel the love of the Lord." I wanted him to accept me as I am. I know he did, but losing him while believing so differently in life and death made the pain especially acute. I felt a strong sense of unfairness. I believe that this man deserved heaven more than anyone I think I've met. But I think his consciousness ceased at time of death, and the only life he has left is what those who loved him and miss him remember.

I want to write about my memories of him, as a way to keep him alive, honor his memory, and to deal with the pain of losing him forever. 

--

Memories of Grandpa

I don't have this memory, but I have the memories of having it recounted to me many times. That in the magical time of childhood I can no longer recall, I asked to have my haircut "like grandpa." To have no hair on top and hair on the sides. I regrettably got my wish (but my wish to be a millionaire Chinese doctor has yet to come to fruition), but this I think illustrates my admiration of this man. Since before I can remember, I looked up to him literally and figuratively as the coolest and most wonderful person in my life. 

He was a loving grandparent who spelled love "t-i-m-e." He would play hide and seek with me often. Even when other adults sought his attention. He made me feel special and important. We would act out Disney scenes together, such as the crocodile chasing Captain Hook. I would "tick tock... tick tock" as he ran around in terror to be saved by Smee. Or the less than politcally correct scene from song of the south of Brer Rabbit vs the Tar Baby, and the subsequent trip to the Briar Patch. 

He was a builder and could make and fix anything. Sadly, my clumsy klutz of a self was unable to pick up much of his craftsmanship. He was a gardener and I mostly enjoyed the (literal) fruits of his labor, at least once eating every single berry he had grown, much to his chagrin.

He never showed anger. I don't know if he was capable of it, tho my mother and her siblings can probably attest otherwise. He was meek and serene and seemed like whenever someone needed help he was there. Not in a reluctant or even eager way. In a matter-of-fact way. Charity and service was who he was. 

He used to pay me 5 cents for every 2 snails I killed in his gardens. So I guess I earned some of the devoured plums, peaches, tangelos, nuts, and berries. I bought G.I. Joes with my money. I remember at least once a trip to the toy store and buying a toy with all nickels and pennies. 

Another example of who he was: He was his wife's husband. I never before or since have met a man so devoted and in love with his wife. His example is one I try to (probably not always successfully) extend to my own spouse. One could see and feel the love he had for his beloved, in the service and care he always provided to her. 

I remember taking trips to the store where he would explain the technology of automatic doors, and trips I'd take with cousins in the back of his Nissan pickup truck. 

He was for the longest time the smartest person I knew. My parents would often have him help with homework, as he seemed to know just about everything. 

He was a giant most of my life, it was surreal when I finally surpassed him in height. I'll probably never come close to his stature as a person. But he's been and always will be a standard and a goal to hope to measure up to. 

I remember countless piggyback rides and rides on his shoulders, the nursery rhymes and songs, the stories he'd read. He had a literal wall of books in his home, and I'm fairly confident they were not for decoration. He was well read and read often, and taught me a love of learning and reading. 

He was the most fit and healthy person I knew, without ever seeming like a health nut. His health wasn't an obsession, it was taking care of the body he had. He did calisthenics every day, and I would often join him running up and down the stairs and stretching. Yet another reason it's shocking he died. His body was well worn but cared for like an antique clock that kept the time despite its gears aging. He'd take us to the beach and was this older/old man getting in the waves and body surfing. 

I remember him taking us on hikes in the beautiful canyons nearby where we lived. I remember going camping with him. His knowledge of and respect for nature passed on (at least some of it) to me. 

I remember that he would eat literally anything if it meant it wouldn't go to waste. His neighbors would give him their grass clippings that he could use as fertilizer for his amazing garden. 

I remember the respect and admiration anyone who met him had for him. Even adults I could see who were confrontational, difficult, rude, unliked by many, etc. all liked him and treated him well. And he always treated them better. 

He built me a frame for a clubhouse I was so eager to build and then quickly gave up on when I realized the work involved. But he never made me feel lazy or guilty for it. I don't think he ever said anything to me about it. 

I remember stories of his ingenuity, from using a pump and a hot metal roof to solar heat a swimming pool, to designing the California aqueduct. Designing homes for his family, my parents family, and friends and others. I remember stories of his career and talent/skill largely going unnoticed due to crappy management, but his stoicism and gratitude for life that never seemed to tarnish his ego or outlook. 

I remember him flying to Texas to help my family and to be with me when I was undergoing chemotherapy. I remember his palpable love and concern in what was the hardest part of my life. I remember relying on him and his unwavering support and love. 

My brother and I used to tease him that, while appearing always happy or at least never angry, we never heard him laugh. We'd try and try various attempts at humor and always be met with a placating "Heh, heh. Ah yes." And then I remember the surprise and delight in finally hearing him not just laugh, but burst out laughing/guffawing/loling at... Dilbert. I couldn't ever make him laugh, but Scott Adams sure could. 

I remember that not only was he intelligent, he was wise. He was compassionate. And I think the intelligence and wisdom drove that compassion. Or maybe it was the other way around. Maybe he taught himself so many things and was so smart so he could care for his beloved wife and help others. Or maybe in his studies he learned that the only thing worth being is compassionate. He was both, and I like to think one influenced the other. 

He was faithful. Devoted to his church and its teachings, convinced in the divine nature of the Book of Mormon and the divine calling of Joseph Smith. When I came out of the atheist closet, he was the first person who seemed willing to talk to me about it. (Admittedly, this was after he literally 'called me to repentance,' which wasn't as helpful to either of us as he probably would have liked). But when we finally talked one one one, he didn't preach at me like those in my stake, or contend/argue with me like friends I lost or damaged relationships with, or pretend like nothing had changed like others did. He sat down with me for several hours and asked me how I felt and what I thought, and listened. Sadly he didn't convince me one way or the other, nor I him. But he was respectful and kind and really heard me, which I needed. 

I don't know if there's life after death. I don't believe there is. However, I do see the appeal. I wish there was evidence for it. I think that, whether he's in heaven or his remains are in the ground in a cemetery, he made the world a better place for anyone who met him, and many who never met him. Heaven can be had on this earth with more people like him. I don't know what happened after he died, but I know I love him and miss him. 

On Transition: Austin's Having a Midlife Crisis!?

 Apparently I've got 4 posts I started but didn't finish. Let's see how this one goes. 

It's happening; I can feel it. No gold loop earring, new car that's too fast for me, new girlfriend that's too young for me. Mortality creeps up on me, prowling in the background while I try to push through each day, the only goal to get through it. 

Guilt is a sonofabitch. Guilt for wasted potential, guilt for not being the father I want to be or think I'm supposed to be. Feeling like I'm failing my children every day being a cog in the capitalist machine I willingly thrust myself into. I'm reflecting a lot, but that means my thoughts are all over the place, like ripples in a pond, or pebbles on the beach. 

I work 5 days a week making someone else rich. Most of us do just that. For what? We spend 40-ish years of drudgery, hoping to have maybe 10-20 years of frugal freedom? Hold onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, if I work hard enough, what? I get to be that person who exploits the labor of other people, made rich on the backs of the working class? What are my options here? Spin in a tiny cage, hoping to trade up for a bigger cage, until the cells and atoms we've called Austin become something else in the cosmos. I remember hearing the older you get, the more conservative you'll get. When is that supposed to happen? I don't want to protect my money and way of life: I want a revolution. But one I can sit back and watch I guess. Being disabled has a few benefits, like a ready excuse to avoid actually doing anything. 

I struggle with suicidal ideation and behavior. That should be no surprise to people who know me or have read more than a couple posts on this blog. It feels like the only logical decision. To escape the machine, prevent my life force and time to be gobbled up by a bottomless pit of a monster that's never satisfied, never full. But, I've been in therapy long enough to know those thoughts, that seem real, are most likely nothing of the sort. A reality I construct to cope with the world as I interpret it. 

I don't want you to worry about my safety. I'm fine. Just trying to get feelings out that have been stuck inside for too long as I've been too preoccupied with toil and the day-to-day and finding anything to numb my mind from the disappointment to myself I am. That didn't help, did it. Too cheery? 

I look at my kids and see myself at their age, and worse (sorry mom and dad) see myself at my parents age. The stories they told me about growing up were akin to myths and legends: things that happened before my birth that seem exciting and improbable, and things I can never experience. And now my memories are similar. The rollicking times with cousins and pillow forts, imaginations, "marbles and piracies" are "tears in the rain." Experiences are so fleeting, memories so subjective. I feel like I fail my children every day as I struggle to provide a life I don't want and don't deserve. I'm not explaining it well. 

I'm transitioning. In transition. I feel it. Like my brain is defragmenting. Like it's rearranging and reassessing all the memories, all the experiences that make up myself and my worldview. From a naïve dreamer to a broken-winged sparrow. I'm just pushing each day to get closer to death. We all are. Some of us just have the hope that there's something after. Worth pushing for. 

Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn't have left religion. Saying that wrong. I wonder if I'm not the kind of person, or my psyche is one that would have thrived better with a belief in a supreme administrator and a pie in the sky. I'm sure I sound condescending AF to those who do believe in those things, and I apologize. But it's my blog and my dime we're on, so #dealwithit 

I believe in no god, no afterlife. So this life should mean more. I often feel that way; I really do. "We all have two lives, and the second one begins when we realize we only have one." I feel like I need to read Proust. Or maybe just watch this video again: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9mLdo4uMJUU

I struggle for meaning in life. I love my family. My wife, my children. The 2-3 of you reading this. I agree with Proust that love isn't the meaning of life. It can't be. It's something to fill your time and your mind/heart, one of the better ones, but there's more. Or at least something different. Proust says it's art. Not like looking at painting and sculpture and Tracey Emin's bed. Or like creating paintings or sculpture or literature or a shark in formaldehyde. Proust encourages art and artists because they help us see the world differently. It shakes us out of the day-to-day drudgery and appreciate the small and big things we're often too busy or focused to see. I do feel like this is the answer. Not seeking fame or a "fancied life an another's breath" (Pope, not Proust). Not in seeking love, that provides many of life's greatest highs but also deepest depths. But in seeking and creating "Proustian Moments." 

I think that's the answer, but don't expect to see me visiting the new galleries of the Louvre or making a trip to India anytime soon. And not just because of COVID. But I do want to enjoy my life. I want to encourage others to do the same. Everything is so fucking overwhelming. I don't have time to slow down and smell the roses, even tho I know from experience those roses will likely be better than whatever is too damn important to keep me from the life I wish I could live. 

Sheesh this is all over the place. But it's important to me to get it out of my head. I have a good life. I have an amazing partner and wonderful children. I have a challenging yet rewarding job, an actual home, lots of things to be grateful for. But I find myself saying the words David Byrne new I would say "this is not my beautiful house. This is not my beautiful wife." Meaning it's not the life I thought I'd have, the life I wanted, the life I expected. (fyi Tracie you are everything I wanted in a partner. I hope you see it as the metaphor it's intended to be, not a verbalization of not wanting you in my life. I do. I so do. I'm just trying to express my feelings of growth, change, and confusion and disappointment.)
 I see every moment I fail my children as something that will shape their personalities and memories forever. That the one time I get angry will shape them more than the 100 times I try to do something nice. I feel such an obligation to them to make them functional healthy people. But then I take a step back and ask - do I want to raise them to be part of the machine I wish I wasn't in? And what's the alternative? Grow up to be homeless? To be drifters? Communist Revolutionaries? Actually, that one doesn't sound so bad. ;) 

I feel so trapped living in a world that has been set up so carefully and cleverly to keep the ruling class ruling and the working class working. To have the realization that the people you read about in history books, the people on the big screen, you'll never be them. Despite the wonderful advances of society that I have luxuries many people in history couldn't imagine, I'm still part of the peasantry. And I don't want to be in the upper class. That's Proust's first realization. (According to the video, he said in a sophomoric way only a man on the internet can say). The ruling class isn't better, isn't a goal to strive towards. But to see people hoard wealth and resources so billionaires can go to space or buy yachts the size of cities or whatever else they do, when they could solve so many problems is depressing and infuriating. It's also depressing and infuriating to see so many bootlickers eager to maintain the status quo. Claiming Communism doesn't work, while we toil in a crumbling society of Capitalism that's not working either. 

I don't mean to make a manifesto. I don't know what I mean, what I want. That's kind of the point. I'm journaling, not announcing, proclaiming, or even suggesting anything. I'm hanging on to the familiarity of 10-20 ish years ago when we did this more often, before social media killed blogs as we knew them. I'm growing up, pushing 40, and feeling depressed and disappointed in the person I am, the father and husband and friend I want to be vs the reality. 

One of the constant phrases of my life is "not good enough." And I hates it, precious. It ensures a steady source of nourishment for my BPD and depression. Because it's so poorly defined, it's a moving target and I can make sure I can never hit it. Because there's never a "If I do/achieve/am x, then I'll be "good enough." Good enough for anything. I'm in therapy which believe it or not is helping tremendously, and I'm trying to let go. Trying to say goodbye to and outgrow the coping mechanisms that kept me safe, but also kept my development stunted. Trying to leave unhealthy thoughts and habits that no longer help. You know. Growing up. 

Over the last year I've lost 3 grandparents. One of the posts I started that I alluded to at the beginning was trying to deal with the loss of just one of them. I'm trying to focus on how fortunate I've been, to have 4 living grandparents. Who aren't just living, but loving and accepting and an active part of my life. With their loss, I think part of my transition and brain reorganization has been influenced if not activated by that. The memories of myself and my grandparents and our relationship is now my children and my parents, if I'm making sense. It's so hard to explain, but I hope I'm saying enough to get it through to anyone. Grandparents seemed older when I was 6 than when my daughter is 6. Parents seemed older when they were 39 than when I am. 

And I know this is part of life. This realization is not new, not unique. I know that. But it's still hard. It's work to rearrange your brain, and see experiences through new eyes. Which was kind of Proust's point or goal: (boom, didn't even mean to make a callback. Nice.)

"The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but having new eyes."

I'm on one hand excited to have new eyes. Even if it means closer to death. Closer to what I believe is oblivion. Which, by the way, I'll be really pissed if it turns out we get the afterlife we believe in. I'd like to be proven wrong. The part of me that hopes for an afterlife and benevolent dictator is afraid that I'll die and won't know it, while the party in heaven goes on forever. Maximum FOMO. Except I won't have it obviously. I do hope that, if there is any sort of afterlife, that it's as close to the ending of "The Good Place" as possible. (WATCH THE SHOW if you haven't.) Ramble ramble rambo ram's blood ramrod. 

So yeah. That's about it. tl;dr life is fleeting, and Austin is aging. Stay tuned for more. When I get the mood to write, I wanna keep at it.