Split second shithead [ryan]

1.31.08
Seattle State Library, WA.
7:12p

The Seattle state library is large. It’s weird to be surrounded by all these books and no coffee. Everyone is quiet, and I finally feel forced to also be quiet– it’s rare. I’m loud. My friends all know how much. And yes, even though my “friends” don’t really know me in a lot of other areas– not because they are terrible friends, but because who could possibly know all the multi-dimensionality which is me [it's rhetorical, yes, but the implied answer is no one, ugh, backspin, pose]–but this, this they know about me and are correct. I’m friggin loud. I never come to the library. I’m here now though. I love it. I love to be in rare form. I love to be rare form, always. Hm. raise eyebrow. But if one is always rare, does the rarity wane? At what point? shrug shoulders. everyone thinks they’re rare. funny. Why are we all convinced that we are the only real true rarities? Is it, I mean, can it be, that everyone is rare? Simultaneously? People who think they know math say no, not everyone can be rare–Oh, I’ve done the number crunching analysis necessary, says me, O’ hypothetical math person, I know this is a mathematical impossibility, surely, something rare is only rare if it is unique, different from the rest… of course rare can’t stay rare if it’s the norm.

I think that we are all rare.

It’s the wondering if you’re rare that makes you common.

And a lot of people wonder. We’re always doing it.

A lot of people wonder, creating the illusion of a constant state of collective commonness, which in turn creates the illusion of rarity.

But this is all an illusion.

Anyone can be rare, always.

It’s the wondering if you’re rare that makes you common.

Wondering if you are truly rare, or just some average bum, temporarily renders the implicit rarity within you useless. You become common in that moment. You become the bum you fear you might become. You become worse than an animal who can’t second guess. You become unable to become. You become doubt. Doubt. Fear. Hell. Same fucking thing. I’m realizing that asking the question of–whether or not you are rare, whether or not you are the real deal, truly talented, or gifted, or kind, or loving, or loved, or thoughtful, or actually skilled in this area or that–is what makes you a loser, for that moment. A split second shithead.

Reader: Shit, do I do that?

me: LOSER!

O reader, you are not a loser, and neither am I, but yet, don’t we lose, often?

Often? Rare? What the? It’s all relative, who can answer such vagueness!

Everyone knows it’s all relative, but no one knows “relative to what!”

If you are convinced you are rare, truly convinced–then you are rare; even if for simply being truly convinced of it.

Show me someone who is truly convinced of this rarity within, and I will say wow, you really showed me someone, I was being hypothetical.

If we were to truly, once and for all, finally be convinced of how cool we all really are, we would, in that moment, become forever cool. We would solve ourselves. But who can be that cool?

Yes, the fonz, who else?

mm hm. Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, who else?

yes, yes, I agree, that’s it, those 3 people. and everyone else is asking the question, wondering–am I cool?

do I fit it?

do people really like me, or do they just make like they do?

They don’t respect me, when all I do is…

You know what, they’re just jealous…

You know what, I’m not like those others, I don’t do what they do, I’m…

All of this, just bullshit we say to cover up the fact that we’re wondering; wondering if we are for real; wondering if we are not the hypocrisy we see in everyone–especially our closest friends.

If you’re reading this saying, mm hm, that’s right ryan, I know a lot of people who could benefit from this here blog, I’m with you, I know what you’re saying, I never doubt my…

bullshit. you are the biggest shit head of us all.

We all wonder.

But let’s stop.

Wondering. Wandering. Losering.

I’m typing this furiously right now, to make up for all the noise I can’t make, or shouldn’t– I suppose I could, if I wanted to be a dick, but I don’t, not now anyhow–it’s the library, I get it, we’ve all technically agreed to the semi-silence, the monk-like audio-sphere of this here tax paid institution, and so instead of noise I make sense. Ugh. Feel that sense bitches. Sense pounding through these fingers like balls against the taint of your basal ganglia. Yes, I feel it’s appropriate to magically create a taint in your brain for kicks. If I was at borders, fuck everyone, I’m being loud. You came to study for your medical exams? Tough shit. It’s borders dumb fuck; I just had 2 expressos, die amidst my verbal spillage you common med student! Who fucking comes to study quietly at a caffeinated joint where they spin trip hop on volume 6 1/2? It’s a cafe fuck face, we’re talking, and we’re being loud.

Hi. I’m rare.

This is my half moon cyclops egg which I ate this morning; it too is rare.