Namely, my ego's deep, inner desire to commit inevitable suicide off of a high rise of its own meticulous construction. Here's a diagram illustrating the process:
This shows the process by which my ego spontaneously decides (upon little more than the merest glance at a new idea, skill, or dangerous martial talent) that I am and have always been the secret hero of that activity, the tragically-wasted-until-just-now natural master of its every nuance and secret, and that the world has been breathlessly awaiting my unveiling as such so it can shower me with laurels and other delicious spices of victory.* I truly believe that I can do anything... and that constant, passive belief brings to my existence great amounts of potential damage to emotional health (and sometimes to body). This is because in twenty-seven years of life, it has at times become evident that my ego's gaseous willingness to expand and fill a space of virtually any height, length and depth is actually not all that supportable all of the time.
*A laurel is not a spice; do not try to eat one, as they are poisonous. Also, Wikipedia was in
no way involved between the original comment and the creation of this corrective footnote
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| Sadly less than a rare disaster; For me, this is just a Wednesday afternoon. |
*Circa nineteen hours of work, including extensive research on how to draw a bird professionally
Let's follow along with the diagram, and punctuate it with a notable example or two of some of the personal experiences I've had which highlight this mental trend of mine. We'll start at the beginning.
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| My ego doesn't just talk, it puts contractions within contractions, like Kanye. Wait... did that sound egotistical? |
Here at the starting line we have a fairly standard ego moment. It's doing well. It's enthusiastic about life; it's not huddled in a ball in a cupboard under the stairs begging for a magic letter to arrive and change everything. So far, we're doing good. Life is a challenge, and our ego is a little stick man with its arms thrown wide to take it all on. Unfortunately, it's also afflicted with a level of ADHD which makes it compulsively start doing things without the standard steps of stopping, thinking, or tying its shoes first. So it, upon perceiving anything resembling a challenge, dashes straight into whatever the situation may be. For the purposes of fleshing this out, we'll follow just two of my own personal examples from my mental DO NOT OPEN PLEASE EVER AGAIN file cabinet:
- An evening of karaoke at a friend's birthday celebration,
and
- A two-day hiking/camping trip that served as a friend's bachelor party
My ego proceeds cheerfully into the building to see what's going on.
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| I feel like he needs to slow down, or he's gonna pull a groin muscle or something. |
STAGE 1: CONCEPT
In this stage of the Kung-Fu Pagoda of Ego, some Concept is idly introduced. This may be someone mentioning something in passing, or me sitting on my own watching YouTube videos of highly-trained parkourists (sorry, traceurs as they're properly called, you methodical twit*), or more rarely someone triple dog daring me to do something.
*Yes. You.
Note that the little ego man doesn't hesitate at all, but cheerfully starts ascending the stairs of that concept. This isn't a thought process, because I am a committee of one and my ego is sort of chairman of that particular board. There was no election, either. It was a hostile takeover.
I arrive at the restaurant for She-Friend's birthday celebration, Sister and Girlfriend-At-The-Time (GATT) in tow. She-Friend and her group already have a table, so we join them. Offhand, somebody mentions that it's karaoke night. My reaction? "Great! Pass me that book. I wonder if there're any songs I know." I do not generally sing.
I receive an email from Best Friend's Best Man, informing me that the bachelor party will be consisting of zero (0) strippers (mixed reaction; I'm sort of fond of boobs, but also sort of afraid of strange suddenly-naked women, so I'm both dismayed and relieved), zero (0) pints of beer (happy face; I hate the stuff), and one (1) grueling hike with overnight camping trip up and down a mountain about two hours drive from my home (as the crow flies; it's around nine hours on a burro, because burros are lazy). My reaction? "Sure! Sounds great. I'll gather up my stuff." I own no hiking nor camping gear.
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| Look, dude, you think this level of professional-grade artwork is easy? Fine. YOU draw the next one. |
STAGE 2: WITNESS
Here at the second floor of the Kung-Fu Pagoda of Willing Ego Suicide, my ego gets to Witness someone attempting, completing, or even downright acing the holy hell out of the action I am currently failing to adequately contemplate (while also attempting to navigate stairs that were apparently made for Paul Bunyan, or Clifford or something). Someone somewhere has done it before, and I get to watch them try, with varying degrees of success that are usually in some way attached to the first-floor Concept mentioning. If the person who first mentioned it doesn't then proceed directly to providing a Witness example, I will usually go curiously exploring around later on my own time for a visual/audio source of the idea in action. Which inevitably goes back to online videos, and stuff like this*, or THIS**, or even this***.
* 1:22 - No hands!
** 1:45 - 0010100011
*** 0:32 - No effing joke
She-Friend and Sister get up to sing a duet together, while I watch. They make it look pretty easy; Sister had a couple of drinks to get loose before she took the mic, sure, but everyone seems to be laughing, enjoying and cheering them on all the same. I bet I can do this, too, without needing to be buzzed or drunk first (I don't generally drink). In fact, I probably don't need to prepare at all.
I've been hiking before, even if it isn't exactly the same. It'll be similar, right? Well, I've taken long walks. Sometimes whole rooms at a time, crossed. On foot. I haven't been exercising, lifting, or running for about two years, and I spend most of my time eating and then secreting food, but pssshhh I know how to hike. 'Snot even hard. One foot in front of the other. Duh. And camping? Try sleeping. I am the sleep master. Hours of drilling each and every day. I'm golden for this.
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| He seriously does climb every one of these metaphorical buildings he happens across. |
STAGE 3: HYPOTHESIS
On level three of the Kung-Fu Pagoda of Willing and Often Assisted Ego Suicide... a hypothesis forms, a worming little snake of an idea in the dark corners of my mind. It starts as a tiny little nubblin, poking its head out of the topsoil of whatever passes for earth inside my mind, just saying hi to the air. Then it sort of wriggles up, and whispers a tiny bit, something like "pssswsssyourdestinyssssswwsspsspsssw," and I cock my head to try to hear better and it obliges by crawling out more and getting a bit louder, "pspspsswsswwwyouwerebornforthisthingyoujustnowdiscoveredssspssswpsssswsss." And I think, yeah, what if? You know, what if I was actually made not for writing, or for someday helping to make a baby and perpetuating my genetic line like a normal carbon-based human life-form, but in fact was created solely to be, say, the very epitome of all martial artists anywhere, ever? Hm? What's that? What evidence do I have to even consider such a thing as a possibility, having never had any training nor practice nor even a basic affinity for combat, violence, or flawless perfect grace in motion? Well, what evidence do you have that I'm not, smart guy? Huh? Yeah, that's right, Voice of Reason. Sit your sensible ass back down and be quiet. I'm listening to Sinister Hypothesis Worm right now.
This idea, having taken root, somehow acquires a megaphone without even doing anything to earn one. It's just there, in its hand. Also, it has a hand.
Karaoke's a pretty good idea. Hey, you know what would be neat? Man... what if I turned out to be, like, great at it? Or no... better than great. What if everyone I ever met for the rest of my life following tonight told me I should be on American Idol, all the way up until I was on there but left the show of my own volition before the final vote, stepping down in a cloud of mystery and nobility to pursue my own deeper calling somewhere? All the ladies would be like, "where'd that one guy go? I wanted to vote for him six times a minute," but I'd be halfway up a Tibetan mountain on a pilgrimage by then, singing myself gently to sleep each night with the newfound voice of a sexy masculine angel. That would be fun.
That guy at the bar has hair like Ryan Seacrest.
...That's it. I'm gonna do it.
I'm a little older than all these other guys, come to think of it. Best Friend's always been a bit stronger than me, physically... hm. Seems like the kind of thing that would be an advantage here, if I didn't already know that I was born to hike without even having to try. Clearly I haven't tapped into my deep inner physical potential, which I now realize can only be brought to full flower by the act of hiking with other, better-prepared people, yet still doing it better than them. Can a person win at hiking?
I'ma find out how, and I'm gonna do it.
I'm gonna hike the shit out of that mountain.
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| This is exactly what I look like when I go up or down stairs in real life. |
STAGE 4: BELIEF
By the fourth floor of the Kung-Fu Pagoda of All-Too Willing and Often Assisted Ego Suicide... we've left reality entirely, though I know it not. I've traversed the most precarious, unwise, backwoods, thin-ice, overgrown game trail of a line of reasoning to get to the place where I feel (very unwisely) comfortable throwing some dice on something. I don't look at the dice, either, or notice that there are, like, four ones on each die and they're hissing in my hand with obvious hatred for me and any luck I might have brought with me. I'm too ready to go to be bothered with those niggling details. I actually Believe that I am destiny's chosen son for [insert idea or activity here]. And because I've managed all of this entirely within my own head up until this point (the entire process described here, mind you, takes me roughly sixteen seconds to start and silently complete), not even the most protective, well-meaning friend has even the slightest chance of stopping me from making an ass of myself. Most of them aren't at all aware of how they're about to be dazzled, and that's okay. The surprising memory of my debut attempt will be forever burned into their souls. This is true, but not in the way that I have misled myself to think.
...I'm not just another guy here at karaoke tonight. My goodness, how could I not have seen it before? I haven't really worked my voice out in years, or practiced singing where any living being could possibly see or hear me, but I can see now the way fate has chosen to direct me. It brought me here tonight so I could stand up, take that mic, and belt out a song so beautifully, so flawlessly, so incredibly alluringly heart-stoppingly arousingly perfectly, that Sister would be amazed. GATT would take me home that night and ruin a full set of perfectly good clothes by ripping them off in a passionate furor, which would be sort of annoying once I had the time to slow down and think about it but in the moment would be totally okay. She-Friend's birthday would nevermore be the celebration of the anniversary of her birth, but the memory of the day I found my one truest calling, redefining music itself.
You know what? I'm young, I'm physically capable of being fit. I'm healthy. I don't smoke. Obviously these base prerequisites are more than sufficient to ensure my ability to get up and down one silly mountain in front of four other guys. I mean, getting down the other side isn't even a challenge. People fall down mountains all the time just by stepping poorly and sort of losing themselves in the joy of the moment. I could probably just sprint to the top, leaving a dust trail for the other guys to coughingly follow for the next four hours only to find me sitting serenely at the top inside the hastily-built summer house I constructed while I was waiting for them to catch up. I won't do that, of course, because I'm a nice person. But they probably feel in their hearts that it's a definite threatening possibility, and will be grateful to me when I don't, and give me extra food at dinner in unspoken tribute.
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| I wish there was a trapdoor for roof access on every building. I really like climbing ladders, for some reason. |
STAGE 5: ATTEMPT
On the fifth and top floor, the Really Effing Longname Pagoda finally brings its A-game to the table. This is what it's all been for, the grand culmination of the huge buildup. I'm all set on confidence (completely ethereal) and practically overprepared with hard, factual knowledge (an amalgamation of rumors, hearsay, and things I just made up entirely over the past quarter-minute) on the subject. It's time to dance. Or sing. Or jump off of something.
I stand up and make my way to the front. I grip the mic in my hand, which is a little bit sweaty for some reason I don't have time to think about, because I'm completely distracted by my rapid heartbeat which is suddenly so loud I start to worry that they won't be able to hear the music over it. Then there's some problem with the CD player, and it takes a minute to get the music queued up properly, and as I stand up there awkwardly in the silence during the time perfectly allotted to actually giving some thought to why my hands might be sweaty and my heart racing (like oh as if THIS IS A REALLY, REALLY BAD IDEA AND YOUR PALM IS IMMUNE TO YOUR PAGODA NONSENSE LISTEN TO MEEEEEEE), I instead turn my mind to the snacks and appetizers back on the table. Those were tasty snacks, and I can't wait to get back to them after I blast this song off the books and into the hearts and minds of the audience. They'll taste sweeter with the sauce of victory on them anyway. The music kicks in. I grip the mic, leaning into it slightly, and put my sexy face on. Time to change some lives.
The morning of the hike arrives and I stumble out to the car to meet the others. A good hike begins at whatever the hindcrack of dawn happens to be, it turns out, minus one hour for luck. I've packed myself a backpack full of the barest essentials (six small flashlights, ONE [1] bottle of water, my Nintendo DS, a steel hatchet, my buck knife, a change of clothes, and no food; who needs food in the forest? I have a hatchet. I am Natty effing Bumppo, bitches). When we all arrive at the base of the mountain hours later, the sun is just beginning to rise. The other guys pull out their rigs, great big backpacks that look like tiny buildings complete with girders and scaffoldings. They've got tents, bedrolls, and food. Everyone looks at me, but I'm examining the sky. What a pretty sky. We'd better get going. I don't want to have to stop for you guys too often.
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| If real birds would just look like m's, everything would be easier for everyone to draw. |
The music kicks in. The song I chose? "Lose Yourself." By Eminem.
Oh, no.
OH NO.
WHAT HAVE I DONE? I have to perform this right now? Who am I? How did I get up here?!
Oh, shit, the music... Uh... "Look... if you had... one shot... or one opportunity... to seize everything you ever wanted..."
Two minutes up the mountain, my feet start to hurt. Oh, no. I forgot my insoles.
.....kinda hungry.
Wait... insoles?? What about food? What the hell am I going to eat for two days of heavy physical activity? Really? I didn't bring anything? Where have I been these past weeks? Was there no food for sale near there? What am I going to sleep on? This is a goddamned forest. The woods. I don't have any fur. I'm going to freeze and die. Best Friend is forever going to remember his bachelor party as the morning they awoke to find me lying dead in my own poop, with a deer eating my stupid video games. This was a terrible plan. There was no plan. I'm going to die and be an embarrassment, or live and be a burden on the other guys. Well. Damn. It. Nothing to do but keep walking.
...Why the hell does this mountain have to go up all the time?
I don't want to keep being like this. It gets me into trouble. But on the other hand, since I apparently am possessed of a shining nucleic internal confidence center that is (for some reason) naturally immune to such diseases as "embarrassment," "shame" and "fear," it's probably only these periodic backfires of colossal ridiculity that keep me from floating away entirely full of myself. A good thing in immensely complex disguise? Perhaps. Should you ever spot a slow-moving, oddly-me-looking dirigible moving across a beautiful sunset sky some twilight evening, we'll both know the Pagoda has failed me. In the opposite way.
...And yes. I really did spit some Eminem on the mic in front of a crowded restaurant full of strangers. Someone threw an ice cube at me, but I think it's only because some kinder person stopped him, mid-heave, from throwing the entire stocked bar at me, and one cube slipped out.
Welcome to the ongoing glory of my life.
Stay tuned.
my brother, the one whose does parkour enough to make me look like a baby trying to walk, has a fun comment on that guy...might wanna pick your examples a little better there dude...that guy had no flow :-D and the LXD guys rocked, but in the words of Demetri Martin, every dance is the robot, just depends on the level of sophistication.
ReplyDeleteAs far as this massive building of potential suicide goes, next time you have an idea to do one of these things, get a second or even third opinion. Make a list, or practice. If you plan on doing karaoke, get rock band or something. That way we will all suck at pretending to be good at music together!