I do keep up with this place, though. Oh yes, I read all of your posts. Ok, some of your posts. If they're short. Well...like, I think I read one person's journal, and yes, since you're wondering, it's yours.
That's not to say I don't like my job. I've mentioned it before, several times, because I grow weary of people constantly moaning about their jobs, or co-workers, or school, or lack of a job, or whatever it is people moan about, so ideally I refuse to be one. And yet, when I talk about my job, it's in a moaning tone, not because I mean it, but because it's ingrained in me that that's what people do, and I don't want to start any revolutions, so I play along.
But now that I mention it, why do people complain so much? "I hate my job, I hate the people at my job, I hate my apartment, I hate this town, I hate my life..." You know, no one is forcing you to keep any of those things.
Which brings me to my point, I think. That is, I think it's my point, but then that all might change by the time I'm finished typing. Probably not, though, because I usually grow weary of typing after about ten minutes, at which point, assuming most people care about as much as I do, you won't be reading anymore anyway, so why bother? So, on to the point.
The point is, I'm really truly leaning towards quitting my job. Why? I dunno. I just feel like it, and there's no one here to tell me otherwise. What will I do instead? Well, I've got this thing brewing where I'll actually be making real music for game developers for (a little bit of) real money. I'd be a musician. That sounds rosy, and by rosy I mean sexy, and by sexy I mean, "bring on the ladies, except not the ones who like eating out, because I'm suddenly broke."
But then there's this other thing bouncing around in my head, and it baffles me a bit. I'm not the outdoorsy type. I never have been. I used to spend a great deal of time outdoors, but only because all my friends where horribly outdoorsy, and dragged me into the great outdoors to "have a good time." I've always had a better time indoors, enjoying artificial food, an artificial atmosphere, artificial people, and some artificial adventure transmitted through a screen. But I've recently (involuntarily) stopped taking all things for granted, and I have asked myself "why" I never really enjoyed the outdoors. As it turns out, I have often enjoyed the outdoors. I've often preferred the outdoors, under certain circumstances. The times when I've really loathed nature is limited to the times when people would drag me out to "do something" in it, which was pretty much my whole childhood.
Take backpacking, for a prime example. I hate backpacking. Again, I've asked myself, "why," and I've decided to explore the answer, rather than treating it as obvious, obvious though it may be.
For one thing, Backpacking involves camping, and I hate camping. Why? I can sleep on the ground, so it's not that. It's that I'm always cold. I've camped in warm places, and it wasn't so bad. Why was I always cold when camping? Because I've always gone in my old rotten beat up jeans and army jacket, mocking the jerks in their trendy fancy "outdoor" gear, shivering and ceasing to function all the while. No one needs to spell out the error of my ways. This problem can be solved, and the solution is "get with the program, or stay inside."
The other, and much larger, reason I hate backpacking is that it's hard work with no point. The idea is to move your body and all that is necessary for survival from point A to point B on foot. Why? Because point B is better, for some unknown reason? Of course not. Because point B is the end of the journey? Well if the whole point of the journey is to end the journey, why'd we start the journey to begin with? None of these questions can be adequately answered, which reveals the ultimate truth: the chief end of backpacking is pointless misery.
There is one more reason I always loathed backpacking. People never just SHUT UP when they're backpacking. They always blather on and on about how "great this is, and the other time when we were backpacking, and there's this other backpacking trip I'd like to do, and there was this one guy while he was backpacking..." and on and on and on. Then you arrive at your first camp sight, and it's a circus of, "who's going to get the water? I have the wrong tent poles! Somebody make a fire. I have to take a dump!" As if being in the wilderness suddenly gives you permission to share every aspect of your personal life, including when you have to pinch one off, and exactly where this one will be pinched off. Then you get around to dinner. "Where's the pot? Not that pot! Who's got the rice? I know how to make this one camping meal that's out of this world, but I don't have the ingredients. Have you ever tried this spice on thay dish? By the way, where's the butter? Don't you have the butter? We forgot the butter! Oh well, our stir fry will be burnt, but that's backpacking, and gee isn't it grand!?"
It's about here that I decide I'm having a horrible time and I want everyone to die quickly.
If you've made it this far (and I wouldn't have, so congratulations) and you still care (<---again) you might be wondering, as I am, how I managed to jump so rapidly from quitting my job, to being a starving musician, to the horrors of backpacking. You must take a step back and look at the big picture to see the common thread here. The common thread is bigfoot, obviously. I've been rather enthusiastic about the sasquatch thing for a few years now. Why? Because I think ( and i may be wrong) that buried deep inside this artificial creature of comfort, there is a dormant explorer, who would gladly do without the soft sofa and mindless meals for the thrill of discovery, and because I genuinely believe that there is plenty of things out there to be discovered, bigfoot being only one.
Oh yes, I strongly believe in the squatch, largly on the grounds that people don't get out much. The typical bigfoot scoffer says something along the lines of, "You really believe that there's an 8 foot tall upright walking monkey roaming around America and we've never discovered it!?" and they laugh, because it sounds so silly. People with this attitude are people who have a picture of civilization that smothers every corner of the globe in some way. When they look at a map, they look for the cities, towns, and other tiny dots representing civilization, and the tiny threads connecting them that represent roads, and they don't even see or comprehend the massive spaces between these dots and lines that take up almost the entire page to which they seem to devote so much attention. They don't realize that these spaces represent actual wilderness: a place of trees and grass and animals and peace and quiet and mountain lions digging their merciless teeth into a terrified elk's spinal cord and owls ripping heads off of rabbits. The scoffer sees these places as rare, almost mythological sanctuaries, where as in reality that's pretty much everywhere, save a few small pockets of real estate where humans have decided to do their bustling. Sure, a very small number of people walk through the wilderness, but they always take the designated route, never taking the time to see what's on the other side of this ridge, or up that valley, because there's no trail, and point B must be reached by time X. If something out there wants to remain undiscovered, it can accomplish this quite easily, even (or esspecially, given scepticism) if that thing is an 8' tall gorilla.
So my point, or one of them I suppose, is that I want to go bag me a sasquatch! I know places where I believe them to be, and people don't go there, and I currently have no obligations on my time or money, so I could go there for a month or two and just try my luck, and if I don't find bigfoot, I would most likely find a whole lot of other cool stuff. Not only that, it would help me shake off the crusty buildup of doing what society says I "ought" to do for some reason, like hold a steady job and build up a 401k so that when I finally get around to ending my useless existence at least I'll have money, provided it's still there and worth something. Or even building up a career in the field that I actually want to have a career in, which I will do, but now I potentially have a window of time in which I can do anything I want.
So how do I reconcile this dormant explorer with the active abhorer of backpacking? On review of all the reasons I hate backpacking, I find that they are all problems with solutions. If I was alone, no one would be blathering. If I dressed warmly, I wouldn't be cold. If I went alone, I wouldn't have to get to point B by time X. I could go as far as I wanted, or just not go anywhere. There wouldn't be a point B. I'm the sort that could blow a whole three days just knocking over dead trees, and the next week after that just rolling rocks down hills, and if no one else was there, no one could tell me different. I'll admit, it would get a bit dull if there was no obvious point to it, but that's where the common thread (bigfoot, in case you forgot) comes back in. I could spend this time in an exciting, most likely vain, attempt to finally capture some solid footage of the great american ape.
Will I do it? Probably not, but there's a chance. After all, life only happens to people once, so I might as well go out on a limb and make it interesting. My life, up to now, has been more interesting than most. That doesn't speak so much to the vast excitement of my life as it does to the depressing patheticassy of most. If you're offended, you're guilty. However, I see a danger of possibly slipping into the American groove of dim-witted comfort and security, and this worries me. I feel I may have to make a drastic move such as this in order to shake off these looming bonds.
We shall see.