Modern Domestication, Death of the Go-Getter

People don’t typically take stock of the year on the 4th of July do they?

Well, I am.

I would like to know what the fuck I’m up to this year. What the next project is.

If I can afford a decent digital camera, I’d like to try my hand at amateur photography and blog friendly photojournalism. 

Otherwise, I don’t really know what to do with myself. Literally.

I feel like I’m getting paid to do nothing at a rate higher than if I were doing something part time. But the drawback is I’ll have to continue doing nothing if I want the money. Money which is only available for the next 2 months in my state. 

Other states have stopped the benefits early so people get back to work.

I see their logic. If no one is serving them at the restaurant, or food comes out late cause there ain’t enough chefs. Maybe the floor hasn’t been mopped, no one to do it… You can see the logic.

Everyone can eat out. But no one is poor enough to take the job that makes the meal.

It’s an economic dilemma. A breakdown of the society we’ve built and invested in. Or learned about in school then invested in once we were of working age.

Who wants to see all that hard work put in just to enjoy a pseudo-retirement because of a virus that shut us in our homes for about a year unless we were essential enough to keep going to work with masks on our faces…

Those who kept their jobs through the pandemic do not feel like the elite because they were essential.

They feel like they were dragged through shit, mud, and in some cases, blood all because they were needed. Vital. Essential.

Please. They’re still at work.

This isn’t my first pseudo-retirement. My first lasted 3 years. It was a quaint, 1 bdr bachelor pad by a lake with tons of cockroaches running through it. I’ll never forget the great times I had there. Or how it all got cut short and I was forced back to a different reality. One where I had to fight for my life, my shelter, my food, and my relationships.

Oh, please. That fight is ongoing.

The threat is just further away.

Unless you count how little of a community I have here in the god forsaken Colorado suburbs. 

I had a taste of the streets the other day when I left my home in full intention of not returning ever. But once I found my first pit stop, with my brother still texting me to come back home and talk it out, my sister expressing maybe I just take a night in a room, and my therapist on the phone giving me an energy check as we talked about how to keep me from relapsing.

I call that a safety net.

I came right back home the same day.

But when I left I tried to cut ties with domesticated life. Part of me was trying to become the animal I was before. Maybe not completely rabid but I was looking for the thrill I used to know.

The thrill of killing Bambi’s mother but having nowhere to go to prepare, cook, and eat it. The defense of the space you do find. The friends you share the remnants with. The types of trading you do when you don’t have money or have something better – a desired, nay, a coveted, enviable product.

Do you know the kind of treasure hunt it is to be on the lookout for items of value in order to trade them amongst the friends, road dogs, comrades, even acquaintances you may be lucky enough to find?

Nowadays, the domesticated way is to wait for the treasure to be affordable, then have someone deliver it to you, which makes you fat. Then not only do they get your order wrong, they take more money than the item is worth. Something about a fee.

What the fuck?

The last time I heard of fees like this, I was buying drugs, and the guy who showed me who to buy from – THAT GUY wanted a fee paid. Just for showing me to the dealer. Bitch I didn’t get a ride from you to the dealer, what is this, for the gas in your left leg?

Let me take care of your right leg too, mutherfucker.

The point is, if life is a big treasure hunt, which it is, I should be getting it myself. Domesticated life is so full of middle men and setbacks and obligations that at some point, if my shit DOESN’T get stolen then I’m never going to value anything ever again.

There are a couple of games I used to play when I was little. One was a football game called “Fumble Rumble”. Another was called
“Capture the Flag”. In both games, the object is to keep an item lest it be stolen. One is a football, the other is a flag. 

But if no one is after the football, if no one is after the flag, the game cannot be played. It is forfeited, or worse, neglected. But if played, then exercise is up, heart rate is up longer, calories are burned, scars are earned, and eventually somebody fucking wins. 

Is there a trophy in all this game play? 


Haven’t I told you?

… its treasure.

And the only rule in treasure is that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

But more on that some other time.

Be well.

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