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We are a simulated blur. We are tomorrow's dust. I am waiting for a friend to call me back and rifled through a whole bunch of stuff but then I found myself here again. I can only imagine how much time I have spent on this blog. It feels kind of right, right now. I am staying at my brother's house again. My mom has vertigo and my dad is operating on a bad back and two bad knees. They are getting old. I am getting old. I wonder what happens when I can't depend on my parents anymore. I need to grow up. I am not a rockstar. This is real life. As real as it can be. It is not imaginary. Even if the real has disappeared. I don't think my siblings will take care of me. There will be no one to take care of me.

I have been fully immersing myself in music. It is what makes me feel good. At least the initial burst of making something out of nothing. Finishing a song is rather tedius. I have access to a drum set and an electric guitar here which is lovely but obviously I can't jam out with the whole house asleep. The beauty of Ableton is I can take it wherever I go. I miss marijuana joints and red wine. You get a better jam and appreciation for music under that influence. I have to do everything stone cold sober and that can be a bummer. I am not a rockstar. I'm going to have to face the realities of life. I don't want to be a wino on the streets or in prison. One of my best friends just got out of prison. It sounds horrific and adjusting to life out of prison is not easy. I do see a therapist but music is my therapy. I mean obviously I care if it's shit. I don't want it to be shit but even if it is shit that's ok. Strikes and gutters. Those moments when you may be on to something is worth living for though. OK, back to chasing the dragon.

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I'm deep in theory. What a magical time. I am about half way through Mythologies by Roland Barthes. Then, I have The Medium is the Massage by McLuhan, Elements of Semiology by Barthes, and Society of the Spectacle by Debord up next but no one gives a shit.

That is really what this blog post is about. How no one gives a shit. Being an autodidact is a very solitary pursuit by definition. I joined a philosophy channel on Discord and they don't really give a shit either. It's mostly analytic academics. I don't fit in. The server is too active. Reddit has nothing for me besides the occasional Google search. I kind of despise Chat GPT but it can be somewhat useful.

My poor mom has to hear earfuls of the stuff I'm reading. At least she says she enjoys it to a point.

I'm just lonely. I went in hard on some Baudrillard. I think up to 2 weeks have flown by. I don't know if I even thought to be lonely then. Mythologies by Barthes is ok. It is a good intro to semiotics. A nice break from the denser and more opaque Baudrillard. Although, Baudrillard fascinates me. He seduces me. He haunts me.

There is no where for the autodidact to go except to touch grass and deal with it. Academia is a pipedream. It has been ever since I did not major in philosophy and chose poker over academics.

And the elephant in the room is that I need a job. I know, I know. I need a job. That is tremendous toil. If I did not have hypertrophy training and theory I would be in real trouble. The toil and the void would be too great.

Overcoming inertia in entropy. In a simulation the only thing left to do is play the game. All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players (Shakespeare).

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It is normal for people to have anxiety about death. Libido and fear of death are two massive motivations. Sometimes they are unconcsious motivations. Marketers mess with our ability to know what we need and what will be satisfying. They tamper with our imagination as the result of the void. It shows up in weird ways. We fill the void with imagination and consumption. Imagination in the creation of art is good. Imagination in unrealistic expectations for consumption is bad.

I have clothes. I have plenty of clothes. I have an understanding of color theory and can generally dress myself to be passable in society. There is no such thing as authenticity in this regard. Unless maybe if I got my clothes from a small indigenous group of people in South America who custom made me some outfits. Any magazine, any shop, any online store is going to command the title of "purveyor of taste." Personally, I think just wearing white t-shirts and blue jeans everyday is better than falling into the consumption trap. But, in bourgois life there are dress codes...

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