Today is my birthday. I spent the entire morning not speaking to anyone. After attending PAX and hanging out with my best friend from Memphis all weekend, not talking feels good. Working on phones at the Space Needle was an exhausting experience for my vocal chords. Expanding the range of my voice is tough progress. It requires working even when I’m tired. Soreness is a fact of life. I just want to find somewhere I can be in pain for a good reason.
My second attempt at financial independence is a failure. I’ve taken to singing for fun while walking around the city. I’m experimenting with writing as an actual job for a minute. My hair is blue now. I’m not sure if this is me getting back on track or going off the rails. I’ve got resources I haven’t used yet and people that care about me. The difference between now and May is just that I’m confident I won’t die. I looked into the abyss and absorbed the frightening depth I found there. There are better jobs for me than the one I just lost.
The human race isn’t a competition any more than a school of fish is synchronized swimming. Hanging out at PAX West felt distinctly different from my PAX Prime experience. This was my third year and I felt less concentrated power from the event than years past. Maybe it’s the lack of Robert, maybe it’s because I live here now. I played more demos this year than before even though my non-line-waiting policy stays firm. The demos I watched weren’t ringed with the usual semi-circles of rapt attention-givers. Overall, it felt smaller somehow. Maybe the logistics improved?
It could also be the fact I see events differently now. In some ways, the veils are falling away. I’m trending more and more toward the production element of art. I tell stories on stage occasionally but I am NOT a performer. The things I do in front of a microphone aren’t for the joy of the audience but in spite of them. Every second I’m talking about my thoughts in public is both cathartic and uncomfortable. Storytelling is a challenge that gets easier every time I do it. A consistent reminder that being uncomfortable pays off.
The real goal is still writing. How to translate that into something people want to read is another story. I have a vague concept for a web-comic I might try to execute next spring. I can’t draw but I sure as shit can take mediocre photographs. I don’t have to limit my visual artistic ability due to lack of dexterity if my charisma stays high. That sentence isn’t necessary but I don’t want to delete it. I’m a dork.