Growing up as the human child is something that has been complicated, rapidly, over the past few generations. Once we simply drew a line drawn in the sand, with rituals lasting (barbaric) moments, some a few days. Week or months, even. But the result: an individuals’ arrival at adulthood, uncontested. Or just put to work once the upper body strength was there.
In less than a hundred years, we’ve created an intricate web of social systems, rituals and processes young people must undergo. It’s what happens when raging hormones, feelings, and the physically and emotionally impetuous demands inherent in physiological change are catered to. When these increasingly alien Young People are given supervised and unsupervised environments to experiment, wallow and develop all these things, before being told, expected to ‘get on with it [life, Adulthood]’
Although I suspect little has actually changed for the fundamentals of those years: sex (well, desire at the very least), confusion, masturbation, an ir/rational sense of social isolation, the misunderstood-ness of it all. I just sense that the increasing media-and-advertising fondling of the adolescent human product has exacerbated the time for all the shit inherent to the age play out. More spaces: artificial and well trodden, in various medium, and well before TV, internet and smart phones. They’re just more tools of the trade for Young People, and their demonic ways. The ones that have been enouraged and monetised, demonised for decades.
And I most certainly did, and have, played my little fiddle over and over in these spaces, I still do. By myself, and with others – like the sex thing, I perhaps wish there was more time with others. They were the best. But that’s probably stating the common and obvious of everyone’s experience, really. I don’t romanticise or miss it, most of the time, if at all.
Perhaps because a lot of how I felt, what happened – “those times” -have been recorded for me to read now. The pattern of depression, anxiety, anger, rationalisation, perhaps change and finally not needing an examining medium to vent in, or finding the very real drugs or more physical distractions. Some good, some bad. Importantly I can see them now, though. It’s all there, and my memory is jogged to fill blanks and remember context.
And again I can tell, years from now, I’ll know where I sit, and why I type what I do now.
Sadly, I used to manage this energy into workable fiction, i’d like to think obtusely meaningful, perhaps entertaining, snippets of gore porn, rage fantasy and empowered literary annihilation. It poured from the anxiety, and was informed and driven by the depression I’d just slithered out from.
Ironically, that fiction is something I don’t have anymore…I don’t think. Not most of it, anyway. Just this stuff – the navel gazing. In retrospect I published all the wrong content. It’s more ridiculous in hindsight, as I’m sure this will be, than angry, adolescent fiction. Archives have long flaked away to transparent discs, or scratched, or lost. Which perhaps is a good thing – I can say all that writing was greater than perhaps it was. But utimately I feel like I’m missing valuable markers on this all-too familiar loop.
I know how this is going to end – as much as anyone knows anything, in a world of stray buses, lightning, cancer, psychotic bird attacks and all that jazz. It’s not terrible, it’s not fantastic but it’s liveable, with the usual indignities, heartbreak and even reward.
It’s just boring as fuck, I want to pop out for a piss and smoke break in an effort to get the credits to hurry the hell up and get rolling, so I can get onto the next segment in this self-indulgent cruise that is laughably referred to as “my life”. I’m just pleased that others have come onboard and don’t seem to hate it as much as I do, and I love them for that. And that the crew, my family – to really torture the fuck out of a bad analogy – are pretty damned awesome too.
So, uh, aye-aye, sailors! I’ve stuck my pole in this dock for future reference, back to the good ship SS Wankery.