The Deep Dive Into Nothing
I’ve always wondered about becoming obsessed with something. Like in the way some people are obsessed with trains or comic books or one particular skill, a skill that they hone day after day till they are as close to perfection as possible.
I even considered at one point turning it into a podcast all on it’s own, where I pick one specific thing that I have even a slight interest in and go absolutely full-bore down the road of research and understanding.
Become a master.
These days have been hard, especially the last 6 months. I don’t know how to tell you this but the writing has been lacking, either in frequency or in quality, because I just couldn’t do it. Things had happened that got me to a state of imbalance. Every time I would sit down to write I only had one thing deep within me to write about and it was hard, because it was from a place of anger and confusion.
Turning my computer on and bringing up a blank writing screen only to find myself full of rage and sadness.
Partly because I couldn’t focus on the words, partly because I was overwhelmed by a distinct lineup of failures and stress, and one other thing that maybe I’ll tell you about some day (which has since been mostly rectified).
But in the pale light of the gloomy day that had befallen me, I found myself illuminated by the only thing I could dive into: my phone.
Scrolling scrolling scrolling scrolling mindless numbing video, one after the other, by the hundreds (thousands perhaps). It was comforting in it’s way, distracting me.
I’ve always maintained that as a human who produces things, writing or otherwise, that it’s a good/ok thing to do from time to time. You can’t make things in a vacuum after all, you need to “take in the world around you in whatever form that takes” to be able to grow the pool of inspiration.
But this was different. Fueled by unwieldy emotions and staying in close proximity to a charger at every possible time frame.
Even now as I write, I filmed and posted a Tik-tok, and checked my phone at least 4 or 5 times out of habit, carefully constructed in willing fashion over half a year.
I didn’t spend all of that time nose-in-phone, obviously. I read some great books, went on incredible adventures, spent time with friends.
But where I was once able to spend time alone doing things I loved creatively, I have filled that time with an abundance of distracting nothingness. Not even the good kind of nothingness, wherein one can glean elements of their own existence and an appreciation for things that keep your hands busy.
I wanted to pull myself away from that cruel combination of longing and anger. My records have gathered dust. My books remain stoic on their shelves/stacks.
Everything seems to be waiting for me to find a way out. Find my way back into the world I had curated so carefully. Maybe a break was a good idea, but it wasn’t the kind of break that was needed.
Somewhere in the west is a town called Henderson. All I know of it is what I saw in a 30min period of being there having stopped not to refuel the RV, but to refuel myself. After a few hours on the road, and half a day since the last re-stock of energy drinks, it was time to grab some very necessary cold ones.
The first thing I noticed was it’s geographical situation as a true “pull-off spot”. As if someone had paved a road that exits I-40 for two miles, runs parallel to it, then joins it again. And then someone else built a small town on that road.
A few abandoned diners, motels that looked abandoned but weren’t, and a noticeably more modern hotel that stood out like a sore thumb on an otherwise peaceful landscape.
While my brother stretched his legs and took a phone call, I headed into what seemed like the only available gas station for supplies. The elder woman behind the counter had some assembly of dyed hair. Purple? Green? I can’t quite remember. I just remember that while paying for half a dozen energy drinks, we had a nice exchange about our long-running caffeine addictions.
Yeah I’ve tried all sorts over the years. I’ve been here 30 years and I’ll take whatever I can get to keep me going through the long hours. Not much in the way of staff here she says with a kind grin, probably excited for the potential company of a conversation she doesn’t already have on a regular basis.
While I wait for the slow functioning technology of the credit card transaction to process, I look back out the double doors to the last person that was in here. Not the most leathery old Native fella I’ve ever seen in my life, but certainly up there. Shuffling his way across the half paved/half dirt parking lot vaguely towards the not-so-recently-abandoned motel that boasts a sign on top reading:
HOT BREAKFAST
NEWLY REMODELED
TRUCK PARKING
His walk and dress are typical of someone out here. An outfit suited to the elements, and a bow in his legs from lord knows how many hours, days, weeks, years on horseback.
But today is a walking day.
And it reminds me of the solitude.
The sweet loneliness that brings about reflection, dedication to one idea or another, or hell….no ideas at all. Just the contentedness of going from point A to point B.
Existing.
And that I suppose is what I have lacked in practice but not in thought and desire.
Pure existence, without need or goal.
Sure, there is a goal or two I cling to deep in my bones, but that’s all long term, minus the immediate one that was in front of me to finish the journey we’d set out on across the country via the Southern route.
So today, reflection, and the desire to live well. The focus of acceptance of every day, with the attitude I began to carry with me some time ago: that even a quiet life of what seems like nothingness contains gifts of it’s own, and a steady calm like a river without a rain storm to push it faster and higher than usual.
The time will come to break against the rocks and wash away a bit of the shoreline when a storm pushes us onward.
But these days are not for that. A calm river never looks to distract itself from the stones beneath it, or the fish within it, or the feet dangling at it’s edges, or gets angry when the winds are high or finds a new bridge it has to pass under, or seeks fake mountains to cut through just for the hell of it.
I just is.
And just being is ok.
And holding onto anger is a sacrifice of oneself.
A deep dive into nothingness isn’t giving up, as long as we choose a nothingness worth diving into
-Bones
DNSG