Send It

 Musical excursion: Twenty One Pilots - Routines In The Night

I'll freely admit that running without a plan is a new one for me. When telling that to people, and One In Particular, the response has been: 

"You? Without a plan? 
"Who are you, and what have you done with Peter Raven?"

Good question. I'm still working that one out myself, but answering the easier of those questions:

What the fuck is the point anyway of having and holding on to the plans you made when walking the path you laid out in every one of them fails, leaving you nowhere closer to where you thought you wanted to be, butting your head against yet another door you find yourself leaning against and hanging from the handle of, which has "Stay Out" painted on it in Whisper White, "Pull" in black, and "You have no chance to survive make your time" in a colour you can only see on an arcade CRT viewed through the mirror they used to use to create an illusion of depth back when they had to use optic trickery instead of... I dunno... a larger projection-screen... 

Not all doors are anywhere as clearly labelled tho, or when they are it's deceptive; over the last few weeks there've been more than a few times I've thought I was being invited through a door only to have it slammed in my face. Other times I've pulled away, only to be dragged back. It kinda feels like I'm living the life of a yoyo, bouncing up and down whilst spinning around and around, and occasionally walking the dog.
Or... maybe I'm more of a paddle-ball living through a constant cycle of 
GO AWAY! 
[WHACK]
WAIT, COME BACK! 
[WHACK]
I SAID GO AWAY!

Whoops, that sounds like Old Pete seeping through the cracks in the pavement, and I was fairly sure that guy died in a pool of blood at the intersection of Lonsdale St and Elouera.
I should reload from a previous Save File... 

Musical recursion: Twenty One Pilots - Routines In The Night

Running without a plan is a new one for me, but one which feels as Conversely comfortable as a pair of Damian Cowell's Old Sneakers. 

There's something refreshing about this lifestyle tho; like when you get a call about a job that's not really the sort of thing that's beneficial to your long-term career, and so borderline on the required skillset that it isn't worth your time writing an application for, but you have an AI Skill you trained to write them for you which requires almost no effort to use so you Send It anyway. Or when you're pissed off at someone, and you find yourself thinking about how to tell them in a way that will get the message across without jeopardising your long-term friendship-goals, but then you remember your long-term friend-goals involve having people in your life who enrich it, who play games WITH you, not ON you, and care for you as much as you do them, so you Send It anyway. 

Life without a plan has been surprisingly simple when you get down to it: 

Fulfill your promises, deliver on your contracts; once the obligation is observed, when the objective is obscured the outcomes become optional instead of obligatory, or am I just obliviating into ontological origami? 

If you can't elucidate, obfuscate. 
Fuck with perceptions. 
Fondle and back-pat words until they melt and purr. 
Whoops, there's Old Pete bleeding through again.

He made his choices; I really should get around to burying that guy.
Better reload from a previous Save File... 

Musical reset: Twenty One Pilots - Drum Show x Navigating x Next Semester

It came to pass last Friday that I found myself with my finger hovering over a whole new button; a red one marked Block instead of a blue one marked Send. I called three different people to help me navigate my situation and give me some advice, and in lieu of any of their responses I asked myself 

"What would Gorgeous George say?
"Oh yeah, that's right," and Sent It. 

When they called me back they all affirmed the decision I'd already made. I recanted it half-way the second call-back tho, because the phone had rung from a Fourth Person returning a call I'd not made, but responding to a message I'd very much sent. If there's anyone who'll agree that there are times one should Act On Instinct it's Occam's Canadian Amy, who was fascinated by this new development when I got back to her 10min later. 

Look at me falling back into old patterns again; no matter how much I want to change, there's Dead Pete waving a blood-stained middle finger back at me with a smirk that says
"You're still Me, fucko. See you back here last week." 
He's not wrong... but, when I look at the spotless hands in front of me, not in the way he was thinking all this time. 

"You're the second-highest priority on my list."
"After your Hayabusa?"
"<LOL>
"No," I replied, because whilst everything I've said on Instagram, and Facebook, and Signal, WhatsApp, in person, or on my motherfucking Blog, has been Absolutely True (Gideon may be the #1 Love Of My Life, with the Triumph coming in at #3, according to the Doge-meme'd pic I posted on Instagram the day I got it back from repairs, but it's only my 3rd highest priority), "after me. I made a fucking Promise, and you don't get to come ahead of that any more, and you don't get to break me again."
"...
"Who are you, and"
"You really should read my fucking Blog."

I remember. 
I remember everycertain things. 
And right now I'm remembering being the person who couldn't keep walking down Lonsdale St by the time he got to Grease Monkey 5 months ago, and being the man who was still walking past Club Lime with clean hands earlier today, 100m beyond where Old Pete collapsed, cracking jokes, in a pool of blood. 
A man who cares no less.
But who cares without the same cost.
Who loves with no less conviction.
But loves without the self-destruction. 
Pete-born.
Pete-surrected.
Pete-volved.

I'm putting on a Drum Show...