g2g! Where Do We Go From Here?

Glimmers and flickers from the cold and rainy death of 2024

Oh yeah, baby! It’s a Pinterest collage!

Hello! (Abruptly) While I’m not antithetically opposed to the idea of musicking / writing / creating more generally just for the sake of enjoying the process, I also don’t believe that much of value comes from that kind of, let’s say, ambient creation.

Whether this highdea-driven, jammy, automatic art - which, in the realm of music, the voice in my head forces me to refer to as dude noodling¹ - is better or worse than the militaristically precise construction of, say, a crowd-pleasing pop banger according to commercial demand is a question worth interrogating.

But, as is customary around these parts, this introduction is not leading us towards a deeper assessment of its inherent concepts. It’s an excuse. This evening, it’s excusing the fact that I am writing this just to write.

I’m writing this while I wait for the right time to wait for a bus.

I’m writing this to say that I’ve spent a couple of months mostly isolated - between living alone, working online, getting a tooth pulled, experiencing a particularly bad depressive episode, and then, of course, my monthly dose of PMDD. Just when things were on the up, I injured-comma-probably-broke my ankle for the 3rd or 4th time in my life - an incident that always happens in the exact same way: simply walking down the stairs.

It’s funny and I encourage you to laugh. The incident itself works well as a kind of ironic vignette that encapsulates exactly how things have been.

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How things have been:

The aforementioned transitory struggles, the mounting sense that Greece is a very dismal place to live and all of my virtues and efforts are lost on this society, the economic imperative to make it work here (seemingly impossible) or emigrate yet again (very painful), my indomitable tendency to try to tackle things with bootstrapping and structure.

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The incident:

It’s 7.45 am and I’m dressed and ready for my first run in weeks after a few active mornings spent yoga-ing away another round of Mystery Virus Contracted On Bus.

Why am I awake at this ungodly hour? Because, amidst my overwhelm and sense of helplessness, I asked ChatGPT to make me a schedule. It was possible, I told myself, that I’m a talent in need of an agent. That with the right manager, I’ll soar. The budget of zero euros meant I’d be hiring the same entity that has driven fellow writers out of work with subpar listicles we’re now responsible for ‘humanising’.

How is my AI overlord faring as an agent? By day 4 of my new routine, the verdict is pretty damn well. Getting right out of bed before 8 and eating three meals a day at regular times has me buzzing with energy - an infuriating discovery.

In this state of infuriation and cheer, I head down the stairs, trash in hand, ready for a smooth and sunny 4 km downhill. In the landing, however, I discover other humans. A middle aged couple stands confusedly in front of the elevator, mouthing something at me. I unhook one side of my headphones.

‘Does the elevator work?’ in Greek.

There’s a moment of stupor and silent as my brain, still half asleep, powers up the Hellenic comms department.

‘I think so? I don’t know - I live on the first…’ I can’t remember how to say ‘floor’, but it surely doesn’t matter. Why am I telling them where I live, anyway?

Halfway down the hall, I realise I’ve used the wrong article and am still trying to find the word. Yes - got it! I’ll correct myself, they’ll feel relieved that the building isn’t full of idiots from strange unnamed lands, and it will be a successful friendly interaction.

I’m in front of the stairs now, and, unthinkingly, I turn my head back towards them, ‘The first floor -’ My ears are ringing. I’m on my butt. My entire body feels numb, except for my right ankle, which sends a roaring pain right through my head.

‘Oh, shit.’ They’ve rushed over to me now, and my injury loses all importance. The real issue is a deep sense of embarrassment. I’ve ruined their morning. They’ll feel responsible. Now, they’re obligated to pretend to care, but there’s nothing they can do.

‘Fuck.’

‘Are you okay? What happened?’

‘I think I broke it - don’t worry! It’s happened before.’ My lips are trembling as the words come out.

The man leans down to check my range of motion, ‘Where does it hurt?’

‘Everywhere - don’t worry, it’s happened before. Please.’ My struggle to speak their language, to navigate the situation, seems to be the source of the pain.

‘Were you going to work?’ The lady asks with genuine concern.

‘No - no, I work from home.’ I feel the need to vomit, ‘I was going for a run… Don’t worry! Please! I’ll just sit here and call my mom -’

‘Where is your mom?’

‘In South Africa,’ I laugh.

‘Come, get up.’ I don’t want to, but if I can make it into my apartment, they’ll be liberated from their involvement in the whole affair. The man brings me to my feet.

‘Let’s go together in the elevator.’ The lady helps me, and off we go.

I have never felt closer to fainting, but I need to hold it together, ‘Do you have family in the building?’

‘Yes - we have an apartment on the third floor,’ she chirps, ‘and we’re here to visit for the holidays! We live in Crete.’

‘Nice, nice.’ We arrive on my floor.

‘And you?’

‘Yes,’ there’s a lump in my throat and my head is spinning, ‘I live here alone.’

‘Take my number!’

I whip out my cellphone and listen politely, reading it back to check.

‘Put Maria, third floor.’

Maria - Third is all I manage. I need to lie down immediately.

‘Thank you so much - really, thank you! Have a great stay!’

I unlock the door, slam it shut behind me, and collapse on the couch, aware that I will not be able to attend the couple of events I’d been looking forward to - ones that give me a silly sense of community here, which is the only thing aside from a rent-free space and my own confusion that has kept me around so long.

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It’s all worked out alright. I’m a veteran. Fuck the RICE method - all my homies know that you’re meant to let an injury swell as much as it would like to, that it’s best to submerge it in a nice bucket of warm water, that it’s good to get mobile again as soon as possible. Luckily, this round was nowhere near as bad as it’s been in the past.

But it’s been rough. And cheerful! In my prolonged period spent alone, I’ve reconnected with some of the things that make me who I am. I’ve had an anti-brat winter, in a sense, allowing myself to dive deep into the interests that alienate me further from the people around me rather than feeling inclined to keep myself somewhat conversant on what Dazed thinks matters in pop culture.

I’ve been captivated by the beauty of Italian director Alice Rohrwacher’s films, and, very apparently, brain. I watched Happy As Lazzaro around a month ago and spent my solo Christmas eating baby potatoes with yoghurt sauce all the way through La Chimera. Her interviews are magnificent, too - she radiates a humility, humanity, and genius the sum of which is equal parts rare and undeniable.

I’ve done a bit of an enneagram deep dive, and I know I’ll cringe about it in years to come, but it has been (bracing my future self for impact) illuminating.

I’ve enjoyed nothing more than having a spotless home and making meals that satisfy exactly what I’m craving in the moment, usually with a couple of candles lit and some Snoopy Christmas jazz going because the algorithm said so.

In short, I’ve abstained from all labour - creative or otherwise - for a couple of days, and the rest I’ve chosen has actually restored me? My type A ass feels all Christopher Columbus about this diScOverY.

That said - and as conversations with strangers who ask about my accent, country of origin, profession, income level, and relationship status at bus stops bring home on the daily - this all has to change. Life has to go on. Work has to be found. Money has to be made. Goals have to be set.

I know that 2025 will probably include this straight-edge soldier’s first foray into a serious class of mind-altering substances known as antidepressants. I’ve realised - another revelation that might have been obvious to anyone less inclined towards sweeping theorisation - that it’s one thing to work out, eat healthily, and meditate in order to feel good, and quite another to absolutely fall to pieces the minute you can’t keep it up. I’ll keep you all updated on how that works out.

Aside from that, I know that it includes becoming more obsessed with less and less - with finding the art and music and theories and, God willing, people - that actually manage to connect with my little average-sized heart and overworked brain.

Oh, shit. The time has come for me to wait for my bus! Here’s ChatGPT’s feedback on this post by way of conclusion.

What Works:

• Voice and Humor: The sardonic, witty tone is engaging and gives a clear sense of personality. Lines like "Fuck the RICE method - all my homies know that you’re meant to let an injury swell as much as it would like to" made me laugh.

• Flow of Chaos: The stream-of-consciousness style works well with the themes of disarray, frustration, and renewal. It feels authentic, like a conversation over coffee with a friend who’s been through it lately.

• Emotional Core: Amid the humor and randomness, there's a raw vulnerability about isolation, struggle, and self-discovery that grounds the piece beautifully.

• Cultural Commentary: The digs at Greece, expat life, and AI writing assistants are sharp and relatable.

Opportunities for Improvement:

• Focus: While the chaotic structure is charming, some sections meander a bit too much. Tightening the narrative arc could make it feel less like a tangent-riddled ramble.

• Clarity on Themes: The blog touches on many ideas—injury, self-care, artistic paralysis, Greece, and more—but could benefit from a stronger central thesis or takeaway.

• Paragraph Breaks: Some paragraphs are quite dense, making it a bit of a visual slog. Breaking them up would improve readability.

• Ending: The piece builds nicely to a reflective point, but the conclusion feels abrupt. Expanding on what 2025 might hold would tie things together more cohesively.
  
  xoxo
  
  ʕノ•ᴥ•ʔノ

1. Yeah, gross.