The Pangs of Momentum

Where to start?

I haven’t been here in a long time. It’s pretty dusty.

This website barely budges. Nothing new. Just more money in for nothing outward.

Like every good passion project should be.

Yet, I returned. For a little bit. To dump a bunch of nonsense onto a screen, for no one in particular to read, so I can find a balance. Maybe put this thing to use.

I feel like I’m writing like Tom Shatel now. Do you know who that is? If you don’t, that’s okay. Maybe I want to write about Tommie Frazier for the thousandth time to reel in some clicks. Maybe I want to spin a tale and give you a column that you’ve read time and time before. Maybe I want to write about how the college world series made an old column writer feel. Maybe I want to write about the nostalgia built into the sporting events in this horrorshow of a state.

Maybe I want to do all the things I used to. Maybe I find myself in moments of reminiscence, to harken back to friendships that have fallen away, brotherhoods squabbled, loves dispelled. Maybe I want to sit at a desk and write some serious bullshit and try to get it published on a SBNation website. Maybe I want to stare at the sun for an inordinate amount of hours and require surgery that costs hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Instead, I continue to find myself in a series of “firsts,” like the first time I put an 8-inch gate valve into the hatchback of my Honda, or the first time I saw a car accident LIVE! AND IN-PERSON! AND NOT INVOLVING ME!, or the first time I saw a deer run across the golf course, or the first time I fell in love again.

Wait.

There’s beauty to moving forward. I’m currently basking in the glow of my computer screen and writing this on a rug on a concrete floor in the basement of a house I just moved into - a late 1800’s addition to Omaha’s Cathedral neighborhood that’s got great bones and an excellent porch - while occasionally pausing and rolling around on this concrete floor, wondering if someone, at some point, in the 130 year history of this house, has done something similar - tried to create something to share with someone. In this space, but not in this time.

How did those people suffer and excel? Did they trust and break? Did they have hard conversations and hearty laughs? They probably moved on, forward, and experienced whole other lives in other homes, struck with tragedy and joy, as life is always offering in bountiful moments.

There’s pain in moving forward. I’m currently basking in the glow of my computer screen and writing this on a rug on a concrete floor in the basement of a house I just moved into - a pile of old lumber that features a dishwasher that’s wired into the basement lights, only working when the switch is flipped, and a toilet tank that won’t stop overflowing - while occasionally pausing and rolling around on this concrete floor, my back aching, my sinuses packed full of pollen, wondering if at some point the pain will release itself - a thought that stalls pleasure and lets negativity simmer. In this space, and seemingly constant.

To move on is to reflect. As someone who’s quite skilled in staring at bright, shiny things that hurt my eyes, I can tell you that staring too long hurts. Don’t reflect for very long or else your eyes will fall out of your head and you’ll die. Reflect momentarily and see the beauty of it all, then look away and find the beauty of now.

There’s some pretty good religious text that gives you nice anecdotes on how to move forward. I’m not a praying man myself, I’ve always enjoyed trying something to see if it works, and if it doesn’t, simply trying something else. Just ham-fist my way through shit. Tool around with it. Learn from the fuck-ups and move forward.

A lot of folks don’t like it when you fuck up. That’s why it’s really good to fuck up a lot. You won’t have any friends for a while but you’ll figure out why, then you’ll make some. You won’t have any cool experiences for a while, until you’re spinning yarns that would make any salty motherfucker giggle with glee. You won’t have any tangible skills for a while, until you’re teaching everyone how to fuck up anything. Teach others your fuckups, but don’t tell them not to fuckup, just tell them about fucking up. Fucking up is probably my best skill; if it wasn’t for fucking up I wouldn’t be in this basement writing this. I’d probably be sitting on that sweet porch and enjoying a malted beverage.

Fucking up makes you cool and sweet. If you guard yourself against fucking up, you’re keeping your best self from being released to the world. Figure out creative ways to fuckup so someone can experience a first for themselves. It’s really truly the best way to live.

There is an incredibly important lesson with fucking up, though: make sure you learn how to unfuck your fuckup otherwise you’re just going to keep fucking up. Continuing to fuckup won’t make you grow, it’ll just make you keep stumbling. Ask someone whose fucked up a lot to teach you how to unfuck a fuckup. It’s the best way to make a new friend.

I don’t want to do all the things I used to. I truly don’t. I want to do all the new things, and fuck up, with you. That’s where the juice is.