Floyd's the Name

My friend lives in New York. He says it’s a strange city. I wouldn't know. I've never been. But he does say it’s strange. He said this to me the first time he called after moving there. Must have been after a month or so. He had been living in Arizona. I was living in Wisconsin. Both before and after he moved from Arizona to New York. Just to clarify I mean New York City. Specifically, Manhattan. Upper West Side. 79th Street, I think, less than a block off Central Park West.

I looked at a map to see where he lived. I like looking at maps. There’s something about them. I imagine going to all of the interesting landmarks and museums and parks. I like imagining what places I haven’t seen look like. I can imagine anything I want to imagine. I get to thinking anything might be possible when I do this. Makes me feel free. I don’t always feel free. I rarely feel free. I feel free when I look at maps, though. Maybe not every time I look at maps, but a lot of the times when I look at maps. Especially if I’m not looking at them to find out where I’m going. That’s the best time to look at maps, when I don’t need to look at them. That was how it was when I looked to see where my friend lived.

My friend’s name is Joe. It’s a plain name. There’s not much to it at all. A lot of people have that name. It might be the most common name in America and Europe. Steve is pretty common, too. So is John. A lot of Johns out there. Maybe John is even more common than Joe. I don’t know for sure. But I wouldn't be surprised if either one of those names was the most common. Floyd is much more unusual. I don’t personally know anyone named Floyd. Except for me. That’s my name.

I’m not sure why my parents named me Floyd. I've never asked them about it. I just knew my name was Floyd from a very young age. It never dawned on me to question it. I guess I am now, though. I’m not sure why. I’m not really sure why I’m writing any of this. I just am. It seems like the right thing to do. It is the right thing to do. That much I know.

I do write a lot. I write when I wake up in the morning. I write just before I go to bed. I write before and after I eat. Not every time I eat or every morning or every night. But a lot of mornings and a lot of nights and before and after a lot of meals. It’s something I've been doing regularly for a number of years. I can’t remember why or if I ever had a reason. I just do it without wondering why. Until now. Now I do wonder. I’m a little frustrated because I can’t remember. I’m trying to remember, but I just can’t. I even stopped typing for about fifteen minutes since I typed the previous sentence trying to figure it out. But I couldn't. I don’t know why I couldn't, though. I guess it’s not important. It would be nice to know so I didn't have to wonder, though.

But I like to wonder so maybe it’s not so bad not being able to remember. Sometimes I let my mind wander wherever it wants to go. That’s what I've been doing for the last half hour or so. I do that a lot when I write. I just let my mind roam around. Right now my mind seems like a huge forest. A pine forest. In the Rockies. The Northwest Rockies. The kind of forest with no underbrush. Just a floor of dead pine needles. I like that type of forest quite a bit. I can wander around pretty freely, nothing too cumbersome to prevent me from walking or running or climbing. I can see a long way yet not too far because the trees get thicker off in the horizon. Plus, there are slopes and rises here and there. It just depends.

Right now there’s a creek in front of me. I’m standing on the edge of the bank. It’s probably an eight-foot drop. Not exactly straight down. It’s jagged, a lot of clay with rocks jutting out here and there. I see tangles of roots, too. The roaring sound of the mountain creek has my attention. It’s deafening. It's as loud as an airplane. Yet it’s gentle. It’s gurgling just as much as it’s roaring. It’s roaring and gurgling. Not as two distinct sounds, but one fused sound. A roaring gurgle. A gurgling roar. It sounds the same no matter how I type it. I could write that the creek sounds like a dog barking or a hammer banging but it would still sound like a gurgling roar. Or a roaring gurgle. Maybe a bubbling rage. But not a raging bubble.

Joe had a bubble. It was on his cheek. It was really a boil, but I called it a bubble. It was a raging bubble. It looked like a bubble filled with rage. An angry bubble. A deep red angry raging bubble that always seemed like it was about to burst. It never did. At least not while I was living in the same town as Joe. That was when we both lived in Arizona. That was a long time ago. Maybe ten years ago. But maybe more than ten years ago. I can’t remember exactly right now. I moved first, I remember that. That was tough for Joe. He told me it was tough. We talked to each other on the phone a lot. We still talk on the phone. But not a lot any more. Every now and then. It’s been some time since I've talked with Joe. I should give him a call. I would like to talk with him again. He’s a good friend.

I know it must seem as if I’m a little slow or trying to come across as a little slow. The writing style or the tone or the cadence or something about the content makes it seem like I’m a simpleton or that I’m emotionally stunted and socially inept. That’s not the case. I simply like writing this way. It’s soothing. I can complete a sentence. Add a phrase. And carry the thought into the next sentence. Or for several sentences. I don’t necessarily like to follow the rules of grammar. Or narration. I could go back and edit or revise, but I don’t want to do that. I just like writing. These are my thoughts. As honestly as I can put them down. Not that my name is actually Floyd. Or that I have a friend named Joe living in New York City. But at the time I wrote about Joe I was imagining having a friend named Joe who lived in New York City. Why? Why not.

It popped into my head and seemed as worthwhile a subject to write about as anything else. It’s not what I write, but that I write. I have to write. It’s important for me to write. I guess I should say type. Either way, it should be clear what I mean. If not then it won’t be. But it’s important for me to type. Not think it through too much. Just type. Let the fingers move on the keys. Let them flurry about the keyboard tap, tap, tapping. As fast as possible. The sound, I love the sound. I like to look back and forth between the screen and the keyboard.

Sometimes I stare at the keyboard as I’m typing. I watch my fingers dance, hitting this key and that. I can think several keys ahead and yet still hit the key I’m supposed to hit. But I hit the backspace button, too, when I feel like it, when I know I've made a typo. Just did it there. Sometimes I’ll miss a typo or actually misspell a word without notcing. That wasn't one of those times, though. I thought it might be fun to purposely misspell that word. And it was. I’m laughing. More like cackling. Uncontrollably. While I type. My eyes are circling wildly. I can type without looking if need be. I know where the keys are. My fingers do, anyway. It’s not like I’m conscious of where they’re going. They just go there before I have a chance to think about it. God, I love to type fast.

You know, I actually have a friend named Joe living in New York City. I really do. But we didn't both live in Arizona years ago. He never lived in Arizona. I did, though. I moved there in 1980. Of course, you probably don’t believe that at this point. You probably don’t know what to believe, whether what I’m typing is the truth or not the truth. How could you know? You don’t know me. I’m anonymous, at least to you. These are just words on a computer screen—or maybe on paper; it’s possible this has been published. But if it’s been published you could probably do a Google search to find out who I am and possibly verify what is or isn't true about me. Then again I’m not a famous person so there’s probably not a lot about me out there for you to find. You could hire a private detective or something, maybe find out that way. But if you’re that obsessed you should probably get professional help. But if you’re that obsessive you probably won’t. Or maybe you have tried to find help but you’re still obsessive. I really couldn't say. I don’t know you after all. You’re anonymous to me.

In fact, you’re not even reading this at this moment. There is no you at all. I’m typing to myself, so to speak (or so to type). And yet ... you must be reading this at this moment because it's your moment. But you're not reading while I'm typing. If you are then you've hacked into my computer and I hate you. I just took a break to look at what I’d written; the last paragraph, anyway. I’m not sure if this is something people will want to read. As I mentioned earlier, though, it doesn’t matter what I write, but that I write.

You know how I said I don’t like to revise or edit? That’s not true. I do sometimes. But not all the time. At the time I wrote that earlier I really felt that way. But now I don’t. Now I think I should revise this. I should also start writing about my friend Joe again. He’s a good friend. I miss him right now. Very much. I’d call him, but I don’t have his number any more. Seems odd to say since I was talking about how we call each other and whatnot, but the truth is I don’t call him and he doesn’t call me. We’ve never been phone people. Well, at least not with each other. Maybe he talks on the phone with other people quite a bit. I don’t know. I could see him doing that, though. He has a lot of other friends. At least he used to have other friends. Some of them seemed like the type of people who would talk on the phone. Just some of them, though.

These typed words are a snapshot of my thoughts as I’m thinking them. A strange transition, I know. Sometimes there just are leaps like that when I’m thinking. That’s why I don’t like trying to tell a story that makes sense based on typical narrative patterns. I sure as hell don’t think that way. I might try to think that way or try to filter my thoughts through some sort of self-narrative so that they’re meaningful to me. But that’s not how I generally experience them at first. By putting these thoughts down in this way I’m freezing them in a moment of time. They aren't likely to be thoughts I will always carry and yet they may be thoughts I have again. Essentially they are just thoughts, fragments of myself reduced to words and trapped “as is” on the computer screen I’m viewing right now. That last thought has passed and now this thought is passing. On and on, a perpetual march of moments that come and go, a left-right-left of words following one after the other. Some holding meaning in and of themselves, others creating meaning in combination with others preceding and following them.

It depresses me sometimes. I want to hold some moments and prevent them from passing, holding not the words but the experiences and meanings those words represent. Most I’d just as soon forget and would rather have never been. I feel down right now, a little low. I’m not sure why. A creeping loneliness, but with a presence, absurdly enough, at the edges of my awareness, somewhere seemingly just beyond the peripheral vision of my focus. I turn to the right and the reasons for feeling low turn as well, remaining out of sight. I can feel the shadow, the remnants of the cause, but it’s not the cause itself and provides nothing but a distorted understanding. The reasons aren’t outside of me, though, and it’s because I’m looking for an external reason that I can’t see what is evident within me. I know this only because of past experiences. I know if I look inside or, rather, stop “looking” and allow this experience of dissatisfaction to linger that I’ll have the answer. If so, I might gain the knowledge of how to address this feeling, to change it. I would like it to end. But there’s, well, not so much an effort to be made, but a “letting go” that requires a relaxation of intellectual control, a relaxation of my will.

It’s difficult to take a break from trying to control each moment, to limit it to something verbal or visual. But it’s necessary. It demands the abandonment of writing and a shift to sitting still and emptying the mind of verbal thought and of thoughts arising from senses and emotions. I have to allow the wordless and senseless mind to rise to the fore and provide what I’ll call wisdom the opportunity to become known. It’s like birthing an infant, with all the pain of childbirth that metaphor implies. Wonder and awe that follow the pain: the process of discovery, revelation, epiphany. Could be joyful, could be horrifying, could be filled with regret and longing. I can’t say. But it is there and it won’t come into consciousness until I allow it to do so. Once conscious, I can control, resolve, reabsorb, categorize, and become it. Whatever I want to do with it. But it has to come to the fore to be malleable.

Right now it’s sort of like a cancer. I could, possibly, purge the cancerous aspects of it and reabsorb what is valuable and healthy for me, record as memory the experience of my awareness of it to be used as a guide or caution in the future. Knowledge is power, but it’s also liberation. A burden and an opportunity.

Sometimes I blather. No, a lot of times I do. I become far too abstract and it separates me from reality. It’s a coping mechanism, one when used judiciously is valuable. But when overused becomes a crutch and results in stagnation. That’s not the intent. It’s just the way it is.

I learned a lot of these things by talking with Joe years ago. He didn't come up with any of these ideas. We didn't talk about this stuff. But it was through conversations with him that I began to think about this or that, the particulars of which I can’t recall at the moment and ultimately seem unimportant. After some of our discussions I thought about what we had talked about and one thought would mysteriously give rise to another. On and on it went. Eventually I’d be so far away from the starting point that I’d forget why I was even thinking about what I was thinking about. Which made me wonder if I would have ended up thinking about things such as these no matter what I had originally started thinking about. In other words, they may have been my core thoughts, the thoughts that wanted to be thought but hadn't yet been thought. They seemed to force their way out from the depths of my mind, dark areas I couldn’t access consciously. Thoughts trapped in a subconscious purgatory, shedding their impurities so that they could squeeze into the heaven of my consciousness, liberated from the shackles of vagueness into the airy realm of awareness, free to remain as a part of me or a possession of mine or to roam into the beyond-me ether with the possibility of becoming either nothing or something, both independent of me.

Fly free, thoughts past. Become what you will, evolve into something greater than I could ever be. Come back if you’d like to visit me some time. Let me see how you’ve grown, let me see what you’ve become. There have been a few thoughts that have done just that. They come back and there are little more than traces of what they once were; some of them are full-blown philosophic worldviews, some are sage insights into the nature of being, and some are so complex that I can experience only fragments of them as they wash over me like an endlessly cascading waterfall. A former thought once came to me as a constellation of mathematical formulas, illustrating patterns in the stars and awing me with its beauty and intelligence. Incredible, I said to it. It responded with a solar eclipse and I could only guess what was being communicated. Far beyond my comprehension. I have a humble pride that I gave birth to something that has grown so far beyond my own limitations. I weep with both joy and sadness; joy that it exists and sadness that I am too simple to understand it. What are you trying to say, I asked, and its presence disappeared from my awareness. I miss it so much, as much as I miss Joe.

That’s a load of crap. This is my cynicism speaking. I can’t stand the flighty self-importance of that kind of bullshit. Just read it. READ IT! It’s crap, man. Who makes up shit like that? Clearly I do. No one is visited by “constellations of mathematical formulas,” least of all me. I can imagine something like that as a phrase but could I explain what it means? Good God, yes, but please don’t ask me or I’ll just make up another load of crap that drags for paragraphs on end. I can bullshit and bullshit and bullshit, fucking streams of words rolling either out of my mouth or onto this computer screen. Fucking fuckin shit. So much fluff. Action, more action, less bullshit talk.

But see, this is where my cynicism is off. This is action, especially if it leads to a change in the world. Suddenly, this total bullshit is meaningful, useful. It might provide me or someone else a pay check. When you read this you may find yourself incredibly pissed off that you wasted so much time. You’re now reading these words and perhaps your fury is so great that you smash your laptop or smart phone. Now you have to buy a new one and that will very slightly increase a company's revenue while hurting your bank account. See? A change in the world that came from what you had thought was meaningless writing. Not so meaningless any more, is it?

Who knows, though. Maybe someone will enjoy this. Besides, aren't all stories just a bunch of bullshit, anyway? Even nonfiction is usually a pretty slanted conglomeration of total crap. Everything written or said is limited and every representational image is a fucking distortion. So I say to my own cynicism, “fuck you!” If I listened to that defeatist prick I’d never do a damn thing. I’d just mope around in a daze thinking, “Man, everything sucks. What’s the point?” Whatever, cynic. You go mope. I’m going to think for a little bit and write more in an effort to figure out if there is a point. At least I haven’t given up yet. And, yeah, maybe I’m naïve and maybe some of the crap I write is odd or foolish or weird or stupid. But at least I’m putting myself out there for all to see, allowing myself to be who I am in the light of day. You’re just using that stupid fucking tough-guy façade to hide because you’re terrified that everyone will think you’re a fraud, that everyone will realize that you don’t have anything special to say or any particular wisdom that is worthy of being read.

I live in this world, I observe it, I function within it. The world is crap and is filled with posers trying to be something they’re not, cynics manipulating and castigating others as if they have a fucking clue. They just want power as a means to shield themselves from the awareness of their own eventual demise. We all do that to some degree, most commonly with ourselves. We’re all going to die. Every individual in every generation will die. That’s the nature of being human. You want to chastise me for being self-important? Look, I know I’m going to die. I know part of me is immature or self-important or whatever. I do the best I can. I didn’t decide to be human. I was born this way. If it’s not enough for you or anyone else, well, I can’t do a hell of a lot about it. In fact, why would I? I’m not responsible for you or anyone else. I’m responsible for me.

By saying I’m not responsible for you I may be saying I’m not responsible for my cynicism. But I am responsible for it. That’s why I have to put it back in its place or try to eliminate it completely. It starts out as skepticism and skepticism does serve some purpose, I suppose, in the sense that it tries to protect me from harm, from being naïve, from getting used or abused by others. I appreciate the intent, I appreciate the function it serves. It’s not bad in and of itself, but when it turns into fatalism to stop me from writing and doing something I’m enjoying or is of some necessity, then it defeats its own purpose by protecting me from an imaginary threat instead of a real one. Cynicism is a serious problem. Not just for me, but anyone allowing it to control one’s thoughts and actions.

On the flip side, naiveté is also problematic. Remaining blissfully unaware or endlessly "innocent” can prevent a person from maturing as a being, from becoming well-informed and, more importantly, conscientious. I have to be able to think, to use my brain and my senses to react wisely in a given situation. Life isn't all roses and cherries and milkshakes. There are some tough decisions to be made, the type of decisions that require judiciousness. I have spent a great deal of my life trying to figure out what is right and wrong, what is good or bad, what is valuable and what isn’t.

I haven’t spent quite enough of my life building up the will to always make the right decisions even when I know the best choice given my ethics and values. To be judicious and conscientious I have to be dedicated and disciplined, I have to put forth the effort to figure out my principles and I have to be humble enough to be willing to change if or when I discover that I’ve been wrong in my thoughts or actions. That’s not easy to do, but choosing to do something only because it’s easy, fun, or profitable does not necessarily mean the choice will be fulfilling. I have to do what leads to making ethical decisions knowing that is where satisfaction is derived and that means continuously thinking about my own ethics and values, learning from the decisions I make. The next step would then be to take action based on any conclusions I may derive. It began as a trial-and-error process but it's evolved into a complex analysis that uses experimentation much more purposefully than in the past. Sometimes I follow a dead-end and have to go back to the beginning and sometimes I go further down the path toward knowledge and wisdom while strengthening my will.

I wonder what Joe would think of these ideas? Yeah, I’m going back to Joe again. It might seem like some frivolous or silly little ploy, but it’s not. It’ll become clear eventually. Right now just know two things: Joe is important and it’s not what I write, but that I write. Things seem random to you, perhaps. It seems like a lot of jumbled thoughts, a lot of random musings. But this is going somewhere, I assure you. You will learn something. And I think you’ll be entertained at times while you’re reading. You’ll probably experience a few other things as well. But you should keep reading. You have no idea where this is going yet. You really don’t.

This post is over. It's the whole of all the other posts combined that tell the story ... but you'll have to do the work to put it all together. I've done most of the work for you: I wrote them.