I've dismantled my life. But I did a half-assed job about it. No matter.

When my brother was in high school, he used to disassemble his bike and put it back together for fun. He got to know bikes well enough that when he joined his college cycling team, he was their defacto mechanic.

In contrast, I failed to take apart my guitars to get to know them better. I was able to remove strings, remove the neck, and open up the control cavity. But I never took apart the machine heads or the pickups or the pots, never removed the bridge, or learned the wiring and electronics. I still can't adjust the action or intonation.

And that's pretty much the extent of what I've done with my life. I've made a nominal gesture of taking it apart, but not enough to understand any mechanics. I still have so much stuffis. This is just observational fact, not self-pity or regret, not intended to elicit any feeling.

And I still get pangs when I read about other people doing stuff, going to NoisePop shows or film festivals, and I want to be getting together with people and doing stuff. But I can't. Because I dismantled all of that, too, and I'm stuck examining the bits and pieces of desire and attachment, and work through them intellectually, emotionally, and viscerally; wondering if I really understand it.

And then I'm OK. Then I remember the path I'm on. Then I remember the scheme of things and that I gave all those things a try. I've tried living that way, and it was fine for then, but things have changed. It doesn't even matter that I've dismantled my past, present, and future, and saying that doesn't even include the doom and drama it might once have had.

Crap, what the hell was I talking about?

current soundtrack: ELO - "Out of the Blue"