The Black Dog

No matter what I do he follows me

Lately I’ve felt stuck in a sort of intellectual fishbowl. I’ve become one of those low metabolism fish that suction through the murky depths feasting on unidentifiable algae growth. I feel like I’m constantly walking through a maze of urban alleyways, dodging left, then right, then left again, trying desperately to keep ahead of Churchill’s Black Dog, that no matter how fast I move is always on my trail.

I’m not sure how I got here. Maybe it’s the real job, the whole enterprise has lost its once promising luster. It could be the two injuries that finally caught up to me. No matter how heavy I lift and how fast I still run having three jacked up vertebra in my neck that make my right arm go numb throughout the day is an undeniable reminder of my entrance into middle age. Middle age, that might be it also. The realization that so many of the people I often think about from back in the day no longer look the same and in reality I will never get to see them again. The realization that if one looks at averages I might have less time in this world than I’ve already spent here. My father died of cancer at 46, I’m 41. I might have crossed my middle mark awhile ago and if I haven’t I’m about to any day now.

I don’t sleep enough. I can’t. I’m always tired, something about my work, a white collar profession that is much more mentally and spiritually draining than it is physically, has been wearing me down. I get home and I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want to write, I don’t want to read, I don’t want to think, I don’t even want to spend time with my family. I just take a nap and spend the evening playing mindless videogames. I don’t have to think and the small dose of dopamine gets me through the rest of the day so I can repeat another one.

By all measures I should be happy. I’m married to a wonderful woman, I have an amazing kid, I own a house, two cars, two dogs, and the best cat. I want for nothing, except sleep. Not just any kind of sleep, but a real sleep. I feel like I haven’t slept well in years. I want to close my eyes and vibrate all of my cells into a state of pure relaxation. A complete intellectual shutdown. I can’t seem to attain that. I wake up more tired than when I go to bed. The only thing that brings me joy is spending time with my daughter and the few hours a week when I record the latest episode of the podcast

My wife tells me that I enjoy dwelling in my melancholy. That I am a man who is happy in unhappiness. She’s right. She’s always right. I think I’m a bit burnt out. I’m tired of the internet. I’m tired of discourse. I’m tired of thinking about the world, culture, other people, just all of it. I yearn to become Dickie Greenleaf and dissapear to some village on the Mediterranean where I can spend my days sailing and me evenings lounging by the pool with a glass of wine. But I know that can’t happen, that bastard Ripley will find me, he always does.

In one week I’m packing up the family, including the new wolf, and heading north into the Blue Ridge Mountains. I’m going to take a few days and just disconnect. No phone, no Internet, nothing. Just me and the family. I need it. I need to just get away. It’s been almost a year since my last longer trip and that one was to Western Penn and Pittsburgh. I’m due for a decent one, and next year I want to try to make it out to Europe again, maybe Italy this time. Either way, I hope that this trip helps me get back on the Forest Passage.

What is the point of me writing all of this, putting all of this melancholic biographic information out for all of you to read? Simple. I want to let you guys know that I am a real person. I’m not trying to sell you anything, I’m not promising you anything, because I am far from knowing what I need or even what I want myself. All I can offer is stories and discussion. Back and forth conversation at its best. All I can do is remind you that even in our fallen world there is still so much beauty and joy to experience. Even if the black dog is forever on our tail.

I say all of this because I’ve become disgusted and fatigued with Substackistanian commentary. I’m tired of the childless despair merchants bolivating about all of the ills in our world. I’m tired of the faceless cowards peddling intellectual pseudo-pornography behind the safety of their anonymity. One must accept the world for what it is, a fallen, broken place, but then one must move on. You will never make the world a better place by prescribing for others. If you spend your existence rallying against the gays, the blacks, the women, the protestants, the Jews, the lizard and fish people, you will attain nothing, because the world changes with you first. Fix yourself. Every issue that our side, our people, have has to be focused on internally first, then the outside world will change. Almost all of the ills of our culture are spiritual ills, brought forth because our fathers were spiritually weak, and forgot that the world is made up of atoms on top of atoms. That one must start at the smallest unit, and for us, that is the inner self.

The time to rage impotently at the injustice of the world is past its expiration. It’s time to fix oneself than radiate that to others. Man by man, woman by woman, family by family, neighbor by neighbor. This is how we will change the world.

So yes, that’s why I’m being honest and open. I’m a father, husband, career professional, but I’m also a depressed hedonist who can’t sleep, never goes to church, and hasn’t written a damn word of my novel in months.