So. Spawned from a conversation with a friend, I've started thinking. Everyone has a self-image, right? How they see themselves. Despite being borderline there's always been a small core of things that carry over into my personality no matter who is defining it. One of those things is my penchant for the weird, the strange, the unexplainable. The New. This is, I think, one of the main reasons I'm a fan of the work of Warren Ellis, Hunter S. Thompson, Bruce Baugh, Grant Morrison and Greg Stolze. They are never satisfied with what already is, they have to go that one step further, into what could be. See, I like to think I'm like that. I like to think I'm one of the ones capable of coming up with the mad, brilliant ideas, and not just thinking them up, but realising them. Living on the edge of an idea-space that many people couldn't begin to imagine.
But then I step back into neutral abstraction and look at myself. Fuck, if I'm not the poster boy for "bland conformist schmuck", what am I? I no longer smoke. I am a stoner, I'll grant that, but in six months or less it's going to end up legal anyway, so that hardly counts. I've never been in actual trouble with the police, and the one time I ran from them it was too easy and wasn't for anything major. I've never tried any `illicit' substance past weed. I drink less than just about anyone my age has a right to. I barely go out nowadays. I don't sleep around. There are so many incongruities between me and `not a conformist cubicle drone', that I have to wonder: Am I kidding myself? Am I really Yet Another Fuckhead in training?I can claim that I think in ways many people will never understand, but what does it really mean for that to be the case? It doesn't change how I interact with the world in a concrete way outside of the odd random chat. It doesn't change who I am to most of the beings that will ever know me.
So if I'm the poster-child for boring conformism, where does that leave me? Without a common thread to my personality. What does that mean? Now I've stopped joking myself into thinking I'm somehow different from Joe and Jane Six-Pack, my personality's going to be, to put it mildly, shot to shit.
Or maybe this is desperation and a weird dream talking.
A really weird dream, all told. There's me and this other guy. Said other guy is a cult journalist/writer, clean from drugs and shit, but gets a major kick from doing and saying what people only dare to think to themselves. Cross Hunter S. Thompson with Trainspotting's Begbie, in a way. There's nothing he won't say, nobody he won't punch. Completely without fear. A madman, but a brilliant one, exposing the ills of the world with his insanity.
Who would have lasted about ten microseconds without my POV in this dream. The guy acting as the middleman between the high society he needed to be near, with their designer clothes, designer drinks, designer homes and designer drugs -- "It doesn't matter what it is, you just have to experience it, darling!" -- and him. Without me he'd have had a hard time getting a taxi. Yet it was obvious that the society only bothered with me because I'd copped the kind of "been there, done that, tripped on the other" I needed to get by around him, and I was beneath his notice.
Which has some strange parallels, really. On a related note, a fair few of the dreams I can remember do contain references to (mainly hallucinogenic) drugs. I have no real idea why this is, except maybe I'm not getting stoned enough. I hate being at home with no weed.