i’ve long been enamored, even consumed, by the prospect of going through life on autopilot. my earliest memory of being appealed by this notion was in back to the future, the scene where doc brown’s alarm clock sets off a series of events beginning with waking him up to brushing his teeth to brewing his coffee. with eyelids heavy throughout the entire scene, doc brown sleepily makes the most meager movements while everything else does the work. the scene ends with doc brown having been coaxed into full alertness, overjoyed by yet another perfectly-roboticized morning. even for the mad scientist inventor, the ideal day begins with no thinking.
wouldn’t it be relaxing, i remember daydreaming as a kid, if my entire day were like that? i wouldn’t even have to think about it and somehow i would get through school, have all my homework done, shower taken, without me having to go through the excruciating human conditions of anticipation, effort, procrastination, and regret.
this infatuation for autopiloting things continues to exist in my life in different ways – the convenience of automatic bill payments, email autoreplies, and the jungle of triggers deployed by my phone. meanwhile, the conveniences of capitalism have made it possible for me to jump on amazon to subscribe to almost anything, and for shows to invite themselves into my life without me even asking for them. lately autopilot has manifested in this weird idea that the best way for me to get through this lockdown period is to live each day as a perfect routine. like if i just got through a checklist of things that the ideal me would normally do (meditate, exercise, eat healthily, get some work done, connect with loved ones) then i’d be happy that day. and if i did that everyday, then i’d be happy everyday. easy.
i call this idea weird because it’s completely un-gemini and also against the way i’ve framed so much of my life around my love of adventure. how is it that just a year ago i was excitedly hiking in new zealand and today i’m getting just as much satisfaction out of sitting on my patio each morning? maybe in this apartment, behind these gates, in this closed world, i’ve given up on adventure.
i know it sounds kind of corny, but the adventure that still remains constant is my struggle to write each day. i’ve been able to corral every other good habit except for writing. me wrestling a green ghoulish cyclops version of myself – that’s the image that comes to mind when i think about the moment each morning between me chillin with a cup of coffee, and me writing a non-work related paragraph. like, if i could just trigger one outcome with a doc brown-style contraption, it would be that i could somehow just have a beautiful piece of writing channeled out of me each day without all my insecurities about purpose and audacity and what gives me the right to say anything at all discouraging me. this inability to somehow just have is the dose of adventure that has kept me from being lured into a euphoric cycle of groundhog days.
in this age where we’re constantly being reminded to check our privileges, and amidst days dedicated to tending to my loved ones who have fallen ill, it’s been hard to take my artistic conflicts seriously. a projection of hundreds of thousands of more deaths, and you seriously want to talk about writer’s block? the green ghoulish version of me has a point. but while so many elements are containing, regulating, fearmongering, and subduing us – insisting on still exploring, imagining, and creating is a risk worth taking.