I'm (fixating) so hard right now

Check on your friends who are in-between hyper-fixations.

One minute they are obsessed with NFTs. The next it’s a new band, or TV show, or some tight end named Cole Kmet.

But its during the in-betweens when they’re feeling a little numb. Not me though. I’m fixating so hard right now.

So let’s get into it:

[napalm]

The first time I heard of napalm I was in high school. I remember how it fell from my history teacher’s mouth as I sat taking notes.

Never stories; only bullet points. Only death tolls. Only months and days and years.

/

Senior year I dated a guy that tried very hard to seem like he did not try at all. He carried himself the way I imagine a Ferris-Bueller-Jeff-Spicoli-hybrid would. Unconcerned. Barefoot^[1]. He often complained of his mother and father’s happy marriage. He found no pleasure in compliments: receiving or giving.

But I was very attracted to the idea of him back then.

He was very attracted to the ideas of Tyler Durden & Chris McCandless. That's probably why I found him and his friends making napalm in an old garage one night at a party. One of those garages filled with tools, and parts, and stains. Where work always gets started but rarely gets finished.

I remember watching them as they labored over a plastic container that had once held leftover soup. I remember the smell of gasoline and soap.

They reminded me of little birds as they whittled and scraped shavings into the Tupperware. But I’m not sure why. Perhaps it felt like they were begging, for someone, anyone, to feed them.

Starved of a purpose.
So they made napalm.

They fumbled in their dedication. Old knives. Dull knives. Not enough knives for the hands that volunteered. Scratching away, nails caked in wax, marinating in fuel.

I watched their hands. Hands that didn’t have stories to tell, just yet.

/

They sang along to Toto's “Africa” over and over again^[2].

After some time I grew bored and became tired of the smell. I wondered if I should pretend to care, just a little, just to spend more time in his presence, though I’m not sure he noticed mine.

But I was very attracted to the idea of him back then.

That night, before leaving, they threw lit napalm with shovels onto an old oak tree. It made the kind of sound that felt good. Shovels. Flames. And a little fear that we might get caught.

I later lent him my only copy of Fight Club.
He never returned it.

^{1 . In my mind, they wore no shoes.
 2 . I forget why one listen wasn’t enough for them. For me, this song will forever smell of gasoline.}

Three-Act Structures

I’ve never thought of life as a series of Acts. Listening to Wiser Than Me, Jane Fonda describes her life as:

• Act 1: 0-30 years

• Act 2: 30-60 years

• Act 3: 60-90 years

Immediately, I was hit with the realization that my third act might never come. Of course we all know that nothing is guaranteed, but it feels much more finite to think of it in threes.

I find comfort in framing life this way. The uncertainty and mistakes of our youth feel more forgiving somehow.

I’m currently settling into the beginning of my 2nd Act, and for the first time, I don’t feel like I’m in the passenger seat, white-knuckling life while someone else steers. It’s taken time to get here, but maybe it was supposed to.

Jane also says, “the chronology of age is not what’s important. It’s health.” So I guess I should probably get off my ass and move a little.

Get off your ass and move a little. You’ve only got 3 acts.
Until next time. - cd