This chapter is discussed in Notes On the Spectrum: Patience with God
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As an interjection: “Woosah… just let it go.”
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As a noun: “I need some woosah after that meeting.”
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As a reminder cue: “Woosah, breathe.”
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It’s often spelled with extended vowels (e.g., “woooosah”) to mimic taking a deep breath or emphasise the moment.
This is going to sound like total bullshit, and it probably is, but if you come along for the ride, my hope is to unpack more of the motivation and drive behind 95% of my writing over the last 20 years.
There is something going on in this entire work that I don’t like. I don’t quite know how to tell my story without shaming, revealing, or attacking my cast of characters. I have assumed my role as Dedalus or Icarus, depending on the relationship I’m exploring. How can I navigate or illuminate the family system without appearing to attack my son, for example?
Did the writing of Beautiful Boy cause problems for the father-son relationship? How did this work become a collaboration on several books and projects after the movie became popular? How has Nick continued to write an grow? How has he suffered relapses? And today, how is Timothy Challimet disintegrating before our very eyes. Even as his star is rising, a recent posting of a Zoom call with TC and his marketing team, reveals the frantic, manic, Robin Williams-like rants going through his mind. We seem to be watching a breakdown occuring in realtime to one of our brightest young talents. It’s hard to watch. (Link in footnotes.)
My son is experiencing a similar meltdown. As the world of 2025 roughens up, job hunting has become more like a snipe hunt than a process of connection and evaluation. Even my own struggles show the indiffernce of the business world to the current human experience. Profits are down. The future is uncertain. Posting jobs that don’t exist to harvest resumes for future recruiting needs. Posting ghost jobs. It’s all part of the minefield leading to record unemployment.
Of course, robots are coming to take out jobs. Specifically, Jeff Bezos has mentioned hiring 600,000 robots. Um, that’s my employer, Whole Foods Market. Let’s see. I report to work today as a cog in the machine. A cashier in the global organic produce empire of one of our rocketship billionaires, shaping the future of mankind and survival. I don’t know, do you trust Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos, or Mark Zuckerberg to look after you best interests, your privacy or ethic concerns? As they are building doomsday bunkers for themselves and their family, buying additional houses, jets and yachts, what guiderails hold them accountable to others, to humanity?
I can tell you, it’s obvious, Mr. Musk would rather populate his own Mars colony all on his own. I’d prefer him to leave Earth sooner rather than later. And if he could not boil the oceans with nuclear power and AI intrastructer demands, that would be great. He does not give a shit about humanity. He says, “Empathy is the greatest human weakness.”
Full stop on that one.
Here I am. Digging in my own dirty sandbox. Uncovering turds, gems, and trying to establish a connection with my son and daughter. That’s it. I have a three-point agenda: 1. go to work and do it well, 2. find a new job, and 3. write often. It’s going well. I mean, I think it is.
Giving the other players on the stage a chance at self-determination is a good idea. I can’t cure my son’s malady or predict the intervention needed if my daughter evolves downward into an alcoholic. I can’t prevent their ascention or their grounding. I no longer have agency over their lives. I am a willing partner in experience and love. I offer opportunities to connect. I give up most of my expectations and hopes about how they will grow up.
Outside the door of my house, my son sleeps drooped over his phone on a rocking chair. The melodic alarm plays as loud as his iPhone allows. He is not roused.
Through the portal of the door into an image that seems to attack my son. Is it an attack? Is it parental shaming? Is anyone really reading my book besides me and the AI trio of NotebookLM, Perplexity, and ChatGPT? Am I doing it for fame, comprehension, or empathy? I don’t need your support. He might, but you don’t know him. And, he’s got find a plan for himself. I can give suggestions if asked, but I can’t fix him. I can’t understand why my daughter has gone dark. I can’t determine their paths through the dark forrest of today.
Oh, I am only responsible for my actions and words. These words are mine. This story is about me. Sons and daughters are supporting characters. In this branching world, you may follow any of the threads. I am attempting to provide a universe of language, love, and trauma recovery, without becoming therapeutic or boring. I’m just delivering my life. Crafting a new way to tell a story that is as old as the Greeks.
Time’s up. Work commute to commence in 10 minutes.
