The Book of Max

Dear Codename: Emily – thanks for reading the blog.

***In showbiz, that’s what we call a “hook”***
If it’s you reading this, just skip to the Tl;dr.

One day in New York City and the magic returns. I’m struggling to write this as my fingertips quiver from that noxious combination of caffeine, nicotine, hangover, lack of sleep and reckoning with destiny. After two months of solitude, I’m transported back into the world of living, breathing people. I ask those old questions: Why am I here again? What am I supposed to be doing? It’s like when you walk into a room and forget what you came for. To satisfy yourself, you check the fridge – “maybe that’s why I came.” You know that’s not why, but you pour the Brita anyways. You were a little thirsty, actually. It’s been a drought – a Closing Time™¹. You can just barely remember the plentiful harvest of an Opening Time™¹, but you’re starting to think it was just a dream. There’s been little Openings™, here and there. Oh nice! New lawyer. Twitch concert went without a hitch! You’re making a TV show! But there’s an inkling, an itch – that’s not what you really came for.

***So what did I come for?***
Let’s brainstorm.

Was it so I could run away to the big city and play the hometown hero? Was it so I could live in a house with my best friends? Was it so they all could leave me and I’d have to stand on the street in a shiny gold suit and busk for new friends? Was it so my song could go viral? Was it so the same day, Jevandre could die and shatter everything I knew about anything? Was it so I could run, battered and bruised, to the first person to want to build a life with me? Was it so I could spend three years with her just to break up and shatter my already shattered world even further? Was it so I could run out of money all over again and be right back where I started – running away to New York? Running back to Codename: Didi? Running away, running away, running, running… running.

***A brutal maxim***
Wherever you go, there you are.

Scattered dreams, far off memories. That’s from Kingdom Hearts. I have it tattooed on my right thigh. It’s become a mantra of mine. Something about best laid plans… something about how no matter how hard you hold on to someone, one day you can wake up in your bed, alone. Or wake up on a red eye, looking out the window. Wondering – how did I get here? Why did I come again? Better check the fridge.

I used to believe these disparate pieces of my life were part of some larger story of fate and coincidence. Every heartbreak, every lost friendship, every maxed out credit card – it was all worth it, because it would lead to some greener pasture where my dreams came true and the ends would justify the means. But what happens if nothing goes right, and I destroyed everything in the process? What am I left with? I have no choice but to believe in some fantastical conclusion, because only at the end of the story do the pieces come together and prove to you that you really were on a journey the whole time. That it wasn’t just aimless suffering and wandering and sacrifice. When I told this to Jalon she told me it sounded like I was looking for reparations. I thought that was pretty funny.

It’s almost been a year since Codename: Didi and I broke up. In that time, I’ve rationalized the loss as just another red line on my itemized karmic debt². And yet, there’s still this sneaking suspicion, this nagging itch, this urge to check the fridge. The scaffolding of my rationalization is shaking all around me. I have yet to re-sign the Twitch deal. AWAL may not pick up the option. There’s a good chance the TV show won’t get funded. But these things have to work, right? That’s why I gave up on Codename: Didi. To make space for this… my fate.

And yet, Codename: Didi was fate as well. We should never have met. I’m a kid from Kent. She’s a girl from London. If it wasn’t for that Marvelous Wonder of Modern Technology™ called the Internet we would never have crossed paths. Cavemen would scratch their heads at our union. The Quakers would be trembling in their boots. They’d call it divine intervention. Nowadays we’d call it the Algorithm™. That cold, indifferent, faceless lowercase god that controls the lives of its poor subjects. I picture it less like sentient supercomputer AM and more like a lazy despot lounging on a kline. And we feed grapes to our great mechanical arbiter like the loyal ants we are. We post. We swipe. We type our captions like we’re scratching lottery tickets with greedy eyes on the meagre, measly off-chance you hit the jackpot. Well, I did. I met Codename: Didi. I got a viral song. Fate must have a plan for me. Right?

***Something grim I’ve started to internalize***
Fate may well just be the most elaborately disguised external validation scheme known to humankind.

Think about it. Every decision, every move you make, when chalked up to fate strips any precious hope of agency us puny humans can cling to. These offerings we make are not random. I am in control of my destiny. I can play the Algorithm™. I can change my fate. And yet…

Here I am, alone. Running out of money. Pushing 30 and still not where I thought I’d be in my career. Still not moved on. The gambit exhausted, the poker face crumbled. The metaphors mixed into meaninglessness. Why am I here? Why did I come? What’s in the goddamned fridge? Maybe I placed my bet on the wrong horse. Who am I, and what are my plans, compared to fate? I was at a crossroads – do I run towards Codename: Didi? Or do I run towards my dream? Both, I thought, were my fate. But how can I deny fate on one hand and rely on it in another? Can we really compartmentalize something as grand and unknowable as destiny?

***So I did what I do best***
I made a Pros and Cons List™.

I’ll boil it down. In one hand, was something real. A home. A dog. Love. Laughter. Companionship. A promise of progeny and legacy and all that jazz. Okay, well then what’s in the other hand? Music. Movies. Dreams. Lyrics, poems, ideas. Okay. Cool. I like Those Things™. But although they’re in my hand, I couldn’t feel them. They’re not real the way our house smelled. Or the way her lips tasted. And lately, when movies and magic and singing has been reduced to posting on TikTok and trying to shrug my shoulders as I count the views, it’s hard for it all not to feel extraordinarily flimsy in comparison to even a whisper of a memory of Codename: Didi saying my name, my real name.

On Tuesday, she said that she wanted to go No Contact™. It was funny, in a cosmically tragic sort of way. On Monday, I had just had a conversation with my parents about how I was ready to let her back into my life, even if just as a friend. And as that funny thing called fate tends to do, immediately after I called Clev and Jess and they happened to be with her and they invited me to go play some VR game. It was a perfectly lovely afternoon. At the end, they asked if I wanted to get tacos and I so desperately wanted to say yes, to slip back into our old ways when we were a foursome. But I had work to do. I think I had to go home and edit. Something flimsy. She said she needed a ride home, and I think she wanted me to drive her. I knew this, and I said no. I wasn’t ready. I know now that she had already had her mind made up to go No Contact™ the next day, and fate let us see each other one more time. And that’s how we left it. I wonder what we would have talked about when we drove home.

How does No Contact™ feel? Well, this last year, that’s all I’ve wanted. Honestly. It’ll be good for us. I’m proud of her. It’s hard to move on when the looming threat of an innocuous text – God forbid — might make my heart flutter just enough to make my conviction waver. This was my destiny. I couldn’t have both. But I liked leaving that door open, just a little bit… just to see about it. Before I signed my lease in LA last summer, I wanted to go to New York. I made up all these reasons for why it was a better idea to stay in LA, but if I’m being honest with myself it’s because… I just wanted to see about it. See if she’d come around. See if she’d try to convince me that I could have both. That we could try again. But it’s a year later, and that never happened. And now my lease is up, again. So I check the fridge.

***And just like I thought***
There’s nothing there.

So why did I do all this? Well, the answer is because at some point, as a child, I decided that art was the most real thing in the world. I have no idea how I came to that conclusion. It was easy to leave behind Codename: Apples because our relationship, however beautiful, never felt as real as the dream of moving to LA. I let the band break up and lost all my old friends because no matter how many years we had between us, it never felt as real as the songs I’d one day write about them. But I haven’t been able to move on from Codename: Didi because, for the first time, I had something that felt more real than I only thing I’ve ever known to be real. And now… that something was over. What do I have to believe in anymore? Did I really give up everything for something… *gasp* … FAKE?

***The long dream was finally over***
And I was empty handed.

Recently, I started trying church again. When all else fails, turn to Jesus, I suppose. But I’ve been faced with an insurmountable logical problem. I want to believe in God… but I fear I don’t. How do I reckon with that paradox? Why would I want to believe in something I don’t believe in? That doesn’t even make sense. The great thinkers I admire and misalign myself with are wagging their fingers at me, their would-be torchbearer³. I’ve dove headfirst into this issue and find myself in good company, I suppose. I’m at least safe from fire & brimstone in a faith-based congregation. S/O Pope Leo. Faith is most rewarded in times where it’s most difficult to have. With acknowledgement of mine own Grave Hubris™, I think of Job. I’ll flatten his Book a bit to cut through to my pretty little metaphor. Job was a tantamount Man of God™. Cheekily, that little bugger Satan placed a wager with God that Job only possessed such strong faith because God was treating him with almighty benevolence. And so God tested Job with all His divine might. Bro was determined to win the bet. Bro stripped Lil Bro of his huzz, his squad, his swag. Even if you don’t know Job, you know the phrase “God giveth and God taketh away.” That’s where it’s from. Bro tooketh away. And yet Lil Bro never wavered. Sigma mindset – how can one only believe in God when He is intervening solely one’s favor? He brings order and He brings chaos and it is beyond one’s tiny scope to pass judgement on which actions are worthy of faith. Job was based, and so Job was rizzed – he got another wife, more kids, better health and I think the promise of three our four generations of his name. Faithmaxxed. Skibidi.

***
Did the brainrot make up for the Old Testament?***
I didn’t have space to add a goon corner.

And so, although I wish it wasn’t so, I find myself as Job. Call it anti-intellectual rationalization. Call it disingenuous to have faith if I’m only faithful because I think I’ll be rewarded for it. Hey now! Job did it – I’m just doing what the Bible says. Also, the irony of “Quit Your Day Job” is not lost on me, so save your breath before you make any puns.

So I did it – just yesterday – I made a grand invocation to fate. To God. To destiny. To the Algorithm™. Please, show me a sign. I didn’t quite drop to my knees, but I did look out the window at the sun setting over the New York skyline and cried a little. I’ll let Codename: Didi. I’ll let my friends go. I’ll let my dream of New York go. I’ll let everything go. Just please, let this work. Prove to me that this is real.

And then today, I heard a song called “emily.”

***A payoff to the hook, just like I promised***
Tl;dr – I’m Job.

Hey Codename: Emily. It’s been three years since we’ve spoken. But now you’re talking to me across the universe over Spotify. I only thought it’d be right to respond here, since according to the song you do read the blog. This reminds me of the old days where we’d sit in your car until 4 o’ clock in the morning and show each other our demos. Your songs were always so effortlessly beautiful. I was in awe of you. You inspired me so much. I would go home and write songs with the intention to show you later, so I pushed myself for them to be amazing like yours. You brought out the artist in me in a way that no one ever did, before or after. Despite how we’ve left things, I’ve missed that a lot. I felt like you understood my music more than anyone else ever did. I would show you the songs I wrote about you. All the songs were about you, back then. As tumultuous as things were between us, it was great for my pen. My pen was never sharper than when I was writing about you. With you, it always felt visceral, and massive, like the songs were begging to be brought forth from the aether into existence. In 2021, I wrote 32 songs about you. In 2022, I wrote 7 songs total. That’s no coincidence. You were my muse. Many artists have a muse, but how many of them get to show their works directly to the source? And how many get to receive something back, three years later?

Lately, I’ve been struggling with the notion of releasing the remainder of True Modern Romance. The back half is where the songs get real, and personal. But like I said earlier, they’ve felt flimsy. What art could ever hold up to the real thing? No matter how much of my soul I put into them, I was convinced that the mystical, ethereal reality of a song would always be outweighed by the tangible reality of the real events that inspired it.

But that was before someone wrote a song about me.

I’ve listened to “emily” at least 50 times today. Deciphering every line. Remembering along with you every single detail of us you put in there. I know what it means to write a song about someone. But to have that turned back on me… I’ve never felt that before. And suddenly, I remember why I came.

***No need to check the fridge***
It’s always been real.

Your song is fucking incredible⁴. It takes a lot of courage to put out something as personal as that, and for that I applaud you like I always have. I think that’s what I’ve been lacking – courage. I’m scared. I’m scared to put my real emotions out there. I’m afraid of being heard, truly heard. That’s the blockage. And in my tiny monkey brain, rather than accept that I’m scared, I’ve done mental gymnastics of biblical proportions to convince myself that the songs aren’t real, that my feelings aren’t real. That none of this was real. Rather than just accept that… they are. That’s self-inflicted artistic gaslighting disguised as pseudo-philosophical existential sophistication. Of course the songs are real. I made them.

The fact is, your song is real, and it reverberated between us across lightyears of spacetime. That’s immutable testament to the reality of art – if not its Physical Form™, than its Emotional Legibility™. How else could I explain the fact that yesterday I asked for proof, and today I got a song written about me? Smite me, O mighty smiter.

You were always the real deal. Even back then. You know, when I first ran into you, of all the sidewalks in the world on a Sunday in West Hollywood, you made me believe that all of this was real. I still think about advice you’d give me, all the time. I still tell everyone to read The Artists’ Way, like you told me. I still tell everyone “your vision’s gotta be airtight.” I still remember when you heard Happy, Healthy and said “Max… this is it.” You knew it, so it was true. And it was so – the song changed my life. In so many ways, you changed my life.

So to address the song – no, I do not hate you. I’ve made my peace with everything. In fact, I’ve felt guilty for my part in it. I never should have made you my muse. That’s an impossible burden for one person to carry if they want to have any sort of relationship with the other. But what can I say. Thanks for all the songs. And thanks for the reminder.

Talk soon? -mbk

FOOTNOTES:
1. For the definitions of Closing Times™ and Opening Times™, read this entry: https://maxbennettkelly.com/blog0010/
2. It’s easier than feeling sad.
3. Kierkegaard, Camus and Pascal roll in their graves. Nietzsche and Tillich pout in the corner. Kafka giggles.
4. Bias notwithstanding.