There is a man with snakes for hands.
Devils for eyes, and a tongue made of lies.
There is a man with a heart full of fear.
A bottomless stomach and food within reach.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Thursday, May 17, 2007
screaming the blues.
"The Blues."
Can you see it on a person if they walk right past you? Sometimes yes, most of the time no. Is it a scent? Is it visible wear and tear on the soul of a stranger, that you might somehow just notice semi-consciously?
Can you listen to them without them saying a word? Like putting a seashell against your ear, can you hear what the lines in a person's face are trying to tell you? The man with the dark circles under his eyes, the dirty jeans, the anxious way he taps his old sneakers on the floor while he nurses a cigarette; his eyes. His eyes... can you even fathom what it would be like to have seen what those eyes have seen?
Can you visibly tell when the human being you are looking at is a broken man or a woman? Or has been at one point in his life? Can you even imagine what it means, what it takes for every inch of you to be broken?
I know I can, because I was in a room full of them tonight. Broken souls. A room full of so much pain (and continuous healing) that it took every living ounce of strength that I had inside of me, I kid you not, to stay inside of it for an hour. No more, no less. No casual hello's before the meeting, and a quick exit at the end to make sure I wouldn't be subjected to what I was already in denial about, which was that I was at an NA meeting. Narcotics Anonymous.
Every week, one person "shares" his story for the others there, but they say it's mostly for the newcomer, so he or she can understand and not feel alone anymore. I put "share" in quotations, because, well, to me the word sharing is what a kindergardener does when she gives one of her toys to another classmate. Javier, probably in his early to mid-thirties, was not "sharing." As it was explained to me, it was the first time this particular member was telling his story to the group, even though he was there for quite a while, through many relapses. What this man proceeded to do was conduct a visual autopsy on his emotional and mental self while he was still alive, and talk us through it. He told us his story, and through his story I could hear what I could imagine to be everyone else's stories; I have a very vivid imagination. I did not know these people, but I felt them because they've struggled harder than you or anyone you know will probably struggle in their entire lives. Each had a story easily worth a million, or more, of mine and your tears. I know because my story has collected many of it's fair share in my short time on earth.
Javier sits there in a church all-purpose room, in a folding chair. He is part of a circle of people in folding chairs, and they are all listening to him speak, when he can. Some of them are looking at him, faces proud, yet eyes welling with tears. Some of them listen to him while they hide their faces in their hands. Some look ahead at the wall directly across from them, seemingly numb from all the stories they've heard. Javier sobs quietly as he tries to get through the part where he tells us all that both his parents were alcoholics, and both his brothers were alcoholics and drug addicts, and that he never wanted to be like them.
This is a confession.
This isn't a real worlder complaining about their roommate. This one confession, as with the few more he carefully, somewhat uneasily let out tonight, shook the earth. He studders at parts, takes long pauses at others. None of this is easy. He admits to certain actions, feelings, emotions that only someone else who has also hit rock bottom would know and relate to, and those people laugh with him out of compassion. I am one of those people laughing.
Javier is just a man. A smart guy, too. He isn't a monster, there is nothing wrong with him physically, mentally, or emotionally. He is just a man dealing with life. His life, and where it has taken him to. He is not making excuses, he is not placing blame. He is just a man who is suffering greatly, and will continue to suffer every single day for the hurt he has caused the people who he loves and cares about the most. He is a man who is lucky in every sense of the word. He is a man who feels guilt like I hope you will never feel in your entire life, a guilt I would not wish on my worst enemy. He is a changed man, changed by the confessions he had heard before him. He is a man with white chips in a drawer, every one of them painful to look at. I hold mine as close as a wedding ring. I am scared.
Javier gets to the part where he tells us about the laptop that he pawned one night to scrounge up money for drugs, and falls out of his storytelling mode, now just talking to himself; "why did I do that?" He starts to cry again. "Why did I pawn that laptop? I loved that thing, man. That was my laptop..."
This is a confession.
He digresses and moves back into his story, and meanwhile everyone in the room, including myself, knows exactly why he pawned the laptop he loved. I'm beginning to understand that since I understand, I belong here; if someone didn't understand Javier's journey, if someone had never walked those same footsteps, they couldn't even fathom it. I am Javier. Everyone in this room, filled with love, hurt, guilt, fear, redemption, god, pride, pain, and shame... they are all Javier. I am Javier, and thank you Javier for quietly lighting the path. He's not saying a word, he's not pointing in any direction, he's just lighting the way for me and then walking it himself.
I could have been acquiring nations;
now I am one man rebuilding a single castle by himself.
all we have are choices.
Can you see it on a person if they walk right past you? Sometimes yes, most of the time no. Is it a scent? Is it visible wear and tear on the soul of a stranger, that you might somehow just notice semi-consciously?
Can you listen to them without them saying a word? Like putting a seashell against your ear, can you hear what the lines in a person's face are trying to tell you? The man with the dark circles under his eyes, the dirty jeans, the anxious way he taps his old sneakers on the floor while he nurses a cigarette; his eyes. His eyes... can you even fathom what it would be like to have seen what those eyes have seen?
Can you visibly tell when the human being you are looking at is a broken man or a woman? Or has been at one point in his life? Can you even imagine what it means, what it takes for every inch of you to be broken?
I know I can, because I was in a room full of them tonight. Broken souls. A room full of so much pain (and continuous healing) that it took every living ounce of strength that I had inside of me, I kid you not, to stay inside of it for an hour. No more, no less. No casual hello's before the meeting, and a quick exit at the end to make sure I wouldn't be subjected to what I was already in denial about, which was that I was at an NA meeting. Narcotics Anonymous.
Every week, one person "shares" his story for the others there, but they say it's mostly for the newcomer, so he or she can understand and not feel alone anymore. I put "share" in quotations, because, well, to me the word sharing is what a kindergardener does when she gives one of her toys to another classmate. Javier, probably in his early to mid-thirties, was not "sharing." As it was explained to me, it was the first time this particular member was telling his story to the group, even though he was there for quite a while, through many relapses. What this man proceeded to do was conduct a visual autopsy on his emotional and mental self while he was still alive, and talk us through it. He told us his story, and through his story I could hear what I could imagine to be everyone else's stories; I have a very vivid imagination. I did not know these people, but I felt them because they've struggled harder than you or anyone you know will probably struggle in their entire lives. Each had a story easily worth a million, or more, of mine and your tears. I know because my story has collected many of it's fair share in my short time on earth.
Javier sits there in a church all-purpose room, in a folding chair. He is part of a circle of people in folding chairs, and they are all listening to him speak, when he can. Some of them are looking at him, faces proud, yet eyes welling with tears. Some of them listen to him while they hide their faces in their hands. Some look ahead at the wall directly across from them, seemingly numb from all the stories they've heard. Javier sobs quietly as he tries to get through the part where he tells us all that both his parents were alcoholics, and both his brothers were alcoholics and drug addicts, and that he never wanted to be like them.
This is a confession.
This isn't a real worlder complaining about their roommate. This one confession, as with the few more he carefully, somewhat uneasily let out tonight, shook the earth. He studders at parts, takes long pauses at others. None of this is easy. He admits to certain actions, feelings, emotions that only someone else who has also hit rock bottom would know and relate to, and those people laugh with him out of compassion. I am one of those people laughing.
Javier is just a man. A smart guy, too. He isn't a monster, there is nothing wrong with him physically, mentally, or emotionally. He is just a man dealing with life. His life, and where it has taken him to. He is not making excuses, he is not placing blame. He is just a man who is suffering greatly, and will continue to suffer every single day for the hurt he has caused the people who he loves and cares about the most. He is a man who is lucky in every sense of the word. He is a man who feels guilt like I hope you will never feel in your entire life, a guilt I would not wish on my worst enemy. He is a changed man, changed by the confessions he had heard before him. He is a man with white chips in a drawer, every one of them painful to look at. I hold mine as close as a wedding ring. I am scared.
Javier gets to the part where he tells us about the laptop that he pawned one night to scrounge up money for drugs, and falls out of his storytelling mode, now just talking to himself; "why did I do that?" He starts to cry again. "Why did I pawn that laptop? I loved that thing, man. That was my laptop..."
This is a confession.
He digresses and moves back into his story, and meanwhile everyone in the room, including myself, knows exactly why he pawned the laptop he loved. I'm beginning to understand that since I understand, I belong here; if someone didn't understand Javier's journey, if someone had never walked those same footsteps, they couldn't even fathom it. I am Javier. Everyone in this room, filled with love, hurt, guilt, fear, redemption, god, pride, pain, and shame... they are all Javier. I am Javier, and thank you Javier for quietly lighting the path. He's not saying a word, he's not pointing in any direction, he's just lighting the way for me and then walking it himself.
I could have been acquiring nations;
now I am one man rebuilding a single castle by himself.
all we have are choices.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
the sunshine state of affairs.
Florida is a waypoint for the transient minds and souls of the citizens of every nation on this earth, drawn to it like moths are drawn to bright empty parking lot lights. Florida is every one of it's street intersections, where the homeless beg for change at stop lights, while the drivers of the hundred thousand dollar cars stopped there say pages of nothing into cell phones. Florida is oil and water culture clashes, language barriers and invisible walls at every turn. Florida is a portrait of the land of opportunity hanging askew in a condemned building filled with society's unwanted. Florida is a giant edifice of Christianity, a huge solid gold cross embedded in a foundation of narcotics, tears, and blood money. Florida is a library burning on a picturesque beach. Florida is a spear filled with inebriated, half-naked young Republicans dancing rhythmically to the beat of Ignorance, being surgically installed into the side of a mock Jesus Christ. Florida is a tired, wide-eyed family of immigrants from a 3rd world country being painfully searched for diseases and fleas before being eaten by the giant mouths of Visa and Mastercard. Florida is shattered windows everywhere for miles from the screams and piercing cries of a daddy's girl because Li'l Jon wasn't paid to come to her sweet sixteen. Florida is a mutated, steroid-filled, tanned, chiseled and groomed modelesque monster waiting to devirginize the newly silicon-enhanced and Brazilian-waxed Daughters Of America in the dirty alleyways of South Beach while tourists stop to take pictures.
Florida is a white man in an Armani suit doing lines of coke off of the carcass of a washed-ashore Haitian, who is clutching a postcard of Miami.
Florida is a trailer park named "Happiness Grove" next to a garbage dump covered with grass and shrubs, a cell phone tower which is built to look like a palm tree, and giant billboards shouting Walt Disney propaganda.
Florida is a white man in an Armani suit doing lines of coke off of the carcass of a washed-ashore Haitian, who is clutching a postcard of Miami.
Florida is a trailer park named "Happiness Grove" next to a garbage dump covered with grass and shrubs, a cell phone tower which is built to look like a palm tree, and giant billboards shouting Walt Disney propaganda.
Friday, April 6, 2007
security cameras everywhere.
so steve left last night.
picked up at work by justine, the only friend I had in florida left for west virginia, and eventually long island. I had come to get used to him being at work; when he left it instantly felt like a different job. am I going to feel differently about FYE now? I hope not.
I have an amazing wife, and an awesome apartment, and two crazy cats. I am surely blessed to have these things. Aside from those things, there is no doubt in my mind that this is the loneliest I've felt in my entire life. More than a year into my move to florida, nothing has really changed since I got here. there is an unavoidable, uncontrollable sense of detachment. It's a different culture, a different people, a city in which I am the visitor (sometimes I fear it's so obvious) and I am trespassing onto ground I shouldn't be on.
I fear I am the tree that is uprooted to the point that it can no longer be re-planted.
picked up at work by justine, the only friend I had in florida left for west virginia, and eventually long island. I had come to get used to him being at work; when he left it instantly felt like a different job. am I going to feel differently about FYE now? I hope not.
I have an amazing wife, and an awesome apartment, and two crazy cats. I am surely blessed to have these things. Aside from those things, there is no doubt in my mind that this is the loneliest I've felt in my entire life. More than a year into my move to florida, nothing has really changed since I got here. there is an unavoidable, uncontrollable sense of detachment. It's a different culture, a different people, a city in which I am the visitor (sometimes I fear it's so obvious) and I am trespassing onto ground I shouldn't be on.
I fear I am the tree that is uprooted to the point that it can no longer be re-planted.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
one dart impaled on a globe.
One thought that has always, and probably will always knock around inside my head is the thought of all the possibilities one life could potentially explore. We only get one crack at this thing called life; a choice you make now could possibly affect you forever. When you were ten years old, did you ever think you'd be where you are at now? Did you ever think you would look the way you do now, or do what you're doing now? Do you ever just sit back and imagine what your life would be like if you had chosen certain paths over others, how different you would be? These are the thoughts that chase away my much-needed sleep every night.
I can't help but let my imagination explore who I would be now if I had made certain decisions in my past differently. I can't help but wonder how I would turn out if I suddenly dropped everything today and moved to Hawaii, or Tokyo, or London. I want to type every possibility into some crazy futuristic database that calculates all of this information, and have that version of myself pop up, with pictures and descriptions and everything. If I had chosen to join the armed forces at 18 right after high school, who would I be now? If I had chosen to stay with my band instead of quit, what would my life be like today? With an imagination as overactive as mine, these thoughts become mental quicksand. Sometimes, I find myself painfully mulling over the most inconsequential of decisions because of the possible ramifications it could cause.
Another cranial habit of mine is exploring myself in every way (and no, not in that "I wonder if I can suck my own dick" kind of way). There's a memorable quote from Fight Club that reads, "how much can you know about yourself if you've never been in a fight?" The same mindset applies to your looks, for instance. Have you ever grown out your beard, just for the hell of it? Have you ever shaved your head, or pierced something just out of pure curiousity? Next time you're in a clothing store, go ahead and try on some outfits that you would absolutely NEVER normally try on, and take a look at yourself in the mirror. It's fun to toy with who you are. If someone was asked to explain YOU as best they could, would it be easy for them or hard? Would they have any trouble at all describing what you wear or what you look like? Personally, I would be disappointed in myself if it was, in fact, a simple chore to "explain Dave Newman."
We only get one life to live. There are so many paths we have in front of us to choose from, it's almost a tragedy we can't explore them all. There are so many destinations to visit, so many people to meet, so many experiences that will unfortunately never be had. I for one really need to make it a point to make my time on this rock a meaningful one. I don't want to be that classic car that's always in the garage under the tarp and never on the road, engine at full rpm. Let's do some driving, just for the sake of driving.
I can't help but let my imagination explore who I would be now if I had made certain decisions in my past differently. I can't help but wonder how I would turn out if I suddenly dropped everything today and moved to Hawaii, or Tokyo, or London. I want to type every possibility into some crazy futuristic database that calculates all of this information, and have that version of myself pop up, with pictures and descriptions and everything. If I had chosen to join the armed forces at 18 right after high school, who would I be now? If I had chosen to stay with my band instead of quit, what would my life be like today? With an imagination as overactive as mine, these thoughts become mental quicksand. Sometimes, I find myself painfully mulling over the most inconsequential of decisions because of the possible ramifications it could cause.
Another cranial habit of mine is exploring myself in every way (and no, not in that "I wonder if I can suck my own dick" kind of way). There's a memorable quote from Fight Club that reads, "how much can you know about yourself if you've never been in a fight?" The same mindset applies to your looks, for instance. Have you ever grown out your beard, just for the hell of it? Have you ever shaved your head, or pierced something just out of pure curiousity? Next time you're in a clothing store, go ahead and try on some outfits that you would absolutely NEVER normally try on, and take a look at yourself in the mirror. It's fun to toy with who you are. If someone was asked to explain YOU as best they could, would it be easy for them or hard? Would they have any trouble at all describing what you wear or what you look like? Personally, I would be disappointed in myself if it was, in fact, a simple chore to "explain Dave Newman."
We only get one life to live. There are so many paths we have in front of us to choose from, it's almost a tragedy we can't explore them all. There are so many destinations to visit, so many people to meet, so many experiences that will unfortunately never be had. I for one really need to make it a point to make my time on this rock a meaningful one. I don't want to be that classic car that's always in the garage under the tarp and never on the road, engine at full rpm. Let's do some driving, just for the sake of driving.
Friday, February 16, 2007
the dance of the dying.
I'm very frustrated, and I can't exactly put my finger on the reason.
It might be due to my current status of employment, which is basically, unemployment. Although I am trying, it does definitely take time to get a job; especially what I've been applying for, retail management. Any management hiring takes time. First phone interviewing with a recruiter, and then a real interview, and then they pass you on to the actual company they are hiring FOR. You then do a phone interview with the hiring person there, usually a district manager or vice-president, and if they take it to the next step, an actual interview with THEM. Then any other random steps they want you to take, whether it be online personality exams, drug tests, and so on. Only then will you be considered for the job.
Applying to many places is frustrating in and of itself; every single application, online or in person, asks you the same exact questions that get answered in a well-written resume. Most places suggest you have a resume, yet require that you fill out the basic application. Why? To make you want to scream, I guess. Anyone worth their weight when unemployed applies to many, many different companies... that's a lot of dumb, carbon-copy applications to fill out.
As much as I like sleeping in every day, it's kind of scary not having income and not knowing when you will. The hiring process of many of these places is too slow. Also, I don't want to make a bad decision when it comes to my new career. I like staying at places for long periods of time, I'm not the type of person to skip from job to job. So this next place will basically determine alot for the next few years of my life. If I make a bad choice, it's going to weigh heavily on me for a long time. The pressure is definitely real and I'm definitely feeling it.
More than ever, I want to make music again. I see my friends back home doing it, I reminisce daily. I need to get one of these projects going.
It might be due to my current status of employment, which is basically, unemployment. Although I am trying, it does definitely take time to get a job; especially what I've been applying for, retail management. Any management hiring takes time. First phone interviewing with a recruiter, and then a real interview, and then they pass you on to the actual company they are hiring FOR. You then do a phone interview with the hiring person there, usually a district manager or vice-president, and if they take it to the next step, an actual interview with THEM. Then any other random steps they want you to take, whether it be online personality exams, drug tests, and so on. Only then will you be considered for the job.
Applying to many places is frustrating in and of itself; every single application, online or in person, asks you the same exact questions that get answered in a well-written resume. Most places suggest you have a resume, yet require that you fill out the basic application. Why? To make you want to scream, I guess. Anyone worth their weight when unemployed applies to many, many different companies... that's a lot of dumb, carbon-copy applications to fill out.
As much as I like sleeping in every day, it's kind of scary not having income and not knowing when you will. The hiring process of many of these places is too slow. Also, I don't want to make a bad decision when it comes to my new career. I like staying at places for long periods of time, I'm not the type of person to skip from job to job. So this next place will basically determine alot for the next few years of my life. If I make a bad choice, it's going to weigh heavily on me for a long time. The pressure is definitely real and I'm definitely feeling it.
More than ever, I want to make music again. I see my friends back home doing it, I reminisce daily. I need to get one of these projects going.
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
I haven't learned the controls yet.
What do I miss?
Where do I start.
I miss writing music. Performing music. Being in a band.
As many qualms as I had with my previous band, it what it was worth, it was an amazing time in my life. I can safely say that I overcame one of my biggest fears of my entire life, recorded about 2 albums' worth of material, and wrote probably 3 times that. Toured the east coast a few times, had some amazing life experiences. Unexplainable experiences. But most of all, I miss writing and singing, the act of creating a piece of music, a song, a piece of recorded material that other people can take from it what they want. Something that affects someone else, that moves them.
Since I've moved down here, I've searched for a project to latch onto.
Anything.
R&B hooks on some crunk album, acoustic folk, pretentious indie? Whatever, I just need to fill this void. Or rather, empty my filled self into a void. But it's just damn hard to start a project when you know NO ONE. You are merely someone who lives in a state other people call home. I will never feel at home here. I didn't go to school here, I have no friends here other than my wife's friends and my one friend who is also here from NY. I have no roots in this ground. I have no loyalties, no love for this soil, just for my extended family who live here. I have disposable friendships with ex co-workers at a company I no longer even work for. Displaced. My heart aches even when I see Long Island grass and neighborhoods in pictures on MySpace.
I hope to find something to latch onto soon, something I can call my own that isn't disposable or temporary. Something that can make my presence here anything other than alien. And don't mix it up, it has nothing to do with my girl. Because the only thing keeping me warm, even in this tropical climate, is her.
Where do I start.
I miss writing music. Performing music. Being in a band.
As many qualms as I had with my previous band, it what it was worth, it was an amazing time in my life. I can safely say that I overcame one of my biggest fears of my entire life, recorded about 2 albums' worth of material, and wrote probably 3 times that. Toured the east coast a few times, had some amazing life experiences. Unexplainable experiences. But most of all, I miss writing and singing, the act of creating a piece of music, a song, a piece of recorded material that other people can take from it what they want. Something that affects someone else, that moves them.
Since I've moved down here, I've searched for a project to latch onto.
Anything.
R&B hooks on some crunk album, acoustic folk, pretentious indie? Whatever, I just need to fill this void. Or rather, empty my filled self into a void. But it's just damn hard to start a project when you know NO ONE. You are merely someone who lives in a state other people call home. I will never feel at home here. I didn't go to school here, I have no friends here other than my wife's friends and my one friend who is also here from NY. I have no roots in this ground. I have no loyalties, no love for this soil, just for my extended family who live here. I have disposable friendships with ex co-workers at a company I no longer even work for. Displaced. My heart aches even when I see Long Island grass and neighborhoods in pictures on MySpace.
I hope to find something to latch onto soon, something I can call my own that isn't disposable or temporary. Something that can make my presence here anything other than alien. And don't mix it up, it has nothing to do with my girl. Because the only thing keeping me warm, even in this tropical climate, is her.
Friday, February 2, 2007
Only so many minutes in a lifespan.
I am made from a different cloth.
Have you ever, in your life, had the sudden realization that you weren't in the right place? Perhaps you were at a bar and noticed that most of the patrons weren't people you would ever associate with. Maybe, while on a road trip, you chuckled to yourself at the thought of being in a Kentucky truck stop at 3am ever again. It's a sobering thought, exciting, scary, and weird.
I feel like this every single day.
Out of about a million examples, the one that is clawing at me the most today is the frustration I have with the way other people drive.
Is everyone on vacation? I'm not the only person on earth using a car to actually get somewhere, right? Why does everyone, and I really mean everyone (at least in my eyes) driving like they have all the time in the world?
Or maybe I have it flipped; maybe I'm just the only one driving like my time actually means something, and that I value it heavily. Let's be honest: driving already tests your patience, no matter who you are. Traffic, school zones, lights, stop signs, anything that is a hindrance to you and your goal. My long-standing gripe is with those people that make our driving experiences even worse. Case-in-point:
You pull up to a red light, and there is a car in front of you. After waiting about twenty seconds, the light turns green. The driver of the car in front of you does not react right away; they don't even react within 5-7 seconds of the light turning green. Finally, after you and two other cars begin to beep, the driver inches away from the intersection. About 3 blocks down, this sorry parade reaches another red light. Somehow, Captain Apathy is still in front of you. The light turns green, and what happens? The same exact thing.
Do you know how (hopefully) the thought of something like racism or bigotry is absolutely unimaginable to you? How, no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't even wrap your head around it? And you become convinced that anyone who is okay with that sort of thing has to be an alien from another planet? Seriously, like not of this world, because any sane, rational, intelligent human being could see the error of this mindset? This is how I feel about these people. These ignorant, selfish individuals who use a public road like their own "lazy river" from a water park, just blindly roaming around as if they were manning a sailboat which has just caught the slightest of breezes, just beginning to lurch out of it's dead calm.
Make no mistake:
Every second they make you wait, every silent-screaming second, is adding up. They are killing you, just a little. They are stealing seconds away from your life. Laugh if you want, but I enjoy having values that are more important than yours. One man's overreactions are another man's strategic victories. A war isn't won with the largest cannon, but rather the smallest dagger. And let me issue my final stance on this subject;
The act of driving is meant to get you from Point A to Point B. If you are smart enough to be an "efficient" driver, than this also means getting from Point A to Point B as quickly as possible. If this isn't your goal and you find yourself behind the wheel on a public road, do the rest of humanity a favor and pull off to the fucking side. Maybe those other people behind you are actually trying to get shit done. If you are bored to tears or are just waiting to die, please do it somewhere else where you aren't negatively affecting the lives of other people who are smarter and/or less apathetic as you are.
Have you ever, in your life, had the sudden realization that you weren't in the right place? Perhaps you were at a bar and noticed that most of the patrons weren't people you would ever associate with. Maybe, while on a road trip, you chuckled to yourself at the thought of being in a Kentucky truck stop at 3am ever again. It's a sobering thought, exciting, scary, and weird.
I feel like this every single day.
Out of about a million examples, the one that is clawing at me the most today is the frustration I have with the way other people drive.
Is everyone on vacation? I'm not the only person on earth using a car to actually get somewhere, right? Why does everyone, and I really mean everyone (at least in my eyes) driving like they have all the time in the world?
Or maybe I have it flipped; maybe I'm just the only one driving like my time actually means something, and that I value it heavily. Let's be honest: driving already tests your patience, no matter who you are. Traffic, school zones, lights, stop signs, anything that is a hindrance to you and your goal. My long-standing gripe is with those people that make our driving experiences even worse. Case-in-point:
You pull up to a red light, and there is a car in front of you. After waiting about twenty seconds, the light turns green. The driver of the car in front of you does not react right away; they don't even react within 5-7 seconds of the light turning green. Finally, after you and two other cars begin to beep, the driver inches away from the intersection. About 3 blocks down, this sorry parade reaches another red light. Somehow, Captain Apathy is still in front of you. The light turns green, and what happens? The same exact thing.
Do you know how (hopefully) the thought of something like racism or bigotry is absolutely unimaginable to you? How, no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't even wrap your head around it? And you become convinced that anyone who is okay with that sort of thing has to be an alien from another planet? Seriously, like not of this world, because any sane, rational, intelligent human being could see the error of this mindset? This is how I feel about these people. These ignorant, selfish individuals who use a public road like their own "lazy river" from a water park, just blindly roaming around as if they were manning a sailboat which has just caught the slightest of breezes, just beginning to lurch out of it's dead calm.
Make no mistake:
Every second they make you wait, every silent-screaming second, is adding up. They are killing you, just a little. They are stealing seconds away from your life. Laugh if you want, but I enjoy having values that are more important than yours. One man's overreactions are another man's strategic victories. A war isn't won with the largest cannon, but rather the smallest dagger. And let me issue my final stance on this subject;
The act of driving is meant to get you from Point A to Point B. If you are smart enough to be an "efficient" driver, than this also means getting from Point A to Point B as quickly as possible. If this isn't your goal and you find yourself behind the wheel on a public road, do the rest of humanity a favor and pull off to the fucking side. Maybe those other people behind you are actually trying to get shit done. If you are bored to tears or are just waiting to die, please do it somewhere else where you aren't negatively affecting the lives of other people who are smarter and/or less apathetic as you are.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
As your feet leave the diving board.
Gainfully unemployed for the first time in probably 12 years.
How does it feel? It feels like everything. It feels like nothing.
I remember when I was a kid, coming to the realization that everyone has to actually "work" for a living. You couldn't just be a kid and do whatever you wanted for the rest of your life. I also remember being shocked at just how much time "working" stole from your free time; an 8-hour shift basically ruined your entire day; and 5 8-hour shifts a week?
This reality destroyed me. It broke my heart.
It literally took me over a week to accept this fact and move on. That our lives are pretty much spent under the employ of someone or something else, as we try to earn a living.
EARN a living.
We are alive, and yet we have to earn the ability to survive. Survive what? Our society requires that we have currency in order to maintain our food, shelter, clothing, etc.
Imagine if we as a society had no such established system.
People still farmed and hunted, built their own shelter, made their own clothes. There were no banks. There were no debts. There were no credit cards, no stock options, no mutual funds, no 401K plans.
Imagine if we actually were able to live our lives.
How does it feel? It feels like everything. It feels like nothing.
I remember when I was a kid, coming to the realization that everyone has to actually "work" for a living. You couldn't just be a kid and do whatever you wanted for the rest of your life. I also remember being shocked at just how much time "working" stole from your free time; an 8-hour shift basically ruined your entire day; and 5 8-hour shifts a week?
This reality destroyed me. It broke my heart.
It literally took me over a week to accept this fact and move on. That our lives are pretty much spent under the employ of someone or something else, as we try to earn a living.
EARN a living.
We are alive, and yet we have to earn the ability to survive. Survive what? Our society requires that we have currency in order to maintain our food, shelter, clothing, etc.
Imagine if we as a society had no such established system.
People still farmed and hunted, built their own shelter, made their own clothes. There were no banks. There were no debts. There were no credit cards, no stock options, no mutual funds, no 401K plans.
Imagine if we actually were able to live our lives.
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