black fried day

I'm full of cake and milk and malice so bear with me.

Thanksgiving wasn't as terrible as I anticipated.  We usually all congregate at my dad's mother's house, as per tradition.  But, through the years, every time one of my male cousins reaches sexual maturity, he knocks up some girl and then has to visit her relatives for the holidays.  This has led to a decreased number of relatives who come over.  Fine by me.  This year, it was mostly my sister and me and our cousin and his boyfriend.  We all sat in the living room while the relatives with children sat in the kitchen and the older relatives sat in the dining room.

My sister and cousin mostly talked about drinking.  I don't drink so I didn't have much to add to the conversation.  And as much as I might have residual ill feelings toward my sister, she's quite the comedian.  My cousin's boyfriend really took a shine to her with her quick wit and sardonic delivery.  I'm telling you guys, she's more cynical than I am.  But she's funny so she can get away with it.  I just sat back with my lemon pie and listened.

At one point, some random toddler waddled in and went over to where my sister was sitting and just stared at her.  Shannon visibly tensed up as the little girl bore a hole in her head with her inquisitive eyes.

"Who is that?" I whispered to her.

"I don't know but she's freaking me out."  Then, she got up away from the girl, cringed, then sat closer to me.  The little girl kept staring.  Shannon kept freaking.

I'm telling you guys, she' dislikes kids more than I do.  She's a bitchier, female version of me.  I can respect that.

Black Friday wasn't as bad as anticipated, either.  Had to be there at 6AM instead of the usual 3:30AM.  I did have an irrational fear of sudden diarrhea, though, based on the enormous amount of fried turkey and greasy mac and cheese I ate the day before.  Fortunately, I made it through without any oozing.  The five shots of Pepto I did before I went to bed and the five more after I woke up might have helped me out with that. 

Surprisingly, I also didn't have many rude customers.  Although, I did have a few gray hairs who came up to me and said something along the lines of, "Excuse me.  I have two shopping carts and three shopping bags filled to the brim with clothing and there's approximately twenty people in line behind me but could you tell me the price of each piece of clothing as you scan it thanks!"

And I'm all like:

But I did have time for a cold pop.

chap flap

A few days ago, at work, a female coworker (FC) came up to me to get more change for her register.  I'd guess she's in her 50s but I think her smoking has played a part in her looks.  For all I know, she could be 36 but her face is a spiderweb of wrinkles underneath a dull gray bob of hair.  Her bright blue eyes are bloodshot inside a ring of thick clumped mascara.  She always smells of coffee and cigarettes, which probably contributes to her brown teeth.  She's also from Arizona so she's not a stuffy Southern prude so I know I can have fun with her.

FC:  "So, I bought some men's sleep pants the other day."

me:  "Oh yeah?"

FC:  "Yeah."  She waved her hands over her crotch.

me:  "Problem?"

FC:  "Well, I forgot about that front flap.  I'll have to sew that up.  It's chilly."

me:  "Oh, yeah.  A little breezy there?"

FC:  "Yeah!"

me:  "Chapped lips?"

FC:  "Huh?"

me:  "Nothing." 

dented hearts

"It's so easy from above, you can really see it all
People who belong together, lost and sad and small
But there's nothing to be done for them, it doesn't work that way 
sure we all have soulmates, but we walk past them every day..."
-Ben Folds, From Above

"Some men die under the mountain just looking for gold
Some die looking for a hand to hold..."
-Brand New, At the Bottom 

Work girlfriend (WG) went on vacation a week or so after I did.  She scampered off to Tennessee with her boyfriend.   Naturally, I didn't hear from her the entire time.  When I was gone and she had no one to talk to, she blew up my phone but when she was gone and had her boyfriend to hump and hug, she forgot my number.

A few days before she left, she sent me a text:  I'm so freaking lonely.  I say I like being a loner but I hate being alone.

Oh, I had to groan.  She has a boyfriend.  She shouldn't be lonely!  And then I stepped back and tried to examine the situation and see it from her perspective.  I try to understand that you can be in a relationship and still be lonely.  You can be in a crowded room and be all alone.  I do try to see that.  But, I just found it annoying that a girl in a happy, healthy relationship complains to me, the lord of loneliness, that she's "so freaking lonely" because she doesn't have her boyfriend right beside her at that very minute, although she was about to embark on a week-long vacation with him.

It's like going up to an Ethiopian child and saying you're starving because dinner is in three hours and you're not sure you can hang on 'til then.  And you say it while eating a bag of chips.  Ya feel me?

So, I wanted to shake her.  And days before, she told me she hadn't been single in five years.  So, again, she shouldn't be lonely.  Right?  Going from one relationship to another for five years straight, I think her perception of loneliness has been skewed.

But I stepped back again.  Who am I to say she doesn't feel loneliness?  Maybe she just feels it in a different capacity than me.  Maybe her loneliness stems from lacking a physical connection.  She knows her boyfriend loves and cares for her and if that was me, I would like to believe that it would be enough.  Even if I couldn't see the person every single day, knowing they were thinking about me and caring about me would make me feel better, less alone.  But maybe it doesn't work for her like that and she needs that physical closeness.

For me, I feel loneliness in every aspect.  I have no physical, mental, emotion, or spiritual connection with anyone.  I'm not just talking about romance, ladies and gents.  The only connections I share with some people are a mutual enjoyment of writing and maybe zombies and a couple of dick jokes.  Not exactly deep and meaningful.  So while my loneliness is all consuming, it doesn't negate hers (although it feels like it should).

Her loneliness is transient.  Mine is chronic.  But both are valid.  I try to believe that.

And it's just hard because I want to tell her she should be grateful for her boyfriend.  It's not like she's in a relationship just to be with someone.  But she seems genuinely happy.  She's not hanging out with him until something better comes along.  No, that's what she does with me.  And so I just wonder what more she needs.  At the end of the day, despite how she feels, she has someone she can "come home to" so to speak.  I've got my pillows and a carton of ice cream.  But I can't be like that because, as I said, her troubles are no less significant than mine.

But when it comes to loneliness, I'm an expert and I can't take her seriously.  In fact, if it were doled out in credits, I'd have a Ph.D. in Dented Hearts by now.  It's hard for me to understand because I've never been in the position of being with someone and still feeling hollow just as she can't understand my emptiness because she's been attached to a string of guys for half a decade now.  I try to be reasonable.  I really do.  But I don't feel bad for her.  It's hard to when all I can hear is the crinkling of her potato chip bag in my ear.

god complex

"If you grew up going to church, at some point in your 20's you'll probably stop going to church.  If you grew up with faith as a central part of your life, at some point in your twenties faith might move to the outskirts of town next to the trailer park and three-legged squirrel refuge. Your twenties are a process of making faith your own apart from your parents and childhood. Sometimes that means staggering away so you know what you’re coming back to."-Paul Angone, All Groan Up

"Free from the torment of sin
all this I'm giving up..."
-The Used, Light with a Sharpened Edge

I feel like I've been shedding a lot of old notions about God and humanity over the past several months.  I've heard before that sometimes our emptiness is God carving us out so he can fill us up again.  I can only hope that's what's going on with me.

I've stopped praying entirely.  I've been angry with God.  I've been rebelling, pushing my self-inflicted boundaries, joking about going to hell and rolling my eyes to all the religious symbolism embedded in my town.  Days go by and I don't even think about it.  God is not in my life and I don't cry or fret.  I just float.

I've never been so far away from God before and I feel like I've entered this new state of being.  I don't know if it's good or bad.  I'm slowly breaking away from all of it and there's a part of me that feels tremendously guilty and there's another part of me that feels nothing at all, the same kind of nothing I felt when I was more religious.  When I have God in my life and when I don't, I still feel jaded.  That muted feeling has been my only constant since the mess of my life started.

Despite my anger, I still find myself wanting to defend God against the non-believers, to those who portray God as a fag-hating proponent of 'Merica.  That is not God.  God is love.  God wants nothing more than to love and cherish all us and have us be happy.  It's that simple.  But am I right about that?  How do I know who God really is?  It certainly isn't from first-hand experience.  I was taught God was one of love but what if he really does discriminate and decimate?

One problem with people's views on God is that a lot of people pick and choose what they want to believe.  That's why we have denominations.  One person didn't like one aspect of Christianity so they started their own.  The other problem is everyone thinks their way is the right way, which seems pretty egotistical to me.  I thought the only right way was God's way.  And we can't choose which parts we want to follow and which parts we want to disobey.  At least, not if we want to be good Christians.

Of course, I'd like to believe that God is one that loves and accepts everyone.  That doesn't mean it is true but I hope it is.  Unfortunately, there are also a lot of people who believe God is about death and vengeance and punishment.  That doesn't mean it is true but they hope it is.

I admit I don't know much about God but I feel I have a better grasp on him than the majority of the Christians that live here.  They know a textbook God through a pastor chosen to recite the words from the Bible and interpret them based on his opinions.  And people come and sit and follow his interpretations, not because it's what God teaches, but because they agree with the pastor's opinions.  If they can get behind what he says, they treat it as gospel.  If not, they simply move to a different church that lines up with their own pre-existing values and morals. 

But their version of God doesn't hold up when applied to a real-world setting.  They think it's about following rules.  They believe if they go to church and pray before bed and vote Republican, they'll get into heaven.  Stay away from the gays and lesbians because they'll turn ya!  Don't mingle with people of other faiths because they could cause you to question your own and we can't have independent thought!  Stay pure until marriage because sex, out of all the sins you can commit, even though they are all supposed to be equal, is the worst!  Well, besides being gay.

But the world is filled with gays and atheists and Muslims and the whole lot of them are having sex.  You just can't avoid that stuff and you can't act better than them because, as Christianity teaches, all of mankind sucks.  You're in the same tuna boat as the lesbians, the same burning building as the terrorists, the same blood-stained bed as the man who beats his wife and the woman who cheats on her husband.  We're all guilty of something and we shouldn't pretend to be pious because we have the Bible app on our iPhones.

You can't pray the gay away.  You can't make someone believe in God.  You can't take back your virginity before your wedding night.  And sometimes you get cancer and sometimes someone you love dies in a violent car accident because of a drunken driver and sometimes you lose your job right as your wife tells you she's pregnant and sometimes you can't get pregnant.  And all the while, these Christians say to give it to God but what happens when God does nothing with what you've handed him? 

They say God will make it better.  But then, what if he doesn't?  Then they say that it's a part of his plan.  There's no accountability.  Christians flip flop more than politicians sometimes.  God blesses us with the good stuff but is nowhere to be seen once the shit hits the fan.  Yes, God blessed her with a new home and him with a promotion.  No, God had no hand in her melanoma or his molestation.  We can't sincerely say God will make it better when sometimes he doesn't.

How do we know when he's ever involved at all?  People talk of free will all the time.  God gave us free will and that's why life sucks.  When is it God's will and when is it free will? 

I feel I know enough to realize God sometimes takes a lunch break just as we have our legs broken but I also know that it's not about the rules.  One day, I watched an interview with my favorite band, Showbread.  They happen to be Christians and they were talking about why they were a band and what Christianity meant to them.  The lead singer, Josh, said it wasn't about following a set of rules but having a personal relationship with Jesus.  That changed the way I viewed Christianity from then on.  Until then, I thought it was about following rules, about staying on the straight and narrow, because that's what I was taught as I grew up in and out of the church and through Christian friends.  But I realized rules don't lead to relationships and so I changed my focus from trying to stay good to trying to get to know God.

In fact, I've learned more about Christianity through the band and their lyrics than I have through church or conversations with Christian friends.  I've come to know God better through the band and have learned that God is acceptance and not alienation.  However, who's to say that the band is right?  And who's to say I'm not just another Christian switching seats until I find one I can go along with?  Maybe I'm just as guilty as those who frustrate me.  But I suppose the difference is my beliefs don't demean or discourage anyone else.  I don't think it makes my beliefs more correct or better but at least I know I'm not spreading hatred and I think that counts for something.

Of course, despite feeling like I knew God in a better sense, despite my prayers and attempts at making a personal connection with something I couldn't see, hear, taste, or touch, nothing got better.  I stayed sad.  I stayed numb.  I stayed hopeless.  But I tried to keep the faith.

But eventually the anger surfaced.  I was angry at the Christians who spouted on about God without really knowing what God was about.  I was angry at God because I couldn't understand how all these people felt the pull of his love and I begged for it and felt nothing.  Why was he so out of reach?

Sometimes I wonder if I'm actually angry with the God I thought God was supposed to be, the one I learned about in Sunday School, the one splashed across television, radio, and on the lips of the idiotic and patriotic.  Maybe I got it all wrong because God was given to me all wrong.

But like I mentioned earlier, how do you get God right?

I tried to figure it out for years.  I prayed and read the Bible and went through the motions but no answers came.  God did not smile down upon me and I eventually gave up.  My faith waned and I felt disconnected to the one thing I had held onto throughout the passing years and the changes to my body and attitude and spirit.

I'll never know if my God is the right God.  In fact, no one will until we die and the great veil is pulled back to reveal a hand or a hatchet, a spacious room or a blank space.  And that frustrates me because I'll always wonder if I'm pondering my version of God or the God that actually exists (assuming he does).  It makes me want to push way more because there are so many differing ways to worship, so many differing opinions on who God is that it overwhelms me.  If I can't get it right, why bother at all?  Is believing in the wrong God the same as not believing at all?

Sometimes it feels easier to let it all go.  God is complex.  Too complex for my cranium to comprehend.  I'm not saying I am rejecting God or giving up on him but I am giving up on trying to feel something.  I'll always remain open and receptive to God's love but I'm too exhausted to seek it out at this point in the game.  I've put so much energy into trying to be a good kid and it's gotten me nowhere.  I've put so much energy into trying to figure out who or what or how or when God is that my mind pleads for rest.  I've been blessed.  I've been cursed.  I've been damned.

I don't think I'll ever understand why. 

thoracic cavity

Wind separated leaves from limbs in the darkness.  They pirouetted down onto the boy and girl as they lay in the grass beneath an old tree.  Ligaments wrapped together, he supported her neck with his shoulder and she slid her hand underneath his shirt.

"You're not as dead as you think," the girl said.

"Oh yeah?  How do you know?" the boy asked.

"Because of this," she said.  "Us here.  Now.  Sharing this moment.  Connected to the earth.  To each other.  Isn't it beautiful?"

"It's sufficient," he said as he brushed a fallen leaf from the girl's hair.  

"You can't fool me.  You wouldn't be here with me, like this, otherwise."

The boy shrugged.

"It's all of us," the girl said.  "You are alive because I am.  Because the world doesn't spin for the dead."

"Oh, God," The boy rolled his eyes, stifling a laugh.

"No, seriously," she said with a giggle.  "Your eyes sparkle like the shooting stars above us.  Your stubble is gritty like the dirt beneath us.  And your chest," she said as she gently pressed on his sternum, "is warm from the blood rushing through us.  I know you're alive because I can feel it in you."

"Actually, I just had a sip of this white chocolate mocha," the boy said, raising his Starbucks container.  "What you actually felt was it pass into my stomach.  That's all."

The girl stared with blank eyes as the boy drained his cup.

book notes #11: collaboration

Holy crap.  About a week ago, I finished the first edit of my book!  One step closer to publication!

And it only took a couple of months, which is good considering it took several years just to write the first draft.  I hope the second edit will go even faster.  I've actually already started it and it's amazing and slightly disheartening how I keep finding things I want to change/cut out.  I just keep wondering how I didn't catch all of that stuff the first time around.  But no one ever does so it's okay.

I read a quote from an artist (who I can't remember) that said (I'm paraphrasing [this person really resonated with me as you can tell]), "You never really finish a piece.  You just stop and move on to the next."

I can relate.  I think I usually stop drawing or writing because I get tired of it.  I create stuff as a means of expressing my thoughts and feelings and once I've properly poured out my heart, I'm over it.  When I feel the content is there, I'm satisfied and don't get caught up in the technicalities of grammar and punctuation.

But then there are times when I want to make something really important and really good.  I spend more time on it and polish it up and try to make it something that rises above my normal mediocre output.  And with those special pieces, I'm never really done.  I go back and tweak and perfect but it's never perfect.  Eventually, I stand back and realize it's the best I can do, although it's not what I pictured in my head.

But I don't want to perfect something to the point I poison it, you know what I mean?  It's like you say you're going to fix just one thing, a brush stroke or accidental charcoal smudge or improper syntax and then you see something else that needs to be fixed, a bum note or flat delivery of dialogue, and by the time you've ironed out all the little blemishes, the final product has become grossly altered and no longer represents your vision.

Maybe that happened to Picasso.  He saw the nose on one of his portraits was leaning to the left so he fixed it, which threw off the eyes so he had to shift them around, which screwed up the mouth and by the time he finished swapping and sorting, he had created Cubism.

Anyway.      

The next step is to get a couple of test readers to tell me if it's any good.  I'll be looking for more of a content critique rather than grammar and punctuation.  I just need to know if it's a good book!

I've gotten some positive feedback on my writing here and I appreciate it so much but the compliments are based on reading me a few times a week.  As we all know by now, I'm quite a downer.  I think reading my depressing ramblings spread out every couple of days or so is fine.  People can handle that.  But when I pour all that negativity into one long book, I am afraid it'll be off putting.  So much cynicism.  The reader will have to pop a couple of Zoloft to make it through chapter 5.

The other day, I was thinking about singer/songwriters.  A lot of times, they collaborate with other more seasoned singer/songwriters to elevate their ideas into better products.  It seems common with music but not so much with books, unless it's a real writer helping a celebrity put together a memoir or cash in on their fad success with books written about fictionalized versions of themselves.  Sure, sometimes well known authors collaborate together but I see them doing it more for fun, rather than one writer helping the other create a better book.

Sometimes, I think it would be great if I had a writing partner.  I've stated before that I don't have a ton of ideas but I do have a couple of small pieces of ideas stashed away collecting dust because I don't know where to take them or how to bring out the value of the ideas.  I have lines of poetry and very few short story ideas but they stay shelved because I am not good enough to bring them to life.  But I could if I had a collaborator. 

I think it would be nice if I could have a fellow writer to bounce ideas off of, someone I can feel comfortable sharing possibly bad ideas with, someone I can be totally open with and trust they'll steer me in the right direction, tell me when something is good, tell me when something is cheesy, and turn that cheese into a masterpiece. 

I think it would also help my productivity.  I often stay stuck on a topic for days or even weeks (I even have ideas I've been sitting on for years) because I can't break through the wall of confusion/insecurity/cluelessness.  But if I had someone to write with, they could help me break down the barriers that keep me from a good poem or awesome essay.

But the problem with collaborators is I often wonder how much input these singers and/or authors have in the creation of a song or book.  Do they simply add a sentence or two or change up a couple of lyrics and slap their name on it and then say they wrote it?  When I hear artists say they write their own songs, it often annoys me because their liner notes say they wrote the song along with three other people.  How much credit can you really take when you are one of several?  How much is yours and how much are you saying is yours? 

I wouldn't want people thinking that about me.  I don't want to be known for great art or writing if the majority of it wasn't mine.  Heck, I'm not even sure I'd like it if I couldn't claim 100% ownership.  What if someone came up to me one day and said a particular line in a poem or a particular piece of dialogue from one of my books completely changed their lives and it just so happens that one line or that one passage was the one line or passage I didn't write myself?  I'd feel fake and icky.  I don't want to feel that way.

But then again, it's all art and it's all about creating and putting it out there for others to enjoy and does it really matter who it comes from?  As long as I'm always straight up and honest and say I am only one person in a team effort to create the best art possible, then what's wrong with that?

And really, does anyone ever create something 100% themselves?  Even great writers who can write an entire book on their own have to report to editors who give suggestions. 

Then there's the challenge of finding a collaborator.  No one I know in real life likes to write so I'd probably have to joining some kind of writing group but I hesitate to do that because I'm not really a writer.  I write but I just can't take myself seriously enough to go that deep into it, to step into a literary world where poetry pulses through people's veins and books are stored in their heads waiting for them to sit down and extract them.  The only thing I've got floating around in my head is fart jokes and dessert recipes.  I wouldn't want to be laughed out of a group. 

I'll just have to settle with doing the best I can on my own for now, maybe getting help here and there and if I'm lucky enough, stumble upon someone who gets my writing and gets me so they can help me elevate it to the level I want it to be so I can feel like a real, accomplished writer.  

halloween and stuff

Happy Halloween, boils and ghouls.  I carved a pumpkin on Sunday...or I attempted to.  It turned out crap 'cause I tried to get fancy with it by shading and highlighting and...no.  Carving isn't as easy as it might seem at first.  Maybe if I had a couple of pumpkins to practice with, I could have gotten the hang of it but my hand started cramping so I just gave up.  Anyway, here's some pictures of the gutting process.

Our stray cat who adopted us wanted to help.  "Here, gimme that knife.  Let me show you how to do it."

staycation and aftermath

Went back to work Monday after my wonderful week-long holiday.  It was fantastic.  I didn't do a thing and have no regrets.  I did, however, eat a ton of crap.  Over the course of seven days, I ended up eating a pumpkin cheesecake, a pumpkin cupcake, another pumpkin cheesecake, pumpkin cheesecake ice cream, pumpkin spice cake donuts, pumpkin spice latte, and a pumpkin spiced danish.  Now, my reasoning is pretty simple.  All the pumpkin-flavored items are seasonal.  If I didn't snatch up that goodness, I'd have to wait until next year.  I was literally eating that stuff like it was going out of style...because it was.

I also enjoyed watching AMC's Fearfest, which included a Friday the 13th marathon and random horror movies.  I also Netflixed the Saw movies and played some Resident Evil 6.  Also, the premiere of American Horror Story: Asylum and freaking The Walking Dead!  It was all about the gore and the gluttony and it was great.

It was just nice to relax and enjoy waking up late and going to bed late and being lazy.  I didn't even shave.  I've been wanting to grow a beard for a while now, mostly because I never have before and wanted to see if I could pull one off.  No Shave November is next month and I thought I'd participate but I also wanted to get a couple of week's head start.  I thought if I grew a pre-beard now, it wouldn't look so shabby when Thanksgiving came around. 

And then I went back to work and any energy I had managed to recover last week was gone within the first 15 minutes.  But everyone liked the facial hair.  I expected negative reactions but they were actually overwhelmingly positive.

Work girlfriend's jaw dropped and she gasped.  I thought it was out of disgust but she later told me it was because she thought I looked really attractive, to the point she couldn't look at me without getting a little excited.  That was a good little confidence booster.  And let me just add really quick, because I've already said I didn't want to really mention her anymore, she text blasted my phone the week I was gone.  It was actually kind of annoying.  It's like, go text your boyfriend.  I'm unavailable over here, being awesome growing a beard and blowing heads off zombies.  Back off my dick, ya know?

Anyway.

So, work sucks.  I came back with an IDGAF attitude, which probably wasn't the best because I had to train two new girls my first day back.  Work is gearing up for the Christmas rush so they've hired a bunch of losers to stand at the counter and struggle to make change for the next two months and I'm over it.

It was also brought to my attention that a lot of drama went down while I was gone.  I'm starting to believe that, while there's always going to be some sort of drama anywhere you go, it seems to be more concentrated in small towns.  Forgive me if I'm wrong but I just think that drama, much like pregnancy, is prolific simply because there's nothing better to do.  It's like, we can either go into the woods for a quick poke or start a rumor about Leona and her body pillow.

I just feel like, why can't we all get along?  What do you get from lying or telling half-truths or flat out making crap up?  We all hate our jobs and we all hate the customers so why can't we come together to counteract our putrid patrons?

I'm just tired of the same crap and feel like I can't trust anyone there.  They're all so sneaky and it's unfortunate they spend their energy being destructive.  I understand I'm one cynical mofo but I don't go around tearing people down every chance I get.  So, basically, everyone can suck it.

Man, I love October.    

you broke six of my arms when i tried to hug you

“For me, writing these stories about my actual life is a way of imbuing them with meaning. Even though I know that rationally my life is completely meaningless. It gives me pleasure to find meaning in it."
-Alison Bechdel

"I didn’t wake up to find myself as a bug
I’ve been one for much longer than I care to recall..."
-Showbread, Naked Lunch

Life often feels hopeless.  What does anything matter?  Ultimately, I'm not sure anything does matter.  Yet, we keep on going.  We keep working and drinking and hurting and loving.  We are pushed up from the earth and ride this big swirling planet until we are planted back into the floor.  Nothing changes and the world is no better for having us stomp all over her.

But here we are.  We carry on.  We do it because we have to.  The world, life, responsibilities, money, rent, bills, and family push us forward.

I am also pushed forward.  I have to go to work because I have student loans to pay back.  I have to pretend I like people to keep my job.  I have to hurt because that has been my designation in life.  And I have to write because of that hurt.  It's one of the only forms of therapy that eases the pain, like  a grip loosened on the heart.

I have to catalog my bits of brain matter.  I am not a writer and I am not an artist but I need to put something out into the world, to break off pieces of myself and send them hurdling through time and space.

But why?

Is it because I have gone unheard for so long?  It seems that way.  Over the years, my existence has morphed into an insignificant insect.  I have my place in the world, just alike any other bug, but I keep getting swept into a corner.  Unrecognized.  Unheard.  Yet, I have a voice and a mind and an essence that feels compelled to be acknowledged.

But what can a bug contribute to the world?  Not much.  But maybe it can contribute to a select few compassionate enough to acknowledge the bug's being, as minuscule as that being may be.  When you've spent your life on the floor, observing from a distance, being stepped on and shooed away, you learn a few lessons and see things from a different perspective.

But the lumbering hopelessness still whacks at me like a shoe.  What kind of reach does a bug have?  What if it can only touch others in its size bracket?  What if I'm relegated to reading to the worms and water bugs?  And if that's all it can do, isn't that enough? Is it better to change one life or many?  If life is so precious, then wouldn't making a difference in just one person's life be worth the effort?

Is accomplishment measured in quality or quantity?  In mass or meaning?  How many people or pests will it take to feel satisfied? 

Bugs carry on, too.  Ants march in line and spiders spin their webs.  Some are crushed, some are swooped up and eaten.  Most are never known.

The butterflies and beetles are just trying to live their lives the same way humans do.  Who said they never mattered?  

I keep trying to measure my talent.  How good am I?  Am I good enough?  Will I ever be as enticing or shocking or endearing as those I compare myself to?  I'm different, not so much better or worse, not even that unique.  What can I offer that someone else can't?  What good can I do?  What's inside that matters to those outside?

I will never be Hemingway or Rembrandt but that's okay.  I have these pops of clarity and I realize I have thoughts and opinions to offer and some like it and some don't.  Everyone has critics.  Everyone has inadequacies.  It's when you can stomp on the insecurities that you find yourself free to feel and express and create. 

You don't have to be the best.  You don't have to be the most eloquent or articulate.  You don't have to be amazing.  You don't even have to be that significant.  You just have to make a connection, have to hurt and hope you learn from it, have to be brave enough to share it with others so that they may learn as well.  We're all so much more alike than we can even comprehend.  Words and sounds and images all send us to the same place, evoke similar emotions, define pain and praise people.  And you don't have to be a wordsmith to strike a chord.

You just have to want to.

the vacant lot

"And I wish that plant life would grow all around me
so I won't feel dead anymore..."
-Owl City, Plant Life

"We're temporary anyway..."
-AFI, I am Trying Very Hard to be Here 

I keep saying it would be nice if I could have been successful at a young age, a youthful entrepaneur or something.  I keep saying it would be nice if I could have fallen in love.  I keep saying it would be nice if I had lost all this weight long ago and never looked back.

My life is not how I pictured it to be.  Sure, a lot of people's aren't but I think it presses down on me a bit more than it might others.  At least that's how it feels.

I think of how much time and energy I wasted on stupid things.  My youth is gone and I have nothing to show for it except stretch marks and a rapidly depleting bank account.

But then I keep thinking about the end of my life and how it won't matter.  The accomplishments, or lack thereof, won't make a difference when I'm decomposing.  The lack of success and notoriety and influence.  The lack of love and overage of love handles.

It would have been nice to have experienced the thrill of passion and exhilaration of adventure.  Maybe it would have given my life some measure of satisfaction and happiness but when my heart stops beating, the money won't matter where I'm going.  The love I shared won't matter where I'm going.  It'll all disintegrate.   

I suppose the influence and impression I could possibly leave behind would have been nice as well but ultimately, I guess that doesn't matter, either.  Some people leave a part of themselves behind for others carry on.  Some don't.  I most likely won't ever get to deposit myself into anyone's heart.  Maybe I'm just one of those who are quietly born, quietly live, and quietly die.

There's nothing wrong with that.  It doesn't mean I never meant anything. 

I was a person at one point.