O Ireland isn't it grand you look
Like a bride in her rich adornin?
And with all the pent-up love of my heart,
I bid you the top o' the mornin!
-- John Locke
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
Respects Paid
Monday died today at 2:30pm, after a long and courageous battle with idleness and apathy. He was fourteen hours old. Monday led and short an uneventful life highlighted by sporadic attempts at meaning and the occasional bad idea. Monday was preceded in death by his remorseful mother, Sunday Evening, and is survived by Tuesday, his useless son. A service and burial are planned for 5:00pm Friday at the Happy Hour funeral home. In lieu of flowers, a memorial fund has been established at the goddamned bar. Donations are accepted below.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Sunset on the High Desert
I’ve returned finally from my impromptu escape. I have much to write about, but the long hours spent alone in my car have taken for the moment most of my stories. It’s easy to lose yourself in the desert, and traveling alone on its empty highways I was reminded today of why I chose to be lost.
The desert is a beautiful place. Miles from even the smallest of towns, abandoned ranch houses hint at broken dreams and long declines. Their stories are as haunting as the landscape they inhabit. Apart from the ruins, only a few forsaken roads scar an ocean of cactus and scrub sage. The air broils inhospitably above ancient hills of dust and rock. Further away, faint snow caps the outlines of higher peaks flushed green with windswept grass gnarled pines. Even in spring the contrast is startling.
Never have I encountered terrain more beautiful than the desert. Never either have I encountered terrain more terrible in its practicalities. In this way, the desert uniquely captures a quality of life elsewhere overlooked or ignored; where life endures too easily, its frailness is forgotten. Only at its margins is the experience properly observed.
The balance is exquisite; the harmful and the healing, the pleasure and the pain. To everything there is a duality that cannot be escaped, and may be avoided only at ruinous peril. I’ve avoided it for too long. I’ve always required a bit of pain with my pleasure. Lately that pain’s been lacking, and with it much of the pleasure I recall.
I’ve railed before against the danger of comfort. Today I understand finally why. For three years I’ve feared the more intimate pains, and for three years I’ve feared more greatly causing them in others. I fear no longer. This week I’ll turn into the fire and find the burns I’ve missed. Until then it’s sangria under a dying sun, and a toast to old selves found anew.
The desert is a beautiful place. Miles from even the smallest of towns, abandoned ranch houses hint at broken dreams and long declines. Their stories are as haunting as the landscape they inhabit. Apart from the ruins, only a few forsaken roads scar an ocean of cactus and scrub sage. The air broils inhospitably above ancient hills of dust and rock. Further away, faint snow caps the outlines of higher peaks flushed green with windswept grass gnarled pines. Even in spring the contrast is startling.
Never have I encountered terrain more beautiful than the desert. Never either have I encountered terrain more terrible in its practicalities. In this way, the desert uniquely captures a quality of life elsewhere overlooked or ignored; where life endures too easily, its frailness is forgotten. Only at its margins is the experience properly observed.
The balance is exquisite; the harmful and the healing, the pleasure and the pain. To everything there is a duality that cannot be escaped, and may be avoided only at ruinous peril. I’ve avoided it for too long. I’ve always required a bit of pain with my pleasure. Lately that pain’s been lacking, and with it much of the pleasure I recall.
I’ve railed before against the danger of comfort. Today I understand finally why. For three years I’ve feared the more intimate pains, and for three years I’ve feared more greatly causing them in others. I fear no longer. This week I’ll turn into the fire and find the burns I’ve missed. Until then it’s sangria under a dying sun, and a toast to old selves found anew.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Senseless
I posted this shortly before I left. Afterward, I felt guilty and selfish for having written it, and deleted it impulsively. Several days’ contemplation has led me to regret that decision, and so here is the post that vanished some time ago. My apologies to Liana and Insomniac Lolita whose comments I deleted in my haste.
---
Today I attended an infant’s funeral. A better reminder of fate’s cruelty I cannot imagine. I am selfishly fortunate to have been only a distant relation, but tonight the reality haunts me. Seeing pain in others reminds me of the pain I’ve caused. But I feel less sadness than anger. What purpose is served by the death of a newborn? What plan might that further? Forced to choose between cruelty and randomness, I’d prefer cruelty. Randomness would be devastating.
The most grievous wounds I’ve inflicted have resulted from decisions to disregard the future for the sake of the present. I am forever counseled to be more spontaneous, to let go, to pursue adventure and to forgo caution. Yet I shudder at the harm even my best calculations have caused. I am downright terrified of their absence. In randomness there is no other choice.
But my turmoil is petty and of my own making. I’ve coddled it long enough. Other hurts are real. It’s not right that I should so thoroughly contemplate a future that cares so little for the present, or that in my guilt I should be given freely what favor an innocent is denied. That either should happen entirely by chance is a reality I will not acknowledge. Answer then, fate, and may those angels that are able take heed; tonight you are needed elsewhere.
---
Today I attended an infant’s funeral. A better reminder of fate’s cruelty I cannot imagine. I am selfishly fortunate to have been only a distant relation, but tonight the reality haunts me. Seeing pain in others reminds me of the pain I’ve caused. But I feel less sadness than anger. What purpose is served by the death of a newborn? What plan might that further? Forced to choose between cruelty and randomness, I’d prefer cruelty. Randomness would be devastating.
The most grievous wounds I’ve inflicted have resulted from decisions to disregard the future for the sake of the present. I am forever counseled to be more spontaneous, to let go, to pursue adventure and to forgo caution. Yet I shudder at the harm even my best calculations have caused. I am downright terrified of their absence. In randomness there is no other choice.
But my turmoil is petty and of my own making. I’ve coddled it long enough. Other hurts are real. It’s not right that I should so thoroughly contemplate a future that cares so little for the present, or that in my guilt I should be given freely what favor an innocent is denied. That either should happen entirely by chance is a reality I will not acknowledge. Answer then, fate, and may those angels that are able take heed; tonight you are needed elsewhere.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
A Less Quick Errand
One of the perks of my job is that most of the time I can leave without warning or explanation. I have been without coffee for nearly three days (an oversight for which I should be flogged), and it occurred to today me that 10:30am on a Tuesday is as good a time as any to go shopping.
There is a supermarket near my office that alternates between delightful convenience and frightful annoyance. I blame the cashier. I don’t think she’s a person. She seems instead to have been built from a kit sold in bulk to corporate franchises short on thralls. She follows policy perfectly. Terrifyingly perfectly. She delivers without fail the kind of flawless performance that bankrupts businesses and topples nations. This morning was typical.
The store appeared empty. I knew better. This store is always empty but never quick. At times I have prowled the deserted isles only to be confronted by a mob at the check stands. This is one of those times. The store is pin-drop quiet, but at two customers deep the express lane has by far the shortest line.
The first customer is Cigarette Man. He grumbles about the poorly named express lane before demanding that Drone fetch him a carton of cigarettes. Perfectly according to policy, Drone shuffles thirty feet over to the customer service counter where they keep cigarettes and forbid service. And where a startlingly pretty clerk has absolutely nothing to do.
I don’t know who to yell at. I am mad at Drone for wasting everyone's time by leaving the check stand instead of telling Cigarette Man to die of cancer. I am mad at Cigarette Man for standing in Drone’s line instead of walking directly to the beautiful clerk and getting his own damn cigarettes ten minutes ago. I’m mad at the beautiful clerk because she’s not dating me. I do nothing about any of it. Drone finally returns and Cigarette Man pulls out his check book. A for-real check book. For one item. In the express lane.
The second customer is Bag Lady. She has dozens of items, and she brought her own pathetic little plastic bags to put them in. She is puffing with anger because all of the ordinary lanes are full of people like her. I watch sympathetically as Drone tries to find room on the small counter for all the crap this woman is hauling. Finally done, we discover that Bag Lady has coupons. She also has a rain check that was improperly filled out improperly. Drone does not handle “improper” well. World War Three breaks out before Bag Lady leaves.
“Good Morning. Welcome to [supermarket]. Did you find everything alright?” Drone greets me without thought or recognition. It’s perfect stock-courtesy. It’s also ridiculous. This store is near my home, and directly on my way to work. I’ve stopped by nearly every day for two years. Since Drone works three hundred hours a week and covers every shift, she knows this. She knows my name. I know hers. In another life we might acknowledge this. But life is against store policy.
An apology might have been appropriate, or at least an acknowledgment of the train wreck of humanity that just departed. Neither was forthcoming. Instead Drone recites corporate script about my opportunity to pay extra for my coffee so that the store can give a few cents to a charity I already have on direct deposit. Sure. I hand cash to Drone and turn to leave. Drone asks if I would like help carrying my coffee to my car.
I am twenty seven years old. I am in reasonably good physical health, and have no obvious disabilities. I glance at the quietly smiling senior citizen bagging groceries on the next lane over. I picture myself walking to my car with this grandmother carrying my coffee a few steps behind.
“No thanks, I--” But by the first syllable Drone is already explaining the business model of the charity to the next hapless customer. I wonder if this is what the drafter of the store's handbook had in mind.
There is a supermarket near my office that alternates between delightful convenience and frightful annoyance. I blame the cashier. I don’t think she’s a person. She seems instead to have been built from a kit sold in bulk to corporate franchises short on thralls. She follows policy perfectly. Terrifyingly perfectly. She delivers without fail the kind of flawless performance that bankrupts businesses and topples nations. This morning was typical.
The store appeared empty. I knew better. This store is always empty but never quick. At times I have prowled the deserted isles only to be confronted by a mob at the check stands. This is one of those times. The store is pin-drop quiet, but at two customers deep the express lane has by far the shortest line.
The first customer is Cigarette Man. He grumbles about the poorly named express lane before demanding that Drone fetch him a carton of cigarettes. Perfectly according to policy, Drone shuffles thirty feet over to the customer service counter where they keep cigarettes and forbid service. And where a startlingly pretty clerk has absolutely nothing to do.
I don’t know who to yell at. I am mad at Drone for wasting everyone's time by leaving the check stand instead of telling Cigarette Man to die of cancer. I am mad at Cigarette Man for standing in Drone’s line instead of walking directly to the beautiful clerk and getting his own damn cigarettes ten minutes ago. I’m mad at the beautiful clerk because she’s not dating me. I do nothing about any of it. Drone finally returns and Cigarette Man pulls out his check book. A for-real check book. For one item. In the express lane.
The second customer is Bag Lady. She has dozens of items, and she brought her own pathetic little plastic bags to put them in. She is puffing with anger because all of the ordinary lanes are full of people like her. I watch sympathetically as Drone tries to find room on the small counter for all the crap this woman is hauling. Finally done, we discover that Bag Lady has coupons. She also has a rain check that was improperly filled out improperly. Drone does not handle “improper” well. World War Three breaks out before Bag Lady leaves.
“Good Morning. Welcome to [supermarket]. Did you find everything alright?” Drone greets me without thought or recognition. It’s perfect stock-courtesy. It’s also ridiculous. This store is near my home, and directly on my way to work. I’ve stopped by nearly every day for two years. Since Drone works three hundred hours a week and covers every shift, she knows this. She knows my name. I know hers. In another life we might acknowledge this. But life is against store policy.
An apology might have been appropriate, or at least an acknowledgment of the train wreck of humanity that just departed. Neither was forthcoming. Instead Drone recites corporate script about my opportunity to pay extra for my coffee so that the store can give a few cents to a charity I already have on direct deposit. Sure. I hand cash to Drone and turn to leave. Drone asks if I would like help carrying my coffee to my car.
I am twenty seven years old. I am in reasonably good physical health, and have no obvious disabilities. I glance at the quietly smiling senior citizen bagging groceries on the next lane over. I picture myself walking to my car with this grandmother carrying my coffee a few steps behind.
“No thanks, I--” But by the first syllable Drone is already explaining the business model of the charity to the next hapless customer. I wonder if this is what the drafter of the store's handbook had in mind.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Tempest
Tonight it rains. The desert rejoices in the dusk. The ground devours the first water of the year with a deprived prurience. Clouds engulf the world. A thousand tiny drumbeats invite the dance, but I do not know the tune. Shelter beckons, and I am again the shy observer of lightning’s bravado.
Her hips respond to the rhythm; subtly at first, then less so. A slow skirt trails faster legs. Every eye I can see is eying her. For a moment I am jealous of the crowd. Cocktails and dinner behind us, she indulges now in a moment I can share only from afar. But I’m taking her home.
Life stirs. The pitter pat quickens. Sheets of moisture soak the hidden dark. Nothing can escape the downpour. Nothing tries. For a moment there is nothing but mist and rain. Puddles form, and the storm sighs in the earth’s damp embrace. The earth has eviler plans.
Thin straps fall silently from the sloped smoothness of her shoulders. Delicate clothes mingle discarded with rougher material. Her heart pounds alarmingly quickly, and her skin flushes red from its loving mistreatment. Removed of its niceties our lust is primeval in nature and painful in expression. Thunder rolls in the gloom.
The music eventually fades, and the dance stops. The landscape drips with memories of the hour just past. Everywhere life groans in soggy relief, wholly satisfied by Spring’s first exhale. But the rest won’t long endure. There’s lightning on the horizon, and more drought still to quell. Tonight it rains.
Her hips respond to the rhythm; subtly at first, then less so. A slow skirt trails faster legs. Every eye I can see is eying her. For a moment I am jealous of the crowd. Cocktails and dinner behind us, she indulges now in a moment I can share only from afar. But I’m taking her home.
Life stirs. The pitter pat quickens. Sheets of moisture soak the hidden dark. Nothing can escape the downpour. Nothing tries. For a moment there is nothing but mist and rain. Puddles form, and the storm sighs in the earth’s damp embrace. The earth has eviler plans.
Thin straps fall silently from the sloped smoothness of her shoulders. Delicate clothes mingle discarded with rougher material. Her heart pounds alarmingly quickly, and her skin flushes red from its loving mistreatment. Removed of its niceties our lust is primeval in nature and painful in expression. Thunder rolls in the gloom.
The music eventually fades, and the dance stops. The landscape drips with memories of the hour just past. Everywhere life groans in soggy relief, wholly satisfied by Spring’s first exhale. But the rest won’t long endure. There’s lightning on the horizon, and more drought still to quell. Tonight it rains.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Standard Issue
After months of analysis the talking heads have reached consensus. Our poor economy is entirely the fault of the other political party and its policies. Case dismissed. I, for one, am satisfied. That’s what we pay them for. Thanks to them, we can rest easily knowing that nothing horrible would ever happen to anyone if only more people agreed with us. Babies should sleep so well.
Yet why should your good night’s rest depend on the televised egos of has beens and never-will-bes? The system does not need a purpose to function. You need not outsource our conscience cleaning. Now, using my soon to be never patented system, you can become the master pundit of your very own political party!* You get it all in just three easy steps! And it’s absolutely free!** Operators are standing by.
Step 1: Identify the people causing all of the problems. Who they are is not important, but you need a large group. One person is too easily dealt with, and more importantly, blaming only one person makes your beliefs too easily disproved. Imagine your embarrassment when, after having announced that all of the world’s problems can be blamed on Bob, Bob dies, and things go on being lousy. You’d never live it down.
Step 2: Identify the problem. You may be surprised that this isn’t step one, but to be honest, people don’t really care what they’re blaming others for, so long as there are others to blame. After all, there are plenty of problems to go around. Identifying the guilty party beforehand saves time later on. Otherwise, you’d have to find a cause each and every time something went wrong. How exhausting.
Step 3: Explain why others don’t agree with you. The answer absolutely cannot be that you are wrong, or even that there is room for legitimate disagreement. It’s important to maintain your infallibility. A favored method is to declare that everyone probably would agree with you, if only “they” didn’t control the information. “They” can be anyone: shadowy corporate conglomerates, elitist professional conspiracies, whatever you want. As long as you can claim that your message isn’t getting out because of “them” you’re golden.
(Optional Step 4: Identify your message.*** If you’ve completed steps one through three, step four shouldn’t be necessary. Hating others really ought to be enough to keep your people together. Why complicate matters by interjecting independent thought into an otherwise efficient blame system? I’d avoid it.)
And, presto, your very own political party. No more waiting around for talking points before you can decide how you feel. Now you can blame the group of your choice, instantly and from the comfort of your own home, without any of that tedious analysis getting in the way. And you won’t believe just how good moral superiority can feel. Do wait, call today!
* Also available in cult
** Just pay shipping and handling. Especially handling.
*** Message not included
Yet why should your good night’s rest depend on the televised egos of has beens and never-will-bes? The system does not need a purpose to function. You need not outsource our conscience cleaning. Now, using my soon to be never patented system, you can become the master pundit of your very own political party!* You get it all in just three easy steps! And it’s absolutely free!** Operators are standing by.
Step 1: Identify the people causing all of the problems. Who they are is not important, but you need a large group. One person is too easily dealt with, and more importantly, blaming only one person makes your beliefs too easily disproved. Imagine your embarrassment when, after having announced that all of the world’s problems can be blamed on Bob, Bob dies, and things go on being lousy. You’d never live it down.
Step 2: Identify the problem. You may be surprised that this isn’t step one, but to be honest, people don’t really care what they’re blaming others for, so long as there are others to blame. After all, there are plenty of problems to go around. Identifying the guilty party beforehand saves time later on. Otherwise, you’d have to find a cause each and every time something went wrong. How exhausting.
Step 3: Explain why others don’t agree with you. The answer absolutely cannot be that you are wrong, or even that there is room for legitimate disagreement. It’s important to maintain your infallibility. A favored method is to declare that everyone probably would agree with you, if only “they” didn’t control the information. “They” can be anyone: shadowy corporate conglomerates, elitist professional conspiracies, whatever you want. As long as you can claim that your message isn’t getting out because of “them” you’re golden.
(Optional Step 4: Identify your message.*** If you’ve completed steps one through three, step four shouldn’t be necessary. Hating others really ought to be enough to keep your people together. Why complicate matters by interjecting independent thought into an otherwise efficient blame system? I’d avoid it.)
And, presto, your very own political party. No more waiting around for talking points before you can decide how you feel. Now you can blame the group of your choice, instantly and from the comfort of your own home, without any of that tedious analysis getting in the way. And you won’t believe just how good moral superiority can feel. Do wait, call today!
* Also available in cult
** Just pay shipping and handling. Especially handling.
*** Message not included
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
