Hello all! It’s been awhile since I’ve posted the picture’s I’ve been taking. I want to say that I took these near the end of December and the beginning of January, but in the whirlwind of daily activities, I’ve forgotten. At any rate, I’ve been experimenting more with light and shadow at certain times of day. Enjoy! 
My best friend, J. Marie Ravenshaw came to visit me in New York. I made this video based on the pictures we took together during her stay.
And I love the song.
Hope you like the vid, J. 
-A.
There are many other projects in the works, but I was happy to take the time to do this.
Enjoy!
You want a video to indicate how I feel at the moment, have at this one ..
The ideas have been fine tuned. The words are in place. I have finished and edited the content of my book.
All it needs now are chapter names and a title worthy of its greatness.
It also needs a professional editor, of course. I just refuse to send mine utter crap.
Time to save massive amounts of money.
Time to celebrate. My succubus can’t wait to make your acquaintance .. really
Have a video!!
I’d like to start this blog by saying that I was on a hiatus for a bit. A friend of mine came into the city and I decided to show her a good time. There are pictures. No, not that kind, you sick perverts!
As a result of my mini “staycation,” I stayed away from most social media. I didn’t even e-mail more than once, and that was to confirm that I was continuing a writing project that I started many moons ago.
My writing is going very well, I think, despite all the challenges that life seems to throw at me. I’m one busy motherfucker. I have the cleaning project in this apartment that has all but consumed my life when I am not working. I’m taking a break from that messy business. It’s done great things for this house and for my own mental health, but the process of getting cleaned up around here has been slow, and at times, so fucking aggravating that I want to snap someone’s neck and call it a day. I’m glad I took some time.
But my mindset since I’ve gotten back from that hiatus has been one of purposeful relaxation. I don’t want to delve back into the rat race that quickly. I’ve got to catch up with myself. I’m a bit tired of putting the needs of others above my own. My balance has been off in that respect. It happens. Life hurls its many curve balls at me, I get busy, and I don’t take the time to take care of me. I get sick or I get sick and tired. Those are apparently very different states of being according to my mother.
Cue studio audience laughter.
Parents have a way of making their adult children think about the course of their own lives. My parents are no exception.
A friend of mine engaged me in a discussion this afternoon before work. Of course, it started when the word “denial” came up. The word “denial” immediately puts me on the defensive. I won’t make any bones about that. But my friend, as far as I could tell, was genuinely concerned that I don’t appear to know how to slow down. Our discussion took on several different dimensions of course, but this is the one that stuck with me all the way through work this afternoon. It’s the one thing that I kept thinking about as I hurled myself into my captains chair and tried with utter desperation to bring the fun in.
If I have to try that hard to bring the fun in, perhaps the vacation wasn’t long enough.
But this is not the first time that this has come up in discussion this week.
Another friend of mine expressed concern that I won’t let anyone into my heart.
A third friend of mine seems worried that I don’t talk much.
My co workers seem to think I’ve become withdrawn.
With all these concerns coming to the fore AFTER I’ve just had a vacation, I was forced to consider the very real possibility that people simply didn’t like that I was gone for as long as I was. Even today, people expressed concern that I was in the back of the store at work pretty much my entire shift. My job sort of requires that right now, so I have little choice. But even I have to admit, after so much public face time and customer contact, being stuck in a little alcove in front of an elevator processing returns all day long feels isolating.
I’m beginning to worry.
My parents have put their two cents in. For some reason, their interjections on this subject have made me angry.
My father tells me “kid, you look tired and you work too hard.” Never mind that virtually every other day after work, he makes plans for my time that involve even more home projects that I am getting rather sick of doing. I have to shake my head at chuckle when he does this and then tells me “relax, kid,” as though I’m the one who keeps coming up with all this shit.
On the other hand, this is what my typical week looks like.
I wake up at 6 am monday morning. I prepare for an early work day. I got to work at nine.
After work, I do a load or two of laundry. It takes hours.
After that, I edit my story and try to catch up with my friends.
Maybe, I get some sleep.
The next morning, I do MORE laundry before a closing shift at my job.
The third day is a morning at work. If I’m lucky, I can rest after work this day, except I almost always have errands to run concerning my family. Even better, I’ve got writing projects that I’ve been putting off for so long that I try to do some of them. But my brain is so shot and I’ve had such a tiring previous couple of days that I get very little done. I start to wonder where my discipline has gone.
And then, I do the social networking thing.
Oi.
Thursdays are my last day at work for the week. I want to say that this means I have some fun. I can do that most of the time. But then the drama begins at home. Someone at home always has to make a scene at the end of my work week. Drunken arguing ensues. I slam my door and try not to regret that I came home at all.
Friday and Saturday. These are supposed to be fun days. Of late, they are replete with a lot of work. My cleaning project is foremost on the list of chores. My autistic brother decides to intervene by making noise and complaining when I won’t let him play with my keys. I try to maintain good humor and patience through all of this, but the previous week has been stressful. I compromise on everything. I don’t even get to use my bathroom when I want to this day because my father is busy doing an hour and a half long asthma treatment two times a day in our only bathroom. I’m getting angrier, but I press on because I know that this will all be worth it, right?
Meanwhile, I have NO social life to speak of in this city. I don’t hang out with family. That may have something to do with the fact that they all seem to want to give me advice that I don’t ask for. Or maybe it’s because I’ve been gone from most of their lives for so long that they no longer can relate to me in any other way. Some of them scare me with their sheer ignorance. Others are just living their lives, and we’ve remained separate for long periods of time.
I was gone for ten years. I won’t deny that it hurt some people. But I won’t apologize either. That was my time to figure out some things I needed to know. I’ll ask those of you who bother to get to know me again to remember that.
But I’ll only ask once. I have no energy to repeat myself.
I worry that I’ve swung my katana too hard. I’ve scared people away with my intensity. I’ve intimidated them with my inability to slow down. I’ve elicited concern and, in some cases, alarm from my nearest and dearest.
And I won’t lie. I am tired. So tired.
But I can’t stop fighting. I have goals to meet. I’ve got a life to live. I’ve got dreams.
Are all of these things supposed to fade into nothingness again like they did before? Are all of my own aspirations supposed to take a back seat again because I grow so tired of trying to balance it all on my shoulders?
I can’t allow that. If my ten year absence taught me anything at all, it is that I cannot allow my dreams to fade. I will not allow anyone to tear me away from my writing and my art. I can’t bear the thought that I have to sacrifice those things again so that someone else will think I’m doing something “practical” with my life. FUCK PRACTICAL! Practical doesn’t make anyone smile when they wake up in the morning. Practical is what you reserve for balancing a budget or figuring out how to dress your kids for school while writing a grocery list.
It’s NOT the word you use when you talk of love for something, or someone.
.. I’m afraid I don’t always know what real love is.
That scares me more than anything in this world. All this hard work and all this running around, being fast and efficient means nothing. All this motion and repetition leaves me feeling cold on the weekends. It leaves me feeling rather irritated with most people.
Am I growing colder?
Is exhaustion taking away my humanity? Am I killing my own spirit with too much work and worry?
These are legitimate questions.
The calm of a weary warrior suffuses my being. It is the calm that comes before the storm.
Maybe as I wipe the blood from my sword in my private forest sanctuary, I’ll stick the blade in the soft earth, lean my head upon the hilt and just weep.
I’m here.
I’m not exactly sure what that means. I’ve toweled off after a shower. I look in the bathroom mirror. My right forearm sports a nasty purple welt that’s red around the edges. It stung when I washed it. There’s a cut on my face, just above my left eye. It looks worse than it is. In fact, it looks like my barber didn’t know when to quit and I got razor burn on my forehead.
There is another wound I can’t see, right at my knee. It’s an open wound I’ve had to cover with a band aid.
One would have thought this was from a street brawl or something. I guess when I think about it, I didn’t come off too badly. I can still move, though it stings sometimes. Bending my knee at work today will be an interesting experience.
But the real reason I’m bruised is because my autistic brother lost his cool yesterday. He had what we in this family have learned to call “one of his episodes.” It makes it seem like some kind of cop drama or something. NYPD Autism? Yeah, not so much. It’s not nearly as entertaining as all that, but it can get your blood pumping. You will leap out of your chair. It’s a “full body” experience.
But that doesn’t mean I want to participate.
I’ve got loads of work to do today. I have my actual job sometime this afternoon I think. If I have an afternoon shift, i might want to get some laundry done. And after work, I’ve got a bunch of damned plastic bins to put into the storage warehouse about a block and a half away.
Yeah. I’d say I’ve got my work cut out for me.
Happy Birthday to me.
I have to poke my head up for a minute.
This time, there is a great deal to share. The problem now is that my time is limited.
There is plenty for me to do right now. I am editing my first true book. I’m working. I am helping to clean my family’s apartment while contending with the wants and needs of the autistic adult in my life. I’m also attempting to balance social media, help my friends with their creative endeavors, and make sure that I support those who are getting their literary work out there for all to see.
I don’t do any of these things because I expect anything in return. I may be one of those rare cases where what you see is what you get. The world owes me nothing. If I get anything for my efforts, it’s because I work for it.
In other words, my time is short. I want to enjoy what little time I have to myself these days. The friends of mine who “get me” are the ones who go out and do. They’re the ones who put themselves out there for scrutiny, holding their necks out for a vampire’s kiss or the blade of the executioner. They are the ones who ask, “when,” not “why?”
I have a question for “the others.” These are the ones who are NOT my friends, but seem to think I need to hear racist, homophobic, or otherwise plain obnoxious rhetoric and propaganda.
What the fuck makes you all think I have time for all this?
Living in New York City has been a blessing in disguise for me. It’s reminded me of one universal truth. There are so many people in this world that I have yet to meet. Most of them will not become my friends. Most will barely give me a second thought unless we introduce ourselves to one another. New Yorkers have a unique way of reminding me that their time is just as precious to them as mine is to me. New Yorkers remind me that sometimes life is best lived on a moment to moment basis. Nothing is permanent. Nothing is trivial.
There is an ironic way that haters seem to spread their hatred that I am still trying to understand. Facebook is replete with this kind of hatred. Someone says something inflammatory (and often just plain wrong). Their words stink up my life for mere seconds in the miasma of ignorance. Their energy knocks me off my path. Haters count on this. They get off on it.
But haters also count on the fact that nobody will stand up to them for lack of courage or time.
When I encounter a hater, for the briefest of instants, I have a choice to make. I can keep on my path and ignore the hate, living my life as I see fit. I can cross swords with each hater and make them suffer for their ignorance.
But there is a third option that I forgot about until recently. It’s the one that I prefer.
I’m a smart person who can read the haters from a mile off. I often see them coming, and I have turned my blinders on in the past. If we’re going to use the metaphor of two ships passing in the night, I’ve been the lonely ghost ship that turns on giant lights and goes their merry way after they’ve blinded the captains of other boats. From a warrior’s perspective, I’m the guy with the broad chest and the focused stare. I leave others alone if I’m outside because I’m often too busy doing something to care what you’re about.
But of late, haters have stopped me in my tracks. They bump chests with me, or stick their feet out to try to trip me up and make me look bad. They forget one thing.
I still carry a sword.
I don’t have to stop and engage you if you’re a hate monger who needs to fill their time insulting and hurting others. I don’t want to waste my time pointing out the myriad of ways in which you are wrong. I don’t think you’re going to listen anyway. I’ll save my breath.
What I will do is exercise the third option. I will cut you down and leave. If I take the time to strike, I do it fast. I won’t waste emotion on your demise. I won’t waste energy. I will remove you from my life and the lives of others in one fell swoop. Simple. Efficient. Effective.
And it puts a grin on my otherwise stoic (yet handsome) face.
I have no time for hatred. I have no room for bigotry in my life. I will show you no quarter if you hurl your negativity in my direction. I have too many things yet to accomplish to stop and point out how wrong you are. But do not doubt that I will eliminate you if needed.
The opposite of love and caring isn’t hatred, folks. It’s apathy. It’s obvious to me that I can’t exercise apathy in the way I move through the world. But for the haters, the racists, the homophobes, and those who would tell me that I can’t have what I want in this world, I’ve got advice for you.
Your hatred is unwelcome. Don’t cross my path.
Hello, audience!
I’m trying something different for this post. These are my recorded thoughts on the concept of “salvation.” Follow the bouncing ball ..
Wait .. that would be easier if there WERE a bouncing ball, but here’s the next best thing. Listen and follow along with the words below the video if you’d like.
However, I must warn you, there’s foul language in this piece. It isn’t suitable for kids.
Enjoy!
Nobody ever said it would be easy.
But if they had told me how hard it would get, I might have thought twice about this whole “life” deal. It’s not like I can remember standing in front of God and hearing a booming voice say
“Let’s see which door this one chooses, huh folks?”
There wasn’t really a choice involved. I was born to the people who raised me. I was born into a family with a lot of issues.
But If anyone had told me that this meant screaming matches with someone I used to love at four o clock in the morning, I would have told them had me confused with someone far less well adjusted.
And I would have been wrong.
My views on alcoholism haven’t changed. I’ve known too many people with the disease. As both a hospital and retail employee, I’ve seen strangers with the addiction. It’s different when the effects of the disease are something that I can’t walk away from. It assumes a permanence in my psyche. I wish it wouldn’t.
It isn’t like there aren’t a great deal of other things for me to think about. I’ve got other dreams to pursue. I’ve got goals. I didn’t sign up for this. I feel like I’ve been drafted into an army of disposable heroes, and I keep asking myself one question that I think I heard in famous movie once.
“How do I get out of this chicken shit outfit?”
Perhaps a faceless drill sergeant will point his or her finger at me and tell me to “secure that shit.” But I didn’t sign up be a in a fucking army. I never agreed to this shit.
So thanks for the advice, serge, but you can suck my balls.
I don’t know that I would have made it in the army. I appreciate the soldiers who can walk the walk. I have enormous respect for the troops who are overseas representing the United States of America, and I can’t even begin to fathom what it would have been like to fight in each of the world wars of human history.
But as far as I know, war is a human concept. Strategic combat on that sort of scale may in fact be a uniquely human invention.
I, for one, would like to focus my energies in a more creative setting.
I’ve always created worlds into which I could escape when the realities of this world proved to be too unwieldy. Too many people in my life have told me to “grow the fuck up” and stop fucking with fantasy. They’ve told me to “think practically.” They’ve told me to “focus on the here and now.”
Personally, I think they talk too much. I’ve found that most of the same people who tell me that the daily grind of work and family are all there is to life haven’t tried hard enough to be happy.
Happiness is work.
I think about this in terms of writing and I know my conclusions are right.
You can tell anyone you want to that you’re a writer, but as a friend and fellow blogger wrote recently, a lot of people have a tendency to belittle that statement. I have to say I agree with her assessment.
You’re always going to find those who look at you and wonder that you can say that with a straight face. Some will challenge you outright, asking you what books you’ve written. Others will simply laugh and say “no, seriously.”
I don’t want to tell anyone in my family that I write. Even the people who know will probably wonder why I ventured into it in the first place. They’ll forget that I entered a story telling contest as a 9 year old kid, memorized an entire book and RETOLD that story in a way that made most of the adults in the room cry, including my own father. They’ll fail to recall the hours that I spent, pen in hand, writing my own versions of fairytales, movie scripts, and stories of the events of my day. These people will not understand that I went to college in disguise. I donned the garb of a healer/scholar, and I wore it well enough to fool the masses for more than a decade.
But college proved to me what a lie that really was. Stories were the food for my soul. The lives and motivations of others were what sustained me. I ventured into psychology as a major, thinking that it would be an easy way to “still be a doctor,” since that was what I told everyone in my family that I wanted to be.
Again, I was wrong, but it would take me more than a decade after my graduation to finally accept that my muse had been waiting to greet me again with open arms. A relationship of ten years crumbled around my ears before I finally accepted that I didn’t know who I was anymore, and that I’d stopped caring.
A friend of mine was doing some sort of film project in college. I couldn’t tell you if it was for a class, but he was interviewing students and asking them some very poignant questions. He asked one question that has stuck with me over the years.
“What does salvation mean to you?”
I remember the answer I gave him back then as the camera lens took in every blemish of my face and every expression of my dark eyes.
“I believe that salvation comes from within.”
I still believe it.
I was raised catholic, and I was raised in a family that believed in things like divine intervention, fate, and all sorts of other concepts that I never really took to as a kid. I was a little control freak. I was a picky eater. I didn’t want my choices taken from me just because some big, mean man couldn’t handle that I didn’t want to sit still and listen to boring stories.
But what I didn’t realize until I was in the first grade was that I wanted to tell my OWN!
Show and tell was an interesting concept for me in school in elementary school. It wasn’t easy for me so sit still and listen to other kids and their stories sometimes, but I used to anyway because there was something for me to learn in each story. “This kid likes chocolate, that girl likes trees.”
But then my turn would come, and I would talk about the things that happened in my life. I would leave my classmates “spellbound.”
At least, that’s what the teacher told my father on “parent teacher” night before she went on to tell him that I had trouble listening and not daydreaming in class.
Those are hard moments to forget, but somehow, I allowed the memories to fade.
That was a mistake, and one that I don’t intend to make ever again.
When I gave my friend that answer in college, I didn’t have a clear sense of what my personal salvation would be. I can type and speak these words now with a fuller understanding of that that word means to me.
There is no magic bullet for happiness. There are no words that a shaman or a priest can utter that bring automatic joy to anyone’s lives. That sort of magical thinking ,to me, represents a misunderstanding of egregious proportions.
The universe owes me nothing. It’s just there, just as I am here.
In terms of life, writing is the same as many other things. You can only learn it by doing it. You can only perfect it through practice. You can only improve it by sharing it with others and getting their insight.
You suit up, show up, and get down to it and see what happens. That’s what writing is to me.
That’s what life is.
Perhaps the ultimate lesson here is that when one seeks salvation, they might just discover that it lies in the living of life. Getting out there, meeting people and having experiences are the things that life has to offer you if you are willing to reach for them. Sometimes it may feel like you have to stretch until your muscles ache, until the skin is peeled from your bones. Your day might end with you having nicked your hands on many thorns. But, to me, even the thorns are worth it. The pain means just as much to me as the pleasure. It can be just a powerful tool for learning as a hug.
I still like hugs better, though, just sayin.’
If there is one thing they don’t teach you Driver’s Ed or one on one driving instruction is that walking the streets of New York City might in fact prepare for being on the road or a major highway in your own vehicle. The reason this is true is simpler than you might think.
Pedestrians can be jerks.
Case in point. Last week, I kid you not, some woman with an ominous glint in her eye followed me for 13 blocks straight, practically stepping on my heels before she finally veered left and walked down 49th street and 5th avenue toward Broadway. I’m pretty sure she did this because I was one of the few pedestrians who was actually paying attention, so by default that made me the fastest bi ped within a two block radius. It’s almost like a Nascar race at this point. Someone decides to ride your ass bumper for bumper while hugging the curves of the race track and using your pace to zoom ahead of others. Then when they’ve gotten what they’ve wanted, they either veer ahead of you, turn away from you, or crash into the wall.
I can’t even begin to tell you how many times I wish it was the third one for some of these disasters on two feet.
Much like driving on the road, in NYC, you’ve got to be prepared for the fact that other pedestrians are in fact the biggest street hazards out there. Walk down Time’s Square sometime and find out how true this is. Often, other people aren’t watching where they are walking, they’re in a big hurry to hit the sales at their local stores and boutiques, or they’re simply trying to beat the red light. You practically have to be a linebacker or a martial artist to get past these jerks without getting jostled, elbowed in the ribs, or yelled at by Kim Kardashian wannabes who think they’re going to turn back into pumpkins if they don’t make that sale at Bloomingdales. And how many pedestrians have I seen zoom past me just to get stopped by a red light at a busy intersection. I actually saw one woman with a red purse throw her hands up in frustration at the stop light! This was before she almost ran into the middle of oncoming traffic, got honked at, and decided to retreat back to the safety of the crosswalk while rolling her eyes.
Of course, she had to step on some poor man’s foot in the process, but that’s another matter entirely. She was like that annoying asshole driver that speeds up, realizes they aren’t going to make it across the intersection before the light changes from green to red and decides to slow down before backing up into the oncoming traffic behind them. Those assholes deserve to get rear ended in my opinion.
Never mind that as a law abiding pedestrian, I still have to be on the lookout for crazies, for panhandlers, for little kids who don’t even reach my knees and somehow wander away from their parents, and for the ever present “human statues.” Now that the weather has turned, I’ve got to veer around construction zones in front of building entrances. I’ve got to avoid assholes who keep trying to hand me their fucking fliers like I can’t see the restaurants or the strip clubs they work for right behind them. I’ll encounter sleezy pawn shop owners who think that talking to me in Spanish will make me more likely to listen to them. And yes, on occasion, I’ve got to be careful for cracks in the sidewalk that make others stumble in front of me, or vice versa.
And then there’s the ever growing problem of pedestrians who can’t be bothered to look up as they’re texting on their damned smart phones.
For obvious reasons, texting and driving is banned on the road.
http://www.kansascity.com/2012/05/31/3635374/northland-teen-pleads-guilty-in.html
It should be banned for pedestrians too, and not just because there’s a growing trend for the robbery of smart phones in NYC. Road rage is bad enough. But sometimes I just feel like pedestrian rage isn’t too far in the future for New Yorkers, myself included. I feel like decking the business suit wearing monkeys who cut me off ON FOOT and almost trip me because they’re too busy talking on their damned smart phones to bother paying attention.
If you’re not a cop, a movie mogul or a counter terrorist agent, shut the fuck up and get off your damned phone when you walk down the street. It gets old fast, especially since the majority of the conversations I overhear are so stupid that they don’t deserve to be the reason I almost got kicked in the shins, stepped on, tripped up, or simply slowed down if I was in a hurry. You’re not that damned important. And if you think we all want to hear you argue with someone on the phone, you’re oblivious, and you better pray that nobody films your soap opera tirade as your stomp up and down in the middle of the street getting in people’s way for no good reason.
I’m not innocent of course. It would be arrogant presumption for me to blog about this without demonstrating that I too am not the perfect pedestrian. Sometimes the traffic lights don’t work fast enough for my taste and I look for opportunities to cross the street before anything serious happens. I’m not crossing on the green in that instance, but I am still trying to watch for drivers. Sometimes, traffic gets snarled before the drivers hit the middle of the intersection. Is it my fault that some dumbfuck decided to double park illegally in order to “quick run an errand?” I’ve got better things to do than to wait that out, especially when Danica Patrick in high heels is standing behind me snorting her impatience.
And then there’s the women.
I’ve had to learn to walk fast and use my peripheral vision when I’m people watching in general, and there usually is a time and place for slowing down and admiring the view. But I’m not opposed to enjoying what the spring weather has produced in terms of current women’s fashion. I’ve had to be very careful in recent weeks not to bump into others as my head gets turned by a gorgeous woman in sun dress or short shorts. I manage, for the most part, not to embarrass myself these days, but last summer was especially challenging for me in that regard . That’s a lot like what happens to drivers when they see flashy cars cruising down the road, or the pretty drivers in those cars. No matter what, you’re still responsible for you and for whoever is with you, and you just have to remain vigilant.
The other day, I saw a field trip full of toddlers two blocks from my home. There were at least two chaperones and a teacher with a group of six cute kids. But what was odd about that to me was that the kids were all sort of attached to each other and to the adults with a long strip of canvas. Attached to the long strip were these soft loops that went around the kids’ bodies. It was like watching two plain clothes prison guards marching the Tickle Me Elmo chain gang down the road. Odd. But when I thought about it, sort of reasonable considering how hazardous walking in Manhattan can really be.
I’ve hydroplaned on foot before. Swear to God.
Dad and I were walking to breakfast once and it was a rainy morning. The ground was wet and we were both walking fast because we wanted our coffee and breakfast omelettes. I kid you not, my left foot skidded above a puddle and I pivoted quite by accident. As I made my way to the ground, I stuck my hand out to keep from falling on my ass and embarrassing myself in front of a bunch of other pedestrians. I caught myself (thank goodness) and sprang up just as quickly as I plummeted to the ground. Somehow, I kept a straight face. I wanted to pull a Pee Wee Herman line out of my ass and say “I meant to do that.” But nobody would have believed it anyway.
I think Dennis Leary has made jokes about traveling along New York City streets before. Most of them rang true for me.
For right now, I’ll just kick my feet up and write this little blog entry from the comfort of my air conditioned living space. Nobody is going to roll their eyes, step on my feet, give me the finger or talk on their damned phones in my general vicinity as I do it. That puts a smile on my face.
It was another early morning wake up time for me. The sun hadn’t crept into my room through my open window yet, but the cold air definitely made my toes curl. My blanket had gotten twisted off of my bed, a sure sign that I’d had at least one nightmare. I’ve gotten used to waking up with my blanket in knots under my arms, or even with my blanket having been tossed to the other side of the room violently. When I was in high school, I woke up once to serious pain in my right hand, and a knuckle sized indent in my bedroom wall.
I groaned as I got out of bed and dragged my computer to me like a willing lover. I did what I’ve been kicking myself for doing lately. I checked twitter, I checked Facebook, I checked the stats of my blog, and I checked a couple of other websites. In truth, I felt hopelessly lost, like one of the Knights of the Round Table in search of the elusive Holy Grail. I don’t even know what the hell I’m looking for anymore. Checking the internet just feels automatic now. I’m up, it’s time to check to see if my life on the internet is worth all the time and energy I seem to put into it lately. Gotto tell you all, it wasn’t. And none of my other friends were going to be awake anyway, so there would be no Skyping or instant messaging with them. I was alone again among a different crowd on the world wide web.
Once I was done messing around with my computer, I got dressed, brushed my teeth, and got the fuck out of dodge. My family was asleep. So were their dogs, thank God. Those yippie little motherfuckers have a habit of barking and giving away my position when I want to let my family sleep in. They act like it’s my fault my parents were up late again watching bad television. It’s all I can do not to kick them both before I leave the apartment. Worse, I’ve been feeling a cold sort of cruelty lately, a disdain for most of humanity that could easily become a dragon’s fire that consumes everyone in my path. Maybe some of my muses are trying to wake the fuck up again so they can distract me from whatever is making me feel this way. With my luck with writing lately, I just don’t know that it will happen. Granted it’s only been a couple of days since my last couple of thousand words, but it’s still another frustration that I don’t want . I’m doing the mental masturbating that I’ve gotten so sick of lately. My mind’s left hand is going either fall off or get really hairy.
But I figured if I was going to brood over something, I might as well go do it over at my favorite duck pond.
And it didn’t take me long to get there. My feet were able to find the familiar path even thought the rest of me was so distracted by other things. And it was nice to not be utterly surrounded with people at the park on a sunny, 45 day.
The pond was definitely pretty. Morning sun reflects off the water in a different way than the afternoon sun does. The ducks are lazier too.
They were doing something that I have never been awake and out at the pond early enough to see them do. One duck would lazily swim along, his feet just kind of swishing behind him in the water. Then without warning, he’d duck his head under the water as his body kept moving forward. It was a bit like watching a feathered submarine. When he wanted to see above the water again, he’d poke his head up slowly, like a periscope. I had to smirk at that moment. The hunt for Red October was on.
But then another duck showed up. The first duck kept his head but he didn’t see the second duck making a bee line for him in the water. Their paths were about cross. It wasn’t going to be a violent collision, but maybe they would have quacked at each other or something. But just when they were about to collide, they both stuck their heads below water and passed each other with two sets of moving ripples. They were two feathery submarines with the same mission in mind, and they just missed each other by inches.
I love my ducks, but I don’t know a heck of a lot about them. I don’t know if they communicate underwater using “quack” bubbles or anything like that. But the sight of two ducks missing each other by inches got me to thinking New York pedestrians, and how many of them I witness each day passing each other like these ducks. Instead their heads aren’t buried under the green, sunlit water of a pond looking for food. The heads of these curious “New Yorker” creatures are looking down at their smart phones and their kindles, texting, reading, not looking where they are going a great deal of the time, and still managing to avoid each other.
And I find that sad.
I am not going to sit here and type out this BLOG post while condemning social media. My hypocrisy will only stretch so far. I am an American consumer, and like the rest of us, I’ve somehow embraced the tenets of capitalism and technology’s role in said norms.
But I can’t lie to you either. There are some very interesting people in this world, and I’m sad to see them looking at their smart phones instead of paying attention to the world around them. There are teenagers with keen intellect in their eyes, pretty women and handsome, snappily dressed men with stories written all over their faces, old people with tales of their glory days just itching to be shared with young strangers like me. And even in places like Central Park, they wander around practically Eskimo kissing their smart phones in an attempt to communicate while the world around them continues to exist. Spring flowers continue to bloom. Tiny robins tweet (and not on the internet). Potential conversations with real people are avoided. Gothic Architecture isn’t admired. Food festivals aren’t savored for the unique cultural experience that they provide. And even the potential for romance seems to fly out the window, replaced (most believe) by something known as internet speed dating.
I’ve done my share of internet “dating” too. It flies in the face of everything I was taught about love and romance growing up. Then again, maybe that’s not always a bad thing in my case Live with my parents for a month and you’ll think that movie “War of the Roses” was a picture of paradise.
I met a special someone on the internet. It isn’t always easy. Only time, at this point, will tell me if it will work. I gamble with my heart when I think it’s worth it. Deep down, despite my apparently cold view toward people, I think she has the potential to be.
My parents didn’t prepare me for that one.
But what does it mean when the people around you all start to look like ducks who bury their heads underwater looking for something special? Ducks have a simple reason to “duck,” don’t they?
Maybe people have their reasons too, but I am only really beginning to understand what they are. I do it myself, and I’m still trying to understand why..
“Duck and cover” isn’t just something people say when fighting breaks out.
What do you all think out there in internet land? Why do people lower their heads and avoid the potential for joy and goodness in their lives? I’d love to hear from any of you on this subject.
The rhythms and musings of a Voodoo Drummer from New York City.
