I just finished an article. Blog post. Whatever. I say article because it makes me feel like a professional. A professional what, say you? A professional whatever. Which describes what it describes. I’m big on letting others be their own judges. Lately, anyway. Deduce what you will.
The article, as you may suppose, was about the lecture at Montco given by ecohuntress Emily Hunter. First, the woman is truly a nice person. Busy as all hell, yet took time—and more, the effort—to speak with me prior to her arrival in Blue Bell. And for the record, Emily is pretty decent… The lecture was a long time coming, it seemed. Perhaps it was the run-up, which included reading (a book, mind you), emails/phone calls/texts/smokesignals. Meetings and blog posts. To have all of it behind me is pleasant because I feel as though I finished something I So I was sitting, and it’s not even seven yet, and it’s pretty damn cold considering I’m down south in—oh, wait, I was saying something else started. Whenever I get into a story for Think Green, I start to feel something. What the hell is it called? You know, that feeling of, it feels like good. and stuff. the future. possibility. Purpose! That’s it. Purpose. Writing for fun is great and all, and I know how much you, gentle reader, enjoy the window into my mind (more later…). Venting is fun and definitely serves a, yup, purpose. But when a purpose springs from the process of writing, the research, the interviews, the science and the reality, writing about things green feels gooder.
I’m happy today. My heart hurts, but I am happy. I’m not at liberty to speak on the source or sources of my heartpain. However, I can say that despite this (these) I still feel good. Last week was yet another that bested the one previous. Nothing really happened other than school and acupuncture. Maybe Starbucks or something like that, but for the most part, I just chilled. I think. Maybe something happened, and if I remember, I’ll let you know.
Five thirty Saturday morning, after maybe 2 or three hours of sleep, the call came and I was up, showering, putting lotion on my stub, brushing my teeth, and really, really wanting coffee. Dressed, I dropped on the dresser a couple bucks. Mahogany, I’d guess. And I think two is enough. It was a Seinfeld episode. I rolled my bag toward the lift and fixed the hat that’s become practically signature atop my skull. Jeff. Baseball players wear hats. Apparently, caps are worn by Jeff. And anyone else with an “in.” (Mayan is Target.) No complimentary coffee? Surprising but not dayruining. Starbucks and a breakfast burrito (just a minute here, I wondered the other day, why are breakfast sandwiches so fucking delicious? Eggs bacon roll salt pepper holy shit so good) Since I was in Rome, I ate what the Romans eat and Romans eat burritos.
I took the seat immediately behind the driver and a flight crew of stewardesseses piled in as well. The older of the crew took the front seat, next to the driver; the other ladies filled in behind me. Where I couldn’t see. But near enough to hear. As we rolled down something-something highway (that’s not me being intentionally vague. I really don’t know.) I heard and overheard the two conversations taking place inside the van. Behind, I heard about kids and soccer and school functions. And of vacations and things monetary in nature. Ahead, the older woman spoke about her aging body, that it’s harder and harder to get up so early after a quick turnaround. The driver, a similarly-seasoned woman herself, agreed and the two shared a laugh. The passenger said that her daughter wanted to set her up online to find a date, to which she replied “I don’t need a date, I’m already sleeping with Ben.” “Mom! Ben who?” “Ben Gay.” The ladies cracked up, and I broke with an audible exhale. The ladies noticed and invited me into their conversation. Behind us, I think they were up to Conor and Reilley and Riley and Rileigh. The ladies up front are going to throw away all the stuff their adult kids don’t want. Then I went to the gate. Nothing else happened.
All day. Saturday. I was wiped. That’s not why I’m writing. I’m writing because I’m happy. They just said happy on the TV, exact moment I typed it. Jeselnik show, Patton oswalt said it. look it up. And that’s what happens when I write. I get the things that are inside my head out. And I hear that’s a good thing. Some say my mind is special. Not so much so it needs to be encased in padded polymer resin, but enough to note. When I write, often, a series of strange coincidences typically occur. Neither good nor bad, I couldn’t assign a value other than to say it was. You know how I enjoy them so, simply because they are. That’s what happens and that’s my brain. And some say it’s unique.
Seriously, I don’t get it. I don’t see it and it’s not a self-esteem deal nor is it fishing. ‘Tis what ’tis. People say it. Some say it or have said it quite a bit. The beautiful brain theory. Lucky for you, gentle reader, hanging out in there by myself is bad news, hence making it imperative that I write.
Talking to one of me new friends from school today, I realized she has the same thing going on. Well, I didn’t “realize” it so much as she said it to me. But once she said it, I realized I heard it and it became a thing in my brain that I knew. She talked of getting “lost in my thoughts and I don’t like to be there.” Like Ned told me, “yeah, it’s a bad neighborhood.” I know the feeling, my new friend. Finding myself all but lost in thought. What others call beautiful and interesting, a gift, I consider my burden. Fortunately, at the current time, this burden is useful and enjoyable. Someone told me that no one sees themselves as they really are, and that’s why we have friends. Wise, no? Therefore, this is my gift to you, GR. My gift, spelled out, spilled out. My mind onto the screen. How matrix of me.
So, I can’t let this slide. The news. What’s been happening? Pope stuff. Rodman went to North Korea. Something called “the sequester.” Look, we live in an amazing place in time. Place: earth, universe, US, our minds, etc. Regardless of where we are, it’s the shit. In time: now. Always now. And that doesn’t blow. Yet for reasons I’ve not found yet, we allow such offensive material into our reality.
Dennis Rodman is an asshole. Why the hell would he go to North Korea? As he explains it, they love basketball. That’s acceptable, right? Nevermind basic human needs. (I won’t say rights, as those are not natural law). Un doesn’t feed, clothe, shelter, care for his people. As its leader, he owes the nation his service. Still, they like basketball. Rodman ate lobster with Un while a child likely died from a preventable disease. While Rodman drank champagne, a nuke was tested. He defended himself by saying “He’s my friend. He likes basketball.” You attention-seeking, soul-sucking piece of garbage, stay over there. You’re not a diplomat. You’re a freeloader.
The pope resigned. Stepped down. Quit, citing poor health. I’m pretty sure a woman somewhere in America had a sick child, herself feeling lousy, with an unexplained pain in her midsection yet no decent man to say “I gotcho back, babe. But she still went to work today because she can’t afford another missed day.
Leader of nearly 2 billion Catholics, stepping aside. Jesus Christ! Oh, I mean, Jesus Christ didn’t go pray after his ministry. He worked until he was nailed to a cross. As his vicars, the embodiment of Christ on Earth, Popes historically stick around until they pass into the afterlife. Where they meet Jesus. Who may ask a few questions. I don’t know. Maybe I’m being too harsh. I haven’t had full-time work (Alana, if you’re reading, you rock!) in a year and a half. The global economy is tanking. This guy was lucky enough to have been given a pretty good position. For life, mind you. And he stepped down. It’s not like he was toiling at an unappreciated entry-level call center. He wasn’t caught in middle management because he didn’t know “the right people.” He was pope. It’s like: new guy, assistant manager, manager, GM, VP, President, Chairman, CEO, Owner, Pope. It don’t get no higher! I swear, if I see video of him on a beach, zinc on his nose, floaties on his arms and a daiquiri in his hand, I’m gonna lose it. Or worse, someone will snap a picture of him at a truckstop, RVing across the Southwest headed for Branson. What chance do we sinners have?
The sequester nonsense is just that. Non sense. As in, I can’t see or hear any more about it. It smells like funk and leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I feel as though we’re being had. Put on. Lied to. How in the world does this happen to a great nation? With a bevy of examples of empires fallen, how is it the elected leaders can’t balance a checkbook so we can avoid the same falling fate? Three months ago, we were ready to fall off a cliff. Today, we face sequestration, which is what a judge orders in order for a jury to deliberate. Set aside until a solution is reached. “Let’s not deal with this. Let’s take a pay raise and another month off. It just makes sense.”
So yes, despite the state of the world, despite my state of mind, despite the fact that shit’s fucked up I’m not surprised to find I’m happy in this moment, I’m happy in my head, my heart it may be hurting but I’ll fight until I’m dead. Seriously, some shit is out there and nobody’s immune. I went through my shit and I hope I’ve been through the worst of it. If not, hopefully there will be people around to see me through. I’m thankful today to be able to be there to see others through.
And that’s a good thing.