Ancestry.

This might be my great great grand half-uncle, or something. His name was Willie. He was Hopi.

Goals.

I have goals.

Logistics.

Why must people be so difficult?

Exit Signs

Insisting that I compliment your driving as you take the wrong exit is a peculiar definition of "being supportive."

I Practice the Religion of Life

I woke up this morning, sobered up after a short nap and not the least bit hung over. I decided to celebrate my triumph over ethanol with a nice greasy McDonald’s breakfast. I asked if they served McFlurries this early, they did. It was great. There was a girl in a jeep a few cars ahead of me in line. I decided that she was beautiful. I watched her drive off, and noticed that she had an NC State parking sticker. Maybe I’ll run into her on campus. I bought a lottery ticket and went back to my apartment to nap. When I woke again, I fooled around on the internet until I decided to go get coffee. At the coffee shop I sipped my Costa Rican blend and munched on a huge cookie while reading Life of Pi and listening to a couple of older gentlemen discuss politics and pop culture. One of them, a man who reminds me a bit of Bukowski, looked at me from time to time. Perhaps he wanted to invite me into the conversation, but I was perfectly content listening and reading. Perhaps he was not content with my listening. It went on like this for a few hours. Sip, munch, read, listen. I didn’t finish the cookie, but I decided it was time to move on.

I went to Reader’s Circle and found a book for my Contemp. Lit. class: The Road. It was 7 dollars. There was a yard sale going on next door, I checked it out. She was selling off various knickknacks, little Buddha statues, framed photographs of Marilyn Monroe. A lesser individual would probably call her an idolater, but I think she just fancies knickknacks. She had some albums for sale, mostly classic rock. I felt silly wearing my Rolling Stones t-shirt and leafing through this girl’s collection of classic rock. I suppose her parents were hippies like mine. She asked 1 dollar in trade for a Procol Harum LP. Why not? I left. Destination: Art Museum.

I grabbed my book from my backpack and didn’t have to wander around the art trail long before I found a man sitting on a folding stool by the pond with a watercolor set. He was painting, of course. I asked if I could look and he invited me. I ended up sitting with him for hours talking. His name is Dick Wayne. He is a skinny man of 76 (at least I think that’s what he said) and from New York City. He moved here not too long ago just to get away from the hustle and bustle. He wore a purple baseball cap that said Palm Beach. He had glasses and a white handlebar mustache. We talked about many things. He asked if I was in school, so we talked about that. He asked what I wanted to do with my degrees, so we talked about that. I told him I wanted to write and teach. “Writing, like all the arts, is really hard,” he said. We talked about Philosophy, he asked me about my favorite philosophies or –phers. We talked about Transcendentalism. He told me that he thinks life is mostly just random, but he didn’t want to sound like an Existentialist. “I wouldn’t want to be Camus… or Sartre,” he said.

 We talked about Walden, and Emerson, and practical philosophies. He made the logical connection to religion. “I’m not a believer… in God,” he said, “it’s silly to think about some man… or woman… sitting in the sky… micromanaging the lives of 6.5 billion…” he trailed off as a few people walked by, “Make sure to get the color of my hair right,” a man in sunglasses said. “I’m working on the eyes right now,” Mr. Wayne replied.

We talked about Gliese 581 g. A man like him has probably been expecting news like this for ever: a certain kind of faith that is actually rewarded. Somehow we got onto the subject of sports, “I don’t really care for sports,” he said. “Neither do I,” I said. I told him about my journalism class, how the teacher asks us every day about our favorite news story. I told the class about Gliese, they blinked a few times and somebody started talking about football. Mr. Wayne made a disappointed sound. We talked for a while about how generally stupid sports are. Snowboarding certainly seemed to be the biggest offender in Mr. Wayne’s mind. Truly a kindred spirit. We got back to talking about school and careers. He told me about his son who floundered around in life before deciding on becoming psychologist, then a researcher, then a nurse, and finally a P.A. We talked about NYU, where he went to school. He was surprised to learn about their top-ranked Philosophy Ph.D. program. I said if I ever decided to pursue a Ph.D. in Philosophy, that is where I would go. He said that everybody should live in NYC at some point in their life. How nice that would be if it were possible.  Some woman interrupted us and talked to him way too long about his paint set. I suspect she was worried that I was some hooligan who was going to mug Mr. Wayne. Why would I do such a thing? She’s a terrible person for suspecting that of me. She buggered off after a while, I was relieved. It’s not often I get to really talk to somebody, so to be interrupted is to waste valuable talking time. Not long before the sun disappeared behind the tree line, Mr. Wayne decided it was time to leave. “It was really nice to talk to you, Mr. Wayne,” I said. “Everybody I know calls me Dick, why shouldn’t you?” he asked. “Okay, Dick,” I said, “it was a pleasure to meet you. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

I read by the pond for a bit longer, called home to check in, and finally came back to my apartment to write.

A monologue.

"Oh great. Good job. Are you as impressed with yourself as I am with you? Are you proud? Do you feel accomplished? Feel like you've done something meaningful with your life? Like you have a purpose, a reason for being, a cause? Do you love that feeling you get, so much, that you must keep doing it and doing it and doing it--infinitely prolonged? Will this gain you the approval you so desperately seek: From everyone? From the ones you love? From me? Will this gain you the respect, the fear, from those: You hate? You don't even know?  When you lay in bed, do you think, "I deserve this sleep," or, "I deserve to sleep forever."? Because, if you ask me, not that you ever would, I think it should be the latter. Harsh? Yes, but fair. I wouldn't expect much more from you, so why should I fight the law of diminishing returns? You'll never know, anyway, anything. If you were wise, you would have timed this better. Most people don't crack eggs when they're right above their own head. You certainly proved them right, didn't you? Didn't you? I'd tell you you shouldn't show your face around here anymore, but it's not like you can leave, is it? You're stuck. Good fucking job. You didn't only bite the hand that fed you, you bit it clean off, and swallowed it, and digested it, and shat it out. You just don't know when you stop. You'll never stop, you can't stop. The truth is, I feel bad for you, even though I shouldn't. I should feel vindicated, pleased. I should wallow in your self-pity, but I can't. Isn't that a shame? I bet you'd feel better if I could take pleasure in your pain, but I can't. I just can't. Isn't that pathetic? Well, not as pathetic as you, but that would be difficult to do, anyway. You're worthless, really. Nothing you'll ever do will ever amount to anything. You're stuck in Limbo and you haven't even died yet. You've been reincarnated as a lesser being and you haven't even died yet. You're dead, and you haven't even died yet. I could say that you're the worst person I've ever met, but you're worse than that, because you're not actually the worst person I've ever met. I've met much worse people than you, but it's almost as if you want to be the worst, but you just don't have the cunning to achieve it. You're like a record player with a shitty record spinning round and round, but the needle isn't even on it. You're just mass. You're a weight dragging behind everybody's ship, slowing them down, making them less maneuverable. Other people aren't here to drag you through life, you've got to pick up your own shit and live your own life. ... I'm done. You're done. We're done. Again, I'd tell you to leave and never come back, but you can't, can you? You're like a prisoner who set his own cell on fire. Yeah, you always liked to talk about how fucking wise you are. Well, how wise of you was that? How fucking wise of you was it to throw stones in your own glass house? I'm done. I'm just. Done."
-TQW 2010