How Am I Not Myself? How Am I Not My Self?

All Christians, as well as many non-Christians, are aware of the story of Adam and Eve. You know, the one where they're the only two people and they're hanging out in some garden in Eden, and the groundskeeper told them not to steal any apples? Right? Right.
Let's adapt the same story to a different template: Adam is a teenager in an American household. His parents put a roof over his head and food in his belly thrice daily. Life is good. Then, because Adam's a teenager and although he knows better, he sees his dad's wallet on the kitchen counter with two hundred dollar bills visibly sticking out. This is a big dilemma that must be resolved immediately, as his dad is napping in the other room. First of all, Adam's never had $200 all at once-- allowance only pays $10 a weekend and it's impossible to save much when a new chapter of Spider-man's life is delivered to the comic book store several times a month and Johnny Depp keeps putting out pirate movies. And $200! Man, that would swing the pendulum of power clearly in Adam's direction. The only problem would be an alibi. The whole wallet could disappear and the old man himself could be to blame, or maybe a few pieces of the bills could be torn off and arranged around the dog's bed in a convincing scene.
Adam, hastily, takes the money and runs (literally). He knows he's disobeyed his father but he also knows that a man makes his own decisions and "I'm 15, damn it! I can make my own decisions!"
Like the apple, $200 is, in the long-term, an inconsequential amount to its owner. It's the self-liberation that's important here: in both cases, Adam decided he was old enough to live out of harmony with the one in charge (be it his father, his god, or mother nature). So, does The Fall the story of some original sin, or is it the story of man deciding to be his own god?

Behind the Wheel of Armageddon

Have you ever tried to make a salad on a counter in a bathroom next to an open toilet that's full of shit? I can now check that off my to-do list.
Aaron recently adopted a puppy. The puppy's name is Slick and he's the smallest labrador I've ever seen. He's been in our household for the past week and a half. Unfortunately, Slick let some worms into his digestive system about a week ago. This caused the poor little guy to take frequent, runny dumps. Aaron kept up at first, running him down the three flights of stairs that lead to the front door and out onto the street. Sure, there were a few accidents, but nothing terrible quite yet.
A week ago today, I got home from work and took a nap. I didn't mean for it to be a long nap because, no matter what, I'm always running late to walk Toby on Thursdays-- Rogers Park to Lincoln Park is an especially long bike ride after working for 7 hours, but a nap usually takes a bit of the edge off, so to speak (obviously). Waking from a light nap and already being aware of my predicament (or time restriction), I ran around my apartment and gathered all the necessities into my backpack. About ready to leave, I walked to the refrigerator, reached in, grabbed an apple (not that I usually refrigerate my apple, but it's the only thing I can think of that would dictate my next move as being towards to sink), then made an awkwardly quick, heel-turn towards the sink when it sunk in... But, for further assurance, I looked back at the floor in front of the 'fridge. Yep. Dog shit. On my shoe, as well as all over the kitchen floor.
Now, if something is even remotely my responsibility, I'll take it in full and rectify a situation. This, I deemed, did not fit under any sort of criterion of which I could be held accountable. I was now running late with one foot in a shoe that smelled like a kitchen that smelled like shit.
I won't detail in depth the process I undertook to clean the shit out of every nook and ridge jutting from the surface of the bottom of my shoe, but it sucked. And the job was rushed. Before leaving, I put a paper towel over each soiled spot on the floor as a heads-up to whoever walked in next.
A few days later I come home to... Well, Aaron made a purchase to remedy the situation. As a metaphorical band-aid, Aaron bought some things that I can only describe as floor-diapers. Giant floor-diapers, that is. Essentially, these are mats designed to be pissed and shit on, but the only real aspect of the design that seems conducive to such treatment is the fact that it's disposable. Otherwise, it isn't particularly absorbent and it does nothing to mask the smell.
A few days ago, Aaron and Slick went to a veterinarian and procured pills to fight the existence of those worms that have been squatting in Slick's digestive tracts.
UPDATE: Slick is taking solid dumps.
Remember last paragraph when I used the words "remedy" and "band-aid"? "Remedy" is a permanent fix and "band-aid" implies something temporary. Well, if the last few days have been any indication, the floor-diapers are more of a remedy than a band-aid.
Two days ago, Aaron jokingly said something like, "Well, I guess I can start walking Slick again." This is fucked up for a few reasons: first of all, why would you stop walking a dog? Maybe cats enjoy an endless routine of wandering around an apartment all day and night, but a dog isn't a cat. Unlike any cat I've ever known, Slick is usually confined to a crate... I'll say 75% of the time. 80% of the time not spent in his crate is spent in the kitchen. That leaves, what, 5% of the time that he's free to roam (which, in this case, means he gets to hang out in the living room or on Aaron's bed)? I don't think it's a stretch to say that Slick has pissed and/or shat his cage. 5% outside of the vicinity of his own feces? That's bad.
This whole situation is kind of frustrating because I don't want to tell people how to do things. I'm saving all that energy in case I have a kid. Does a 22 year-old dude really need to be told that a dog shouldn't be holed up in an apartment all day?
Fine. Fuck it. I'll take care of the damn dog.

Old Flame

There's a lady outside and she's yelling in a high-pitched D minor. There's a single issue of Streetwise in her hand, possibly outdated, and she seems more intent on being heard than selling her product. Tom and Wes are outside and on their cell phones, pacing in respective time signatures, adding variations to their metres to avoid detection as the yelling lady introduces a few steps of her own. The whole scene is like a small parade of song and dance, with yelling into phones or at the top of one's lungs, with left hands holding electronics to the left side of faces and right hands frantically gesturing at people who are untold distances away.
And I'm inside, pouring my third cup of coffee in a robotic manner, like it's constant consumption I run on. That may be the case, I consider, until I'm wired leaving work and agitated upon my arriving home. And the shirt I'm wearing isn't mine but it enlivens my imagination with memories that are very much mine, that involved this shirt on it's previous owner-- an ex-girlfriend. And then there's that inconsequential line from that Tree of Life movie I saw the other night, "The chapter's closed; the story's been told." So I wonder if it's worth remembering things that are over, and if there are still messages and meanings that can be received and deciphered, and whether or not I should force myself to recount these past scenes from my life.

Tonight will be the fourth night in a row that I'll have gone out. Tomorrow will be the fifth. If I'm not careful, I'll be smoking cigarettes on Sunday night, too. That wouldn't be good.

Perpetual Motion Machine

I haven't felt quite like my self, lately, which is to say that I've felt more familiar of my old self than I have in a very long time-- it's been since freshman year of high school that I've felt so self-conscious and awkward and incapable of being close with anyone. What was my solution back then? Designer drugs, hallucinogenic drugs, "to pass the time" drugs, social drugs, alone-in-my-head drugs, boring drugs, expensive drugs, quality drugs... you know, drugs. And through that abandon and recklessness, through the tremendous highs and awful lows, I met a lot of very interesting people that I no longer talk to because I can't handle being sober around them. That's not the best explanation of my reasoning. Hm... well, I don't really hang out with my "drinking buddies" in the afternoon. Unless we're drinking, of course. It seems that most of the people I know only want to drink when we hang out. Initially I thought this was all they wanted to do, but now I think that it's the only category in their mind that I can be a part of. That's not really the person want to be, though, so I disappear to my room for extended periods of time and hang out in books that, looking back, I only half enjoyed.
Some girl who comes into the coffee shop said it's the result of poor self-image that renders me unable to concentrate in public places because I'm too focused on whether or not people are noticing me and potentially thinking I'm ridiculous (in a general way). This happens in a very mild form when I'm at the dog park with Toby. I usually sit off in some corner and do the RedEye crossword puzzle while Toby wears himself out and, while thinking of possible solutions, bask in the emanation of judging eyes stealing glances in my direction as if I'm tragically out of place.

Oh. and this occurred to me the other day: how is it that Darwinism is favoring morons with natural selection? I mean, I'm fairly bright, as are a lot of people I know. In the future for me and my friends and acquaintances, I don't see many offspring. The kids I see on the buses and trains overwhelmingly seem to be the product of incapable parents (be it high school pregnancies or bad dads that skip town). Maybe I'm missing something, but it appears that intelligence is being bred out. I'm glad I won't be around to see it.

You're Innocent When You Dream

One of the stops on the cycle of personalities I travel through is that of a grown man. It is, dare I say, my realized self. In this mindset, I find satisfaction in the completion of tasks that have a clear purpose and meaning, like that of having bought too many groceries and having to pile them into the basket on the back of my bike before riding home 5 miles in the sweltering heat. And instead of stepping out for a cigarette, this version is content with sitting on his back porch while finishing the final two chapters of whatever book I'm reading. And reading before bed, which leads to waking with a clear head, is preferred to drinking myself into a comatose state.
If I ever devolve back to cigarettes and beer and beef jerky, I think I'll eventually wind up back in the head I'm occupying right now. This is the place in which I'd like to grow old and die. And maybe it will grow to be able to contain someone else, but that may just be a dream.

Willful State of Denial

I've heard it said that one's best writing is done in the morning, and that the evening's work must be touched up in a coming morning. I have no reason or evidence that isn't anecdotal, but that would be boring.
It's 10:13 in the AM and I learned something new: on the first Tuesday of every month, Chicago tests its air raid sirens. I've heard them before, but I never knew the test was at a particular time. And, according to my dad (because I'm too lazy to fact-check), the mayor at the time set off the air raid sirens when the White Sox won the pennant. Okay, did some preliminary fact-checking: It was Mayor Daley and the '59 Sox.
It had never occurred to me until last week, when Dave McKinney brought it up: In the United States, Chicago is probably the least desirable place to live. Everyone's fat and depressed because the weather generally sucks and everything's expensive, so the people rob and stab and shoot each other. Lots of people drink to ensure a few hours of happiness every night, but the feeling of hopelessness is tangible.
By the way, socialists are fucking stupid. I mean, I know Karl Marx looks like a great idea when you're 15, and his manifesto was highly influential (and continues to be, for some reason), but there's nothing more absurd than protesting student debt. I let Terra's roommate run her mouth for 10 or 15 minutes the other night and her logic was awful. Maybe there are slicker socialists out there and I shouldn't make such a rash judgment. It's strange meeting real-life people who have such ridiculous beliefs.
Above all, what irritates me is the sense of entitlement that runs rampant through every society of this culture. I'm guilty, too, which makes me just as bad as the next guy, but I think awareness is, at least, a step in the right direction. Here's what I mean: is it really necessary for a single person to cruise around town in an empty sport utility vehicle? And when it's hot outside, is it really necessary for a person to air-condition their entire apartment or house? I know the counter-argument: "It's my damn money and I'll spend it how I please!" That's great. That's fair, too. But it's also very narrow-minded. I mean, I'm no hippie; I think it's perfectly reasonable to expect four or five showers in a week, and I have no idea where my pants were made, but since when has it been expected that steak should be available three meals a day and that $5/gallon is expensive but doable? As much as the American people profess to be hurting, I don't see many corners being cut.

Good Friend, How Loud Do You Want Life To Shout Her Answers In Your Ear?

A few years ago, when I was in the throes of figuring out what was what, I could have argued religion with anyone through the night and into the morning. Now, as the groundwork has been laid and I've moved on to the process of tweaking my ideas, I don't really care to state my opinion because I have it and I believe it and I don't care to try to spread my insight because other people can draw their own opinions.
That said, I am contradicting myself by writing this entry. But hey, I never forced anyone to read my writing (aside from my teachers, I suppose).
When a person is looking for a spouse or significant other, it's usually to achieve a feeling of being needed. That's not quite the right word... How about this: people seek intimate relationships to gain a sense of purpose, to feel like they're a part of something that really matters. It's a feeling that's satisfying and fulfilling and, when that kind of relationship ends, people often feel the urge to stop breathing. That's what, the third tier on Maslow's hierarchy? Sure. But first let's back up a bit.
When a little dude is born, it needs its parents to survive. Its mom breast-feeds it until its old enough for its dad to teach it the infield-fly rule. When this particular little dude reaches puberty, it hits a kind of void in the transition between needing and being needed. All of a sudden, this little dude gets a job and stops begging its dad for twenty bucks on Friday nights. And then this little dude learns how to drive, and how to read between the lines, and all of a sudden this little dude is self-sufficient. Then, one day, this little dude realizes that being self-sufficient is cool, but there's a hole in the middle of its soul that paying its own cell phone bill just won't fill. All of a sudden, it's no longer cool to just get by because its need of feeling alive goes unreciprocated by its environment. Sure, it's illegal to commit suicide, and there are welfare programs to keep people's bodies alive, but merely surviving is unfulfilling for this middle class dude. It's missing a sense of purpose, as if his existence means something.
(It should be noted that this little dude could never see sports as anything more than a triviality used to keep the brain functioning at a low level and, effectively, to kill lots and lots of time. He could never successfully manage to find joy in living vicariously through his hometown team's championship season, and playing basketball in high school made him feel like he was a big part of something that was achieving absolutely nothing aside from distracting depressed people from the notion that their collective existence is meaningless and that their species is about to bubble over and their habitat is in the process of exterminating this unwelcome group that insists on living above the laws of nature.)
Our little dude grew up fairly clever, however: as most of his friends turned to drugs and alcohol and television in an attempt to deny or avoid responsibility for the situation they were born into, our little dude saw through that policy of constant distraction and decided to confront the problems of the world head-on. Having found nothing capable of dispelling this general feeling of malaise, our little dude sought out the purest and least trivial form of coping with a seemingly futile circumstance: an intimate relationship, or company for the journey around this circular track that our culture is stuck on (only circumstances within our culture are repeated. For instance, tribal people in remote regions of Africa won't have to deal with Hitler reincarnated because Hitler was not a product of that hypothetical culture. Maybe an angry gorilla will attack them, and it will be reminiscent of a past, tragic gorilla attack and it will appear as if history is "repeating itself"). And here we are, back at the beginning of this little story.
I guess I began to make a case for marriage being necessary to deal with an unfortunate existence... but that's not what I set out to do. Actually, I don't remember my purpose of writing today. Hm...
Well, let's see. I read this article by Desmond Tutu who linked religious affiliation with place of birth. His point was that religious people (he was really referring to Christians, probably because he is one and, hence, is most familiar with his fellow chumps... but he included) like to tell themselves that their ideology is, indeed, the correct one and that, deep down, all other people are actually Christians who just haven't figured it out yet. Of the religious writings I've recently read, this one irritated me the least. It's good that he's pointing out how ridiculous the notion of one religion being "right" is, but he made a point I can't quite agree with. He said that it's wrong to consider all religions the same. I can't help but disagree. I mean, aren't the various prophets, from Moses to Muhammed, all revealing discussions they had with the same god? Am I wrong here, or are all these holy wars and jihads and quran burnings caused by everyone in the world agreeing on the same god but disagreeing over his message? What kind of god is that? And since when is there one god? And the idea of people being created in a god's image while being horribly flawed says something about the god they believe in. And salvation? Well, if I believed that there was something innately flawed with me and my species then sure, I'd consider seeking salvation.
The agricultural revolution was, what, 10,000 years ago? And prior to that, the human population increased at the pace of a glacier and lived in harmony with the world for 2-3 million years? Then the revolution spread like cancer and the population has been on a very steady and consistent rise ever since. And famine became possible when people stubbornly refused to pick up sticks and move to more ideal conditions, but the surplus of food makes enormous losses of human life seem irrelevant as we keep packing ourselves in.
The hopelessness was settling in 2,000 years ago when, conveniently, a god decided that some of the souls in the human race were salvageable. So he sent his son down, who wasn't very clever. See, this son, named Jesus, took on some disciples but he never took on an apprentice. All his disciples got the gist of it, but none fully understood. When Pontius Pilate decided, on behalf of the people, that this Jesus dude was a real asshole who needed to be nailed down, it was too soon. And then, a few hundred years later, a few people recounted their versions of the disciples accounts of what Jesus said. And now a lot of people can't seem to agree on the vague statements in this book. And a few weeks ago, one guy went so far as to miscalculate the end of the world, only to deny that he was entirely wrong while deciding that another date is more accurate. Huh.