Mike is at basic training somewhere, Briana is in another country, and Juan has graduated and nearly has a real job. Aaron just finished recording an album with his band and Tiki is half a semester a way from a degree in Sociology (whatever that means). Yet here I am, sitting in a coffee shop or a low-paying job, dreaming but not moving. That's actually a perfect metaphor because when I dream in my sleep I don't physically do anything, aside from rolling slightly in one direction or another.
My first dream was that my life would culminate in me being Batman. That didn't pan out, so I adjusted my vision to something more realistic: I would become a professional baseball player. For various reasons, I swung at some bad pitches and balked at the cheese that had my name on it.
Whether as a consequence of the implausibility of my previous dreams or as a reaction to my aging mind, my next goal was to be like Blink 182. They sang openly about issues I only considered telling my best friend. And they did it in such a cool way. And with such dyed hair.
But Blink 182 was kind of a boy band. And I wasn't from California, anyways. And isn't it depressing (yet enraging) to be born into such a shitty situation? You try to do the right thing, but someone's always there to screw you over. You've been there, right? And so you decide to drink or do some drugs to pass the time. But this strategy of keeping to yourself has its own baggage. And you relinquish control of everything because you couldn't handle it with a clear head, but inebriation just makes it worse. So Alkaline Trio was there to openly ask these questions, even if their answers were a bit vague.
The past two were interesting in the sense that wanting to be like Alkaline Trio was a far closer step from wanting to be Blink 182 than, say, going from wanting to be Batman to waiting to be a baseball player.
I smoked a lot of weed in high school and took a break from serious dreaming. I was living in a haze which included different scenarios in which I was to become a successful drug dealer. Or, at least, an honorary Bone Thug.
When I came to, I wanted to become a writer. This was kind of a funny dream because I was already a writer. I mean, I wrote every day, usually twice: once immediately after school, then as a way to put off going to bed. I think it was the actual thought that put me off of the idea. I mean, once I considered the idea that I was a writer, as opposed to just being a kid who happened to write, I acquired this great burden of pressure and responsibility (though I didn't know if anybody even read what I wrote, or whether or not they took it seriously).
At some point, though, I got some glowing reviews from a few friends who were bored in a dorm and spent some of their time reading my rants. And once a girl had sex with me as a direct result of her striking up a conversation with me in which she said several flattering things about my writing. All this fan-fare (as I perceived it to be) turned my self image into that of a writer. My actual writing habits slowly trailed off.
So here I am, thinking that dreams are like ex-girlfriends in the sense that they all own a very specific and unique part of my heart, but I'm afraid to commit to one particular dream because I know that it is absolutely not possible for it to work with other dreams and they all fall into the same category. That's not very clear. Essentially, I'm making a hasty generalization in my mind. It's easy to say that my logic is fallacious, but it's like PTSD in that my fears aren't really logical (though they are self-fulfilling. If I'm so afraid of failing that I don't begin, it will be considered a failed venture). I've had dreams that didn't really make sense. I mean, Batman isn't really a level-headed career choice, nor is being a professional baseball player if my interests lies more in collecting baseball cards than in fine-tuning my skills.
What may be my problem is that I've been setting specific goals. "I want to be a writer" is a specific goal, but "I like to write" is simply a preference for a hobby or something that is only satisfied if I write (which isn't difficult) and doesn't take much commitment and will never be considered a failure (it can only be changed to something like "I no longer prefer to write").
So that seems to be a good solution for now. I like to play guitar, so I think I will. If I never join a band, at least I'll be pretty good from all that practice that I should be doing. And if I never write a book, at least I'll always be ready in case I decide to. That seems like a good mentality, right? I don't know how that view on dreams can be translated, metaphorically, back to the "girlfriends" thing. Let me try, though... I should work on virtues, like self-respect and dignity and whatnot, just in case I should ever decide to commit to something. And if I don't find that opportunity, at least I'll be clean-shaven and on my best behavior.
Oh, uh, "don't burn bridges," right? Yeah, real original. I suppose this is the kind of idiom that has to be learned through empirical evidence to be fully appreciated and understood.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
Thoughts from a Smoke-filled Weekend.
My wet towel didn't seem to be permeated by smoke any more so than my jacket or pants as they marinated for two days in Matsuo's smoky apartment. It's already time to wash all my clothes again.
Well, now I'm 23. Two noticeable difference from past ages are that I now feel too old to go to certain bars (which shouldn't be the case but kids have fake IDs and I don't look 18 anymore), and I have to make more of a conscious effort to learn new things and keep my life fresh.
Oh, so funny story from a few weeks ago:
as a preface, it should be known that I have very, very little control when it comes to manipulating the foam on a latte to design a... design. I usually don't even try and when I do I'm satisfied when the foam at least looks kind of pretty. People who have skill and have practiced can make things like a maple leaf or a heart. Outside of a very general knowledge of the technique, I have no idea what I'm doing.
So, on a particular day of work that otherwise does not stand out in my mind, a nice girl came in and ordered a latte for here. Thinking that this latte was just as insignificant as the prior one and, potentially, the future one, I went to work. The espresso poured somewhere around 27 seconds and the milk was up to temperature almost coincidentally (or is it coincidingly? No? Huh.). The two ounces of espresso had only a second or two alone in the bottom of the wide-mouthed mug before I began to slowly pour the steamed milk down the inside wall. Recognizing this to be an especially interesting (and perhaps successful) pour, I took full control and paid full attention to every drop in the stream that left the pitcher for the mug.
I was mildly embarrassed about the image that turned out but I didn't want to make this girl wait any longer...
When I brought it over to her table, her friend politely said, "Oh, it's a mushroom!"
...but we all knew it actually looked like a penis.
Well, now I'm 23. Two noticeable difference from past ages are that I now feel too old to go to certain bars (which shouldn't be the case but kids have fake IDs and I don't look 18 anymore), and I have to make more of a conscious effort to learn new things and keep my life fresh.
Oh, so funny story from a few weeks ago:
as a preface, it should be known that I have very, very little control when it comes to manipulating the foam on a latte to design a... design. I usually don't even try and when I do I'm satisfied when the foam at least looks kind of pretty. People who have skill and have practiced can make things like a maple leaf or a heart. Outside of a very general knowledge of the technique, I have no idea what I'm doing.
So, on a particular day of work that otherwise does not stand out in my mind, a nice girl came in and ordered a latte for here. Thinking that this latte was just as insignificant as the prior one and, potentially, the future one, I went to work. The espresso poured somewhere around 27 seconds and the milk was up to temperature almost coincidentally (or is it coincidingly? No? Huh.). The two ounces of espresso had only a second or two alone in the bottom of the wide-mouthed mug before I began to slowly pour the steamed milk down the inside wall. Recognizing this to be an especially interesting (and perhaps successful) pour, I took full control and paid full attention to every drop in the stream that left the pitcher for the mug.
I was mildly embarrassed about the image that turned out but I didn't want to make this girl wait any longer...
When I brought it over to her table, her friend politely said, "Oh, it's a mushroom!"
...but we all knew it actually looked like a penis.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
I'm Finding It Harder To Be A Gentleman
In the past week, I've incorporated a quick 15 minute work-out (if you can call it that) regimen into my day. Though simple, this is exactly what I needed: a reason to get up in the morning. Today I had to be at work at 7:15, so I woke up at 6; on Tuesday I had to be in court at 9, so I woke up at 7. Yesterday was my day off, so I woke up just before 10. Impressed? I am.
Speaking of yesterday, things are on the up-and-up, so to speak. I went downtown for a shave and the barber was really nice. He's going to teach me how to use my razor. Then, I had a dentist appointment. Cheryl was impressed at the remarkable improvement my mouth has seen in the past six months. "It's all in my attitude," I told myself, because it is. I used to believe that I had sensitive teeth and that even trying to keep them strong was a waste of my time because they were bound to get cavities and need root canals and fillings anyways so why waste my time?
It was about six months ago, though, that I had a cavity filled. The procedure is fairly routine to me, and is nothing compared to having a root canal or a pair of wisdom teeth pulled. But something about this particular filling put me over the top. I decided I didn't ever want to sit in a dentist's chair for anything but a standard teeth-cleaning ever again. I made myself grow accustomed to flossing and using mouth wash at least once a day, on top of brushing at least twice a day. This doesn't seem like a big deal, but I don't take exceptions. I make it a point to brush my teeth when I come home from some bar, blind drunk, or from work dead tired.
So let's see... I've got the brush/floss/rinse routine down, the mild exercise that hits nearly every muscle... once I shave, that will at least be incorporated into my days off. Oh, and I have to get back in the habit of writing every day. The exercise part is a giant step because it's allowing me to sleep less and be more productive. Less 10-12 hour days and more 15-18 hour days, less feeling sorry for myself. Sweet.
I'm losing my train of thought. Huh.
Anyhow, this weekend will probably be spent in Champaign for my birthday and Chicago for Woj's. Next weekend is Boston for George's Bar Mitzvah. The weekend after Boston will be spent at Toby's house, then the weekend after that could possibly include a trip to Denver.
Unclse Bruce fell down the other day and had to go to the hospital. He's gone through his whole life being victimized-- by alcohol, by the fiancee who jilted him, by the machinery in the factory that injured him... he's essentially everything that I don't want to be. But there's a piece of him in me and I couldn't help worrying about him if I tried.
Speaking of yesterday, things are on the up-and-up, so to speak. I went downtown for a shave and the barber was really nice. He's going to teach me how to use my razor. Then, I had a dentist appointment. Cheryl was impressed at the remarkable improvement my mouth has seen in the past six months. "It's all in my attitude," I told myself, because it is. I used to believe that I had sensitive teeth and that even trying to keep them strong was a waste of my time because they were bound to get cavities and need root canals and fillings anyways so why waste my time?
It was about six months ago, though, that I had a cavity filled. The procedure is fairly routine to me, and is nothing compared to having a root canal or a pair of wisdom teeth pulled. But something about this particular filling put me over the top. I decided I didn't ever want to sit in a dentist's chair for anything but a standard teeth-cleaning ever again. I made myself grow accustomed to flossing and using mouth wash at least once a day, on top of brushing at least twice a day. This doesn't seem like a big deal, but I don't take exceptions. I make it a point to brush my teeth when I come home from some bar, blind drunk, or from work dead tired.
So let's see... I've got the brush/floss/rinse routine down, the mild exercise that hits nearly every muscle... once I shave, that will at least be incorporated into my days off. Oh, and I have to get back in the habit of writing every day. The exercise part is a giant step because it's allowing me to sleep less and be more productive. Less 10-12 hour days and more 15-18 hour days, less feeling sorry for myself. Sweet.
I'm losing my train of thought. Huh.
Anyhow, this weekend will probably be spent in Champaign for my birthday and Chicago for Woj's. Next weekend is Boston for George's Bar Mitzvah. The weekend after Boston will be spent at Toby's house, then the weekend after that could possibly include a trip to Denver.
Unclse Bruce fell down the other day and had to go to the hospital. He's gone through his whole life being victimized-- by alcohol, by the fiancee who jilted him, by the machinery in the factory that injured him... he's essentially everything that I don't want to be. But there's a piece of him in me and I couldn't help worrying about him if I tried.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
When I Hear My Name I Wanna Disappear.
Yesterday was bowling with John and being mistaken for an Aussie, today was a court date and a verdict of "not guilty," and tomorrow is a shave and a dentist appointment. Oh, and I received an acceptance letter from Metropolitan State College of Denver. Open enrollment leaves little to the imagination.
It's hard deciding what to do with my life. On the one hand, Chicago is pretty great. When I'm not hanging out with the family, the bars are endless and most of the people I've ever gotten along with either live here or will be living here soon. The food is good, the bars are endless, and I have a job. All my belongings can be accounted for and I won't have to worry about selling them or dragging them in a stinking u-haul.
The bum hand of Chicago is as such: with in-coming friends comes more easily accessible drinking and my, as of yet, biggest test of self-control. Also, it may not be easy focusing on school.
Denver is full of hope and a fresh start. I've glimpsed the melancholic side-- or glimpsed the dark side of a fresh start with melancholic eyes-- of a fresh start, with its loneliness and isolation and I don't know how I'd adapt. That could be a good challenge, though, as it's never a good idea to take your foot off the pedal of new experiences. My friends will always be here, or maybe they won't, and either way is just as well. If I drink myself into oblivion with whomever then nothing will really matter and I could have experienced the same feelings with slightly different people. Hm.
Let's try this some other way... like, what's keeping me in Chicago?
Family is an easy one. It's nice being able to stop by my mom's house and see Will and Hank, or being able to drop by my dad's or call John for a beer. Megan is in Denver, which would be nice. Anyhow, what else? Debt. That was easy, too. My way out is to get student loans to pay off my credit cards, then more student loans to pay for college. So family and debt, so far. My records are holding me back. Kind of funny, right? But they take up lots of space and they're heavy and worth enough where I should individually sell them as opposed to dropping by Reckless with a big box or a bunch of dirty milk crates. I told myself that once I let Dot get away then I wouldn't date anybody for a while. Then Lucy came along. Now that's done. So yeah, that's a good area to have a clean slate.
I just want to be grown up already. I want to shave every day and be a lawyer or a copyright guy or a barista or a professor. I want to make enough to that frugality and temperance are practices and not essentials.
It's hard deciding what to do with my life. On the one hand, Chicago is pretty great. When I'm not hanging out with the family, the bars are endless and most of the people I've ever gotten along with either live here or will be living here soon. The food is good, the bars are endless, and I have a job. All my belongings can be accounted for and I won't have to worry about selling them or dragging them in a stinking u-haul.
The bum hand of Chicago is as such: with in-coming friends comes more easily accessible drinking and my, as of yet, biggest test of self-control. Also, it may not be easy focusing on school.
Denver is full of hope and a fresh start. I've glimpsed the melancholic side-- or glimpsed the dark side of a fresh start with melancholic eyes-- of a fresh start, with its loneliness and isolation and I don't know how I'd adapt. That could be a good challenge, though, as it's never a good idea to take your foot off the pedal of new experiences. My friends will always be here, or maybe they won't, and either way is just as well. If I drink myself into oblivion with whomever then nothing will really matter and I could have experienced the same feelings with slightly different people. Hm.
Let's try this some other way... like, what's keeping me in Chicago?
Family is an easy one. It's nice being able to stop by my mom's house and see Will and Hank, or being able to drop by my dad's or call John for a beer. Megan is in Denver, which would be nice. Anyhow, what else? Debt. That was easy, too. My way out is to get student loans to pay off my credit cards, then more student loans to pay for college. So family and debt, so far. My records are holding me back. Kind of funny, right? But they take up lots of space and they're heavy and worth enough where I should individually sell them as opposed to dropping by Reckless with a big box or a bunch of dirty milk crates. I told myself that once I let Dot get away then I wouldn't date anybody for a while. Then Lucy came along. Now that's done. So yeah, that's a good area to have a clean slate.
I just want to be grown up already. I want to shave every day and be a lawyer or a copyright guy or a barista or a professor. I want to make enough to that frugality and temperance are practices and not essentials.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Grocery List
It's nearly 5 o'clock, which means I'm about two hours into this current shift of work, and I've already finished my crossword puzzle. My rounds of the internet have been made and all the patrons of this coffee shop are studying quietly while Otis Redding whines over the airwaves.
Now it's 'We Used to Vacation' and I don't know what's for dinner. Late Night Thai, probably. I've been staying at Toby's the past two nights and Ms. Lerone will be back tomorrow morning. I'll wake up, walk across the Green, and nap at my mom's. Tomorrow I should file my taxes and exchange those t-shirts I got for Christmas. Oh, and I should get my face shaved while I can still see past the tip of my nose.
Now it's 'We Used to Vacation' and I don't know what's for dinner. Late Night Thai, probably. I've been staying at Toby's the past two nights and Ms. Lerone will be back tomorrow morning. I'll wake up, walk across the Green, and nap at my mom's. Tomorrow I should file my taxes and exchange those t-shirts I got for Christmas. Oh, and I should get my face shaved while I can still see past the tip of my nose.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Here Comes the Neighborhood
Lucy and I broke up yesterday. We had been in an on-going kind of silent fight. Well, it wasn't silent when it happened-- in fact, I seem to remember it as being quite cacophonous. Regardless, after a few days of mulling over my life, it seemed an apt exit from feeling constricted and an abrupt entrance into a world of freedom from obligation (well, from one of many obligations, so that doesn't really count).
I don't know... I don't really feel better. For that matter, I don't feel much of anything. I suppose it hasn't settled in yet. I'm worried, though, about meeting someone else. I don't want to fall into being a full-time, miserable shell of a human being by the side of a girlfriend. On the other hand, it isn't always easy keeping myself from boredom when I don't have much going on. But that's a skill I've bragged about having for quite some time so I might as well develop it.
I told her I needed to be by myself, and that hanging out with her wasn't really gratifying because most of our time was spent in front of a television. I hate television. I like watching movies, and Chicago sports when there's nothing better to do, and the occasional television show, but I sit there staring at that glowing rectangle with self-loathing in the back of my mind like a complementary audience of judgmental family members.
I miss hanging out with Teela because we could sit around and talk to each other for hours, and references to pop culture were extremely sparse. And I could be myself without borrowing Jerry Seinfeld's sense of humor or Homer Simpson's faulty logic.
But a step backwards would counter everything I've prescribed for myself. I can't keep taking the easy way out. And the only person I really miss being around is myself. Eventually I'll find someone who can bring that out of me. I'll keep that person around, if I'm smart.
I don't know... I don't really feel better. For that matter, I don't feel much of anything. I suppose it hasn't settled in yet. I'm worried, though, about meeting someone else. I don't want to fall into being a full-time, miserable shell of a human being by the side of a girlfriend. On the other hand, it isn't always easy keeping myself from boredom when I don't have much going on. But that's a skill I've bragged about having for quite some time so I might as well develop it.
I told her I needed to be by myself, and that hanging out with her wasn't really gratifying because most of our time was spent in front of a television. I hate television. I like watching movies, and Chicago sports when there's nothing better to do, and the occasional television show, but I sit there staring at that glowing rectangle with self-loathing in the back of my mind like a complementary audience of judgmental family members.
I miss hanging out with Teela because we could sit around and talk to each other for hours, and references to pop culture were extremely sparse. And I could be myself without borrowing Jerry Seinfeld's sense of humor or Homer Simpson's faulty logic.
But a step backwards would counter everything I've prescribed for myself. I can't keep taking the easy way out. And the only person I really miss being around is myself. Eventually I'll find someone who can bring that out of me. I'll keep that person around, if I'm smart.
Monday, February 21, 2011
"It was just a feeling."
There's nothing cute or nostalgic about nighttime dreams coinciding with revealing visions of what the future will be like if I simply stay the course.
I won't turn into my mom and I won't turn into my dad, but I'll make similar mistakes that, when I was 18, I confidently knew how to avoid.
I have this system of voting in which everything I do casts a vote for a particular category (smoking a cigarette simultaneously votes for freedom from society and slavery to a chemical or a large company), remember? But I'm throwing all of this out the window with a relationship based on compromise. Is it worth it? Well, according to one of the most polarized authors out there, "in any compromise between good and evil, only evil can benefit."
It feels right intellectually despising glowing rectangles because everything projected is, however subtly, someone's point of view. These points of view seem to boil down to absolutely nothing, leading an acute observer to a dead end. Once there, why go on? Maybe there's not always a quick path cut through differing agendas. Or maybe that's the point. Maybe there's no way out and the end result is time having been killed.
And work is no exception, which is my fault. I allow myself hours in front of this screen because smoking cigarettes throws my mind off kilter and I don't trust myself to retain the knowledge in a book. So I spend my time on things I don't care to retain, like baseball analysis and cheap news articles. And the same routine is practiced when I arrive at home, except in front of a much larger rectangle and with more structured non-sense, like sporting events and television shows and excerpts of movies that aren't worth watching all the way through. Or maybe I go out and actively kill brain cells as opposed to merely boring them to death.
But this is the way of life amongst myself and my friends and my family. There are occasional moments of joy derived from pleasures devoid of an anonymous third-party's voice or instruction, but the consistency is unreliable and, especially in February, it isn't difficult to go through a three-week span of mindlessness.
I won't turn into my mom and I won't turn into my dad, but I'll make similar mistakes that, when I was 18, I confidently knew how to avoid.
I have this system of voting in which everything I do casts a vote for a particular category (smoking a cigarette simultaneously votes for freedom from society and slavery to a chemical or a large company), remember? But I'm throwing all of this out the window with a relationship based on compromise. Is it worth it? Well, according to one of the most polarized authors out there, "in any compromise between good and evil, only evil can benefit."
It feels right intellectually despising glowing rectangles because everything projected is, however subtly, someone's point of view. These points of view seem to boil down to absolutely nothing, leading an acute observer to a dead end. Once there, why go on? Maybe there's not always a quick path cut through differing agendas. Or maybe that's the point. Maybe there's no way out and the end result is time having been killed.
And work is no exception, which is my fault. I allow myself hours in front of this screen because smoking cigarettes throws my mind off kilter and I don't trust myself to retain the knowledge in a book. So I spend my time on things I don't care to retain, like baseball analysis and cheap news articles. And the same routine is practiced when I arrive at home, except in front of a much larger rectangle and with more structured non-sense, like sporting events and television shows and excerpts of movies that aren't worth watching all the way through. Or maybe I go out and actively kill brain cells as opposed to merely boring them to death.
But this is the way of life amongst myself and my friends and my family. There are occasional moments of joy derived from pleasures devoid of an anonymous third-party's voice or instruction, but the consistency is unreliable and, especially in February, it isn't difficult to go through a three-week span of mindlessness.
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