sunday morning

Sometimes I feel like I am just a receptacle for the world around me. A sponge, I absorb the mana of others. At a party, I synchronize myself to the rhythms of the room; moving from person to person, silently wondering who are you? what is it like to be you? I awaken the next morning feeling sickened. Too many hearts beating in my chest. Too many passions swimming through my soul. None of them my own.

Dennis says this is the gift that makes me a writer. The ability to see the world through a thousand eyes. I wonder. I would say this is the curse that drives me to write. And that prevents me from calling myself a writer. Who are you? I ask myself. What is it like to be you?

The off-switch gets lost.

I seek solace in my café. I flip aimlessly through a new issue of Harper’s. Meaning swims amidst chaos incognito:

“Total U.S. military spending the Bush Administration projects it will have spent by the end of 2008: $3,200,000,000,000″

“Ratio of the Peacekeeping Institute’s budget to the estimated price of Jennifer Lopez’s engagement ring: 3:4″

What does it mean?

I read first pages of essays parenthesized with esoteric references to politics, literature and popular culture. And I think: I don’t get it. And I think: who the hell understands all of this stuff? I absorb and I absorb and still I know basically nothing.

I know the essence of things. I am chock-full of reverberations.

I wander down the aisles of the grocery store, overwhelmed by the rows upon rows of products frantically shouting their messages at me: on sale! 10% off! 40% more! Indugle yourself! Buy me! I’ll make you beautiful! I’ll make you happy! I’ll change your life!

I sit in my car in the parking lot for ten full minutes. I change the time on my clock. I stare at the street. I watch two kids trying to ride doubles on a bicycle. I hear a baseball game being played in the park next door. The wind is blowing the trash on the sidewalk and it looks like it’s going to rain. I wonder what I’m going to do with the rest of the day. I wonder what I’m going to do with the rest of my life…

October 23rd…

…first snow of the season.

And it’s not even Halloween yet. The trees just turned red. Wasn’t I still picking raspberries and peaches only a few weeks ago?

sage advice from some irish bloke

Sheep, sheep dog or lone wolf, it’s your choice not to become mutton curry…

the personality police

Changes at work — collaborative environments, the mandate to be a “team player,” blah blah blah — I’m finally beginning to understand Dilbert cartoons…

It’s not that I’m incapbable of playing nicely with the other children, but I’m not overly fond of participating in the insidious Corporate Groupthink. That and now I’ve gotten my feathers all ruffled by the collaborative affront on individuality. I mean, it’s not like I’m brandishing facial piercings or telling anyone what I really think — all I want is the autonomy to be the quiet wallflower that I am…

…but they’ve gone and taken away my wall…

I guess loners have a reputation for being dangerous. They think about stuff, and you never know what they’re thinking.

Whatever.

I’m reminded lately of a story I read in 7th grade — Kurt Vonnegut’s Harrison Bergeron. It seems whenever I try to think anymore I hear that beep in my ear — the one that makes multi-tasking a twitch rather than a skill. I guess the handicapper general is never far off these days…