So this is what God made man for; sitting and staring at a
computer screen, copying and pasting amounts of monies from
one document to another, not speaking to anyone, letting
your eyes go slowly blind, feeling your fingers cringe with
stinging arthritis. My hair cannot grow happily underneath
fluorescent light bulbs. This morning, like many morning
before this, I purposely laid in bed past 8:30, knowing
well that I had to be at work at 9:00. It is clear, I do
not want to be here. I am asking myself, "So, where do you
want to be?" I'm good at questions. Answers are a different
story. My bedroom is cluttered with toys, toys for a young
man. Several guitars scattered about, effects pedals, amps,
recording hardware, paints, canvases, pens, pencils,
markers, inks, brushes, books... many, many books. Some days
I feel I should limit myself to reading, fully submerge
myself in books and information. Can't go wrong with static
knowledge, can you? I keep telling myself that God made me
for a reason. Has the reason become any clearer since I
first bothered myself with this inquiry? Again, I am good
at questions. So, I roll around in bed, the blankets
neither here nor there, I am buried in endless folds. I
think about Sylvia, my boss. What will she think if I call
out sick for a third day? Probably that I am unreliable, or
that I am actually sick. What are my co-workers thinking?
Boy, I am just the most interesting of all philosophers,
aren't I? So involved with ME. Nothing interest me more
than ME. Call it a generational malady. My alarm clock is
ringing ringing ringing. I am in bed. I want to get up and
play guitar, but the guitar and I both know that I will
only ramble on and on for hours playing unrehearsed garble,
stringing along broken phrase after broken phrase,
pretending to know which scales go with what chord, which
chord goes with which chords, and in what order. Though, I
am particularly good at harmony. Yesterday I tried to sing,
but nearly choked at just the sound of my own voice. Even
when I speak, it feels as if I am forcing air through some
jagged narrow canal. My voice is either raw and ripe, or
cooked and rotten, I can't tell anymore. I remember singing
high notes over well placed chords. I remember at least
being daring.. Daring enough to try. These days I try, but
I have been lazy and discouraged. I am careful with my
words... God, my Mother, an my Father, have placed upon me
great awareness of the power of words. I am what I speak. I
speak what I am. How is it that I can observe the things
that trifle me, but would be cursed with them if I were to
discuss them? Even with myself! Some days I wish to not talk
at all. Nor be talked to, not even by God. Some days I wish
to gracefully float away and become a cloud, one that is
keen enough not to ever drift around the Oakland or Los
Angeles. But one that hovers neatly above my Fathers farm,
or the beaches North of San Francisco, or some forgotten
place in Europe where animals know not of any man, and
birds that are so curious that they would peck at me in
order to be sure of my legitimacy. That sounds ideal. And
what would I do then? Having ditched my alarm clock and the
shroud of scheduled labor that comes with it. Today I
thought of Thoreau, and how he built himself a house. Long
has that been my desire. To build my own house... To be
totally in charge of me and my own means. For at current
state, I would punch each and every landlord in the face
for being so malevolent to the human experience. For that
matter, I would hang each grocer, too. And flay the
doctors, burying them in paper graves; documents, bills,
fees, late fees, diagnosis, descriptions, pills, and
prescriptions. Oh, but where am I? I am sitting in the
administration building of a local health clinic. HA! I
would trip and fall trying to dodge the irony.
computer screen, copying and pasting amounts of monies from
one document to another, not speaking to anyone, letting
your eyes go slowly blind, feeling your fingers cringe with
stinging arthritis. My hair cannot grow happily underneath
fluorescent light bulbs. This morning, like many morning
before this, I purposely laid in bed past 8:30, knowing
well that I had to be at work at 9:00. It is clear, I do
not want to be here. I am asking myself, "So, where do you
want to be?" I'm good at questions. Answers are a different
story. My bedroom is cluttered with toys, toys for a young
man. Several guitars scattered about, effects pedals, amps,
recording hardware, paints, canvases, pens, pencils,
markers, inks, brushes, books... many, many books. Some days
I feel I should limit myself to reading, fully submerge
myself in books and information. Can't go wrong with static
knowledge, can you? I keep telling myself that God made me
for a reason. Has the reason become any clearer since I
first bothered myself with this inquiry? Again, I am good
at questions. So, I roll around in bed, the blankets
neither here nor there, I am buried in endless folds. I
think about Sylvia, my boss. What will she think if I call
out sick for a third day? Probably that I am unreliable, or
that I am actually sick. What are my co-workers thinking?
Boy, I am just the most interesting of all philosophers,
aren't I? So involved with ME. Nothing interest me more
than ME. Call it a generational malady. My alarm clock is
ringing ringing ringing. I am in bed. I want to get up and
play guitar, but the guitar and I both know that I will
only ramble on and on for hours playing unrehearsed garble,
stringing along broken phrase after broken phrase,
pretending to know which scales go with what chord, which
chord goes with which chords, and in what order. Though, I
am particularly good at harmony. Yesterday I tried to sing,
but nearly choked at just the sound of my own voice. Even
when I speak, it feels as if I am forcing air through some
jagged narrow canal. My voice is either raw and ripe, or
cooked and rotten, I can't tell anymore. I remember singing
high notes over well placed chords. I remember at least
being daring.. Daring enough to try. These days I try, but
I have been lazy and discouraged. I am careful with my
words... God, my Mother, an my Father, have placed upon me
great awareness of the power of words. I am what I speak. I
speak what I am. How is it that I can observe the things
that trifle me, but would be cursed with them if I were to
discuss them? Even with myself! Some days I wish to not talk
at all. Nor be talked to, not even by God. Some days I wish
to gracefully float away and become a cloud, one that is
keen enough not to ever drift around the Oakland or Los
Angeles. But one that hovers neatly above my Fathers farm,
or the beaches North of San Francisco, or some forgotten
place in Europe where animals know not of any man, and
birds that are so curious that they would peck at me in
order to be sure of my legitimacy. That sounds ideal. And
what would I do then? Having ditched my alarm clock and the
shroud of scheduled labor that comes with it. Today I
thought of Thoreau, and how he built himself a house. Long
has that been my desire. To build my own house... To be
totally in charge of me and my own means. For at current
state, I would punch each and every landlord in the face
for being so malevolent to the human experience. For that
matter, I would hang each grocer, too. And flay the
doctors, burying them in paper graves; documents, bills,
fees, late fees, diagnosis, descriptions, pills, and
prescriptions. Oh, but where am I? I am sitting in the
administration building of a local health clinic. HA! I
would trip and fall trying to dodge the irony.
