07302013

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.