Stream of Consciousness

My stream of consciousness is more like a string of puddles, but here it is: sub-random thoughts and musings, trivial and profound. Check back periodically to see if any new tributaries have formed. I caught a glimpse of my first Seattle rat as I walked to work, early this morning. It was scampering along the alleyway between the Police Precinct and the Used Sports Supply store. I found this amusing. Usually, the only other people around that early are cops and the homeless, in more-or-less equal numbers. As I sat in my office early this morning, I noticed the full moon crawling its way across the western sky against the ever brightening morning. I've never seen the moon actually move before, never having watched it long enough from the same place. Aside from the primal beauty and majesty of the event, I felt strangely soothed and comforted in its passing. I wondered how it must have seemed to early humans who witnessed the same display without any buildings, or knowledge of astronomy or physics, to obstruct their view. As I was wandering towards work today, pondering my future and place in the world, I noticed a single gray feather spiralling earthward between the buildings. I wondered about the significance of a single feather, its former owner nowhere in sight in the blue summer sky, spinning down and down like a child's whirly toy. Should I have stopped and caught it before its inevitable conclusion instead of walking past, how did it come to be in this place at this time and why was it there for me to see? In an effort to survive my current job, I've decided to change my 'character'. My normal self was not hacking it and I was becoming thoroughly depressed and discouraged, even outside of work. So I'm now trying the Corporate Soldier approach. This goes against everything I stand for and may end up being the worst thing I've ever done. I've given up my spirit, my youth, my drive and sold out for stock options. But I rationalize that this is all part of an experiment, and if it helps me make it through the next three years and 4 months, then maybe it'll be worth it. Then again, what does a man profit to gain the world but lose his soul... It would seem that Job Satisfaction is a mythical beast, an oxymoron, a contradiction in terms. I find myself in a situation where I don't understand the system I'm in, the project I'm working on, the tools I'm constrained to use or the politics that pervade my environment. And I get the sense that my managers don't know what to do with me or where to fit me into the system anymore than I do. So I flounder along, bouncing from project to project, feeling the agonizing passage of time knowing that to improve my skills, to increase my experience or to further my career, I'll have to find some other means to do so. And some other place. Some days are worse than others. Some days I can't help but feel the pain of lost time and opportunities, wondering if what I seek is out there somewhere else, or if it's all the same. I may never find what I'm looking for, but I know that I certainly won't if I stop looking. Perhaps it's a mistake to expect more from a job than just a means to pay my bills. Maybe personal development or a sense of satisfaction or accomplishment from a place of employment are too much to ask. Perhaps I should just accept this job for what it is: a necessary evil until my stock options vest. But the truth is, I don't care about being rich -- I just want to be happy. I heard a commercial on the radio the other day for a company that designs and hosts websites. In particular, they were pushing their "e-commerce" ability (selling shit over the Web). Normally, this sort of thing wouldn't be worth comment, but they used John Lennon's song "Imagine" as their hook. The commercial went so far as to suggest that the world of hope that Lennon sang about in his song was somehow connected to (and achievable) through their e-commerce websites. WHAT THE FUCK? And people wonder why I'm so jaded and cynical. Hey dorks, imagine no possessions, I wonder if you can. I'm no Beatlemaniac nor do I hold any particular reverence for Lennon or his music, but this is just another case where people just don't get it. We, as a society, must be getting dumber if no one in a company's marketing department catches the inherent stupidity of using a song about global socialism to promote Internet commerce. Shame on you. Dumbfucks. Elation: a state of happiness and self-satisfaction. What's got me feeling this way? I've just finished the CGI scripts for this website's guestbook, and they work. The damn things work! So what? Okay, it's not really about the scripts. It's about accomplishing a goal, meeting a challenge, overcoming adversity, and all those other clichés you hear from professional athletes. And, indeed, what I'm feeling now is probably what an athlete feels when s/he wins the championship. Is it this feeling that I seek when taking on a new challenge? Maybe. But, I think it's just as much about building confidence, satisfying curiosity, and improving myself and/or enhancing whatever skills I may have. Succeeding in a difficult task brings a feeling of power, the feeling that I can affect the world around me, and achieve future goals. Give me a lever and a place to stand and I'll move the world. Kiss m'bad self. (Alright, that's enough). I forgot how much I love the night, how it rejuvenates me, until I found myself walking in it once more. When the rest of the world sleeps, I rule all that I can see and all that I can reach. Singular sounds -- a voice, an engine, a wind rustling trees -- gain dominance as I do against a canvas of black silence. I am one with the shadows, part of the mystery, where Might and Maybe prowl. Fear me! I suffer from a terminal case of caring. Despite the detriment to self, I place greater importance on my values than on my own well-being. I feel the sting of all the injustices and idiocies of the world around me. I tell myself it doesn't matter. "I don't care" is my mantra; indifference my lie. But I do care. My sin is Pride. I will go to Hell for believing that I can change the world from the-way-it-is to the-way-it-could-be. I am a marionette hung by two strings: Hope and Spite. Although Hope has warn thin and is but a thread, Spite remains a thick cord. As each strand of Hope is severed, I sag a little more, but tell myself that Spite will be strong enough to sustain me. But sometimes I wonder. A third string revealed itself recently: Indifference. It tugs at me when Hope and Spite are still. It promises stability and balance and all the power that not caring grants. But I know that this is a lie -- that it cannot support me. And without Hope or Spite, it, and I, will snap. And yet... About a month ago, I became a zombie. Although life holds no more power over me, I find myself still in it. I watch with apathetic eyes as my body plods its way through its daily routine: eat, sleep, work. Purpose and passion are lost, my mind is numb, my spirit inert. Yet here I am, without motivation, riding on momentum, and making more money than I did when I cared -- proving that a meaningless existence is mine for the taking if I choose, or fail to. There's a tiny spider that lives beneath the baseboard heater in my bathroom. You can only see it when sitting on the toilet. Although I hate insects and arachnids in general, I haven't felt the need to remove or destroy this creature, yet. As long as it stays where it is, I'm more than happy to let it be. In fact, I'd only start to worry about it if I found it wasn't there one day, because that would mean it's out and about crawling around somewhere. But usually, I just look at it and feel sorry for it. I imagine it must be really hungry because there aren't any bugs (that I know of) that wander around there. And if an ant or silverfish were to stumble into the spider's web, I'm not sure which I'd put my money on -- it's a really small spider, after all. Itsy bitsy spider. Let us conspire to inform; let us conspire to succeed; let us conspire to excel; let us conspire to live, survive and thrive. Let us channel the mainstream in the direction of our choosing; let us accelerate the masses to produce irresistable force instead of suffering our inertia; let us decide which generalizations shall be accurate and let us spurn the rest. Let us exercise our rights and assemble. Let us shout out in a free cacophany rather than blend in communal silence. Let us march to different drummers, though we may find we follow the same path. Let us shape this world in our image. Let us form our image by our will, passions and desires. Let us be. Conspire, my friends, conspire. Life is like an analogy that doesn't make sense. Am I wrong? This question haunts me everyday. I struggle to accomplish goals which have no discernable rewards; I travel a road that seems to lead nowhere, believing that it is journey that is important, perhaps more so than the destination; I ignore the fashion and focus on the hangers and mannequins that it's draped around. Am I a fool? An arrogant clown disguised as a martyr? Are my visions of the would-be and could-be futures hallucinations brought on by sleep deprivation? How close the brass ring sometimes seems -- if only I would reach for it, instead of trying to escape the carousel. This queasy uncertainty is my demon. How I wish there could be someone to prove me right or convince me that I'm wrong. buy buy birdie buy use use buy limited warranty no guarantees... good consumer... eat absorb assimilate be one of us; free toy surprise with every purchase imagine no possessions no unauthorized duplication or retransmission permitted one day sale batteries not included shirt and shoes required no parking spend spend spend PLASTICS out with the old in with the new be the first one on your block covet thy neighbor's possessions share the wealth all rights reserved to refuse service ID required children and senior citizens admitted for half price mention KBUY and get a dollar off use more use more use more buy more use more buying power the value of a dollar the color of money cost of living adjustment the buck stops here money talks bullshit walks happy holidays and to all a good night (some assembly required). (cynical, isn't it?) The economics of oratory pervades our society, based on the time-tested truth that emotions are more marketable than knowledge. Journalists seek to infuriate rather than inform; to evoke rather than educate. How sad the unfortunate victims, how villainous the perpetrators, how frustrating the system. Talk shows exist to allow us to flex our feelings and impress our peers with the size of our passions. Mass market messiahs sell us hope and joy; fragile flowers that wither without reinforcement. Emotions are marketed to carefully charted demographics. Can you afford happiness? That's okay -- hate and anger are sold by the case for $1.95. Try some for free; soon you'll be back for more. You're a fat, ugly, worthless slob. But, for a tithe, we'll provide you with people even you can look down on. Comprehension? Enlightenment? Truth? Supplies are limited. Void where prohibited by law. How odd the coils of life are. Its tension and torque cast us careening into the future, when all we seek is simple harmonic motion. Yet, just when we reach our limits, forces pushpull us back to familiarity. I tossed a rock into the waters of my life, and watched as is displaced my stasis. But, you cannot dig a hole in the ocean -- the same waves that swept my past away have returned to find us both a little older, perhaps a little wiser. And while those carried back on the surf and I might not be together again, we shall, I feel, at least be nearer. I know what it's like to be alone. Lonely is something you feel, alone is something you are. It begins with a series of simple miscues. You find your words and ideas dying in the fields of others' comprehension, and realize there is no common language; like trying to describe circles to those who only understand squares. Others claim to understand, but you know they don't. And the more you try to describe the contours, the more they believe you to be a square like them. Soon you stop trying, finding it easier to be alone than surrounded by those with whom you cannot identify, to whom you cannot relate. Eventually, this becomes normal, comfortable, your prison, your home, your addiction. When you find someone you think might be different, you begin to doubt your own senses. You wonder if it is real or if you are just seeing what you want to see. So you watch and wait, alone. And while some might think it's rejection you fear, that keeps you from reaching out, what you fear the most is disappointment. The fear of finding that there is one less person in the world who might understand you. Every day my spirit cries for the death of what-could-have-been. The tears of unborn dreams streak sticky trails through my ether. My legs splay wide as will be and could be diverge, attempting to keep a foothold from one to the other. The margin gluts itself on ignorance and impatience.