3-0…This is not a game score nor is it a numerical depiction of a three game series sweep. As of last week, this is my age. Three-Oh…as in thirty…as in no longer twenty. I kept expecting to feel introspective about the turn of another decade, but that never really happened. I was not depressed (something I have observed in coworkers on their thirtieth). I did not feel any sense of loss (so I can no longer say I am in my twenties…and?). To be completely honest, I felt pretty outstanding.
The day started with my cube covered in balloons, streamers and plastic wrap. My coworkers got a kick out of the decorations and shrink wrapping my cube, and so did I. They were thorough with the plastic wrap and it took a while to get it all cleaned up, but I thought it was glorious. Add to this the presence of some uber triple chocolate muffins and the day was off to a great start. I had an outstanding meal at a truly decadent restaurant with my folks that evening and was awake relishing the day until almost sunrise. During this entire time I just kept noticing this strange sensation in the pit of my stomach. It extended into my chest and right out to the ends of my fingers. Considering the size of the steak I devoured during my b-day meal it could very well have been a massive coronary, but since I am alive and writing it is pretty obvious that my heart is still beating. To my surprise the feeling continued through the weekend. It was present as I had friends over to celebrate with me and it was present when I woke this morning to come to work after a long weekend. The more I think about it, this feeling has been present for a while now and I think I finally know what it is. For the first time in over a decade I am genuinely happy.
The last time I can recall feeling bone-deep happiness was during my middle school years. There was no stress, no pressure and no pain. There was just family, friends and fun. Sadly, this happiness was not a house that was built to last. Time creeps forward and my life was invariably altered as hormones began to interfere. Couple the physiological changes of the boy-to-man transformation with a ‘Lord-of-the-Flies-meets-a-shark-tank’ environment called high school and the carefree joy of youth is almost completely stamped out. That is not to say there were no happy moments, but when I set the scales and place platinum and gold happiness on one side and iron and lead pain on the other, the scales tilted heavily towards angst, discomfort, fear and pain. Looking back on those years I doubt I would have enough gold or platinum to make a pair of earrings, but I can guarantee there is enough lead and iron to build a tank. College and grad school also followed this trend and the years immediately following grad school were especially brutal. I have written about this in an earlier post. I tend to use vague imagery and metaphor when I write, but I will just make it very clear in this post…when I say that pain and depression “almost killed me” I am quite literal. I have generally been very successful at most things I try, but I was really bad at suicide. I mean honestly, when you try to hang yourself you don’t expect the branch to break…
Why would I write about the darkest point in my life in a post about happiness? Because I don’t feel I can write about pleasure without acknowledging pain. Because I believe that those that fall the furthest have an opportunity to soar the highest. Because when you have reached a point in your life where you hate yourself so much that you want to remove your pox-like existence from society you are forever changed. I should be dead, and yet I breathe. I never went through counseling, I never asked for help, I never medicated or prayed, and yet I am still here. I am not happy because I have a job or friends or family. I am not happy because I have my health or because the sun is shining. I am happy because I am alive…because I do not hate myself, and I am alive. No amount of rain, pain or loss can ever change that. I don’t know how to fully explain what this feels like. I saw death and it saw me…we passed each other a few times and it almost carried me off across the river Styx, but I am still on the shores of the living and the ferryman does not have my coin. I guess I am so happy to be thirty because I should not be thirty. I am happy because having faced the darkness and evil of suicidal self-loathing I am not afraid…of anything. That feeling in my chest was a song. The feeling that went out to my fingers was the echo of the chorus. I can hear it now and I am happy to share it with those who would listen:
I am called Brandon.
I am alive, I am free, and I am not afraid.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Cubes and Chaos
Cube life during the holidays is a bizarre time. The corporate machine pretends that it is going to surge into the new year with all cannons blazing, setting records, making sales, crushing competition and always putting the golden calf on the alter of the almighty dollar. The reality is the last two weeks of the year watch that great machine grind to a virtual halt. More than 60% of the workforce is on vacation for some length of time and as a result nothing really gets done. The parking lot is empty, the cafeteria is empty, the normal lunch hotspots are barren accept for the few high school and college students still on winter break. It really is not a bad time to work if you have the motivation to do so. There is no one around to harass, bother or otherwise distract you. However, the motivation to work at more than 30% efficiency when the rest of your fellow cube dwellers are on vacation is nonexistent.
What I find fascinating are those people who really do feel the obligation to push harder during this time. They seem driven to make a point, to prove something to anyone who cares to watch that they are true workers and they will get shit done come hell or high water! If you even mention to them that they take it a bit easier, or *Gasp!* leave an hour or two early, and they just about lose their minds. I can almost see the 1’s and 0’s behind their mental processing slow down and repeat a simple message DOES NOT COMPUTE…ERROR…ERROR. These people are not aberrations. I would actually say they are in the majority. They won’t leave early, they won’t taper off their workload to any appreciable degree, and they won’t indulge in a slightly longer lunch or a slightly later start to the day. They just keep charging forward, bayonet in hand, bringing conquest to the cube trenches. I might find it inspirational if I was not so diametrically opposed to this way of thinking. I honestly can’t help it anymore than they can. I think I am one of those people who saunters through life with both middle fingers raised in defiance of the established order. I have no problem leaving early, taking longer lunches, and sleeping in a bit, especially during the holidays. I am not offended or threatened by the hardcore workers who obsess about every minute they spend at work, but I have given up trying to communicate with them. I can’t understand their need to abide by the unwritten codex of day-to-day “rules,” and they can’t understand my need to flow around walls, through cracks and into the nebulous “grey area” where rules are mere guidelines, not law.
This might make me sound like a bit of an anarchist, which is not the case. I respect law and order and understand that it is the glue that holds families, businesses and governments together. However, I am always going to be a small point of chaos in that sea of structure. It is not something I would change in myself even if I had the will or the power to do so. I like going against the grain. I enjoy not walking the path I am supposed to. Once upon a time I was on track to the “ideal” life of the gingerbread house with the white picket fence. The sun would rise and set like clockwork and I was to be a champion for structured and ordered life. Then the train jumped the tracks, and once you set down the path of chaos there is really no turning back. You see everything with different eyes. You crave the unorthodox and the extreme. You respect order, but you rail against it. You never do what you are ‘supposed’ to do, and even when it seems you are behaving and following the path, you are actually bending enough regulations to take your so-called “proper action” to the edge of normal. To those that plan and count and measure, I respect your ideology and the path you walk. But do not fear disorder. Do not shy away from that little bit of chaos in your day-to-day world. Do not feel discomfort when an ambassador of discord, like me, challenges the status quo and unravels a bit of the yarn that is the “normal life.” Sometimes we have to destroy in order to create, to upset the established order to advance, to open our ears and listen to what the universe is telling us…if Mother Nature tends towards disorder and chaos; if she drinks at the fountain of entropy; then who are we to argue?
What I find fascinating are those people who really do feel the obligation to push harder during this time. They seem driven to make a point, to prove something to anyone who cares to watch that they are true workers and they will get shit done come hell or high water! If you even mention to them that they take it a bit easier, or *Gasp!* leave an hour or two early, and they just about lose their minds. I can almost see the 1’s and 0’s behind their mental processing slow down and repeat a simple message DOES NOT COMPUTE…ERROR…ERROR. These people are not aberrations. I would actually say they are in the majority. They won’t leave early, they won’t taper off their workload to any appreciable degree, and they won’t indulge in a slightly longer lunch or a slightly later start to the day. They just keep charging forward, bayonet in hand, bringing conquest to the cube trenches. I might find it inspirational if I was not so diametrically opposed to this way of thinking. I honestly can’t help it anymore than they can. I think I am one of those people who saunters through life with both middle fingers raised in defiance of the established order. I have no problem leaving early, taking longer lunches, and sleeping in a bit, especially during the holidays. I am not offended or threatened by the hardcore workers who obsess about every minute they spend at work, but I have given up trying to communicate with them. I can’t understand their need to abide by the unwritten codex of day-to-day “rules,” and they can’t understand my need to flow around walls, through cracks and into the nebulous “grey area” where rules are mere guidelines, not law.
This might make me sound like a bit of an anarchist, which is not the case. I respect law and order and understand that it is the glue that holds families, businesses and governments together. However, I am always going to be a small point of chaos in that sea of structure. It is not something I would change in myself even if I had the will or the power to do so. I like going against the grain. I enjoy not walking the path I am supposed to. Once upon a time I was on track to the “ideal” life of the gingerbread house with the white picket fence. The sun would rise and set like clockwork and I was to be a champion for structured and ordered life. Then the train jumped the tracks, and once you set down the path of chaos there is really no turning back. You see everything with different eyes. You crave the unorthodox and the extreme. You respect order, but you rail against it. You never do what you are ‘supposed’ to do, and even when it seems you are behaving and following the path, you are actually bending enough regulations to take your so-called “proper action” to the edge of normal. To those that plan and count and measure, I respect your ideology and the path you walk. But do not fear disorder. Do not shy away from that little bit of chaos in your day-to-day world. Do not feel discomfort when an ambassador of discord, like me, challenges the status quo and unravels a bit of the yarn that is the “normal life.” Sometimes we have to destroy in order to create, to upset the established order to advance, to open our ears and listen to what the universe is telling us…if Mother Nature tends towards disorder and chaos; if she drinks at the fountain of entropy; then who are we to argue?
Friday, December 5, 2008
What is Failtown?
Failtown. We have all been there. No matter how perfect we are (or think we are), sooner or later all roads lead to Failtown. Have you ever been walking on a seemingly perfect day…the sun shining, the birds singing, a quaint smile on your lips, your thoughts drifting to wondrous places…then BAM!!...you walk straight into a tree. Welcome to Failtown. Have you ever driven in Minnesota shortly after a snowstorm? Look to the ditches. You will see Failtown #1, #2, #3…and if you look closely you will see tracks leading deep into the ditches that bare witness to once thriving Failtown communities. Have you jokingly asked a coworker, “You look like you are in really rough shape today, lose a pet or your girlfriend?” Only to have them look up with red eyes and the simple reply, “Both.” You guessed it…welcome to Failtown.
Unless you are living under a rock there is a very good chance you have seen, or at least heard of, the fail blog (http://failblog.org/). I love this website almost as much as I love chocolate, and it is a page completely devoted to those that dwell in Failtown! There is nothing wrong with visiting Failtown. We are bound to travel its winding roads, spacious causeways and scenic paths sooner or later. Failtown is my own personal reminder to never take each day too seriously. At least once every day I visit Failtown. This morning I took milk out of the refrigerator, poured a glass full, put the glass in the fridge and the gallon container on the table where my glass should have been. Yes, I was half awake, but in that half awake state I found my way to Failtown. I managed to follow that visit up with a return trip at lunch by chugging some incredibly hot tea with absolutely no regard to its 211.999999 F temperature…if I had not lost the use of my tongue from the burning liquid I would have proclaimed myself the Mayor of Failtown.
When people come together for the holidays they get warm fuzzies for the gifts and food, smiles and hugs, and the general feelings of goodwill. People will sit before a fire and cuddle, or pray around a table and share a sumptuous meal, or maybe they will just curl up by themselves with a book and drift into the night. I am not going to proclaim a trite and cliché message of, ‘Peace on Earth and goodwill to all!’ Rather, I suggest that this holiday season we share our stories of Failtown. This obviously is not the only way people will occupy their time, but more often than not, stories of our personal trips to Failtown are amusing, if somewhat self deprecating, and sometimes the gift of a laugh or a smile can fill gaps no amount of money or food will ever truly satisfy. If you have a dark sense of humor like I do, there is a lot to laugh at in these volatile times; climate change, economics, war…sometimes I think all of our combined visits to Failtown have led us to a darker, more cynical version of Disney World…Failworld. As individuals there is not much we can do to change this, but since we are all on the same Failworld rollercoaster I would make a single suggestion. Throw your hands up, take a deep breath then and scream like a crazed monkey. There is no escaping the rollercoaster of Failworld, and since we are all here we might as well enjoy the ride.
Unless you are living under a rock there is a very good chance you have seen, or at least heard of, the fail blog (http://failblog.org/). I love this website almost as much as I love chocolate, and it is a page completely devoted to those that dwell in Failtown! There is nothing wrong with visiting Failtown. We are bound to travel its winding roads, spacious causeways and scenic paths sooner or later. Failtown is my own personal reminder to never take each day too seriously. At least once every day I visit Failtown. This morning I took milk out of the refrigerator, poured a glass full, put the glass in the fridge and the gallon container on the table where my glass should have been. Yes, I was half awake, but in that half awake state I found my way to Failtown. I managed to follow that visit up with a return trip at lunch by chugging some incredibly hot tea with absolutely no regard to its 211.999999 F temperature…if I had not lost the use of my tongue from the burning liquid I would have proclaimed myself the Mayor of Failtown.
When people come together for the holidays they get warm fuzzies for the gifts and food, smiles and hugs, and the general feelings of goodwill. People will sit before a fire and cuddle, or pray around a table and share a sumptuous meal, or maybe they will just curl up by themselves with a book and drift into the night. I am not going to proclaim a trite and cliché message of, ‘Peace on Earth and goodwill to all!’ Rather, I suggest that this holiday season we share our stories of Failtown. This obviously is not the only way people will occupy their time, but more often than not, stories of our personal trips to Failtown are amusing, if somewhat self deprecating, and sometimes the gift of a laugh or a smile can fill gaps no amount of money or food will ever truly satisfy. If you have a dark sense of humor like I do, there is a lot to laugh at in these volatile times; climate change, economics, war…sometimes I think all of our combined visits to Failtown have led us to a darker, more cynical version of Disney World…Failworld. As individuals there is not much we can do to change this, but since we are all on the same Failworld rollercoaster I would make a single suggestion. Throw your hands up, take a deep breath then and scream like a crazed monkey. There is no escaping the rollercoaster of Failworld, and since we are all here we might as well enjoy the ride.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
A House Called Serenity
I used to have a lot to say. I am a talker by nature, and I have been known to monologue on occasion. I talk to complete strangers at the drop of a hat, or talk to myself when no one is looking…or within earshot. But I also used to sit and write far more than I have the past few months. I would get an idea, have a powerful feeling or get lost in a dream and then I would write. I would spend long hours staring into the darkness, hovering somewhere between the waking world and the eternal dreamscape, or I would sit and watch the dying embers of a fire, and there I would find my voice. I would find words, thoughts and dreams and I would write. However, lately it has been hard to put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard.
Have I lost my muse? Have I entered the halls of silence and my words no longer ring aloud or taste of truth? Perhaps I have grown boring at my ripe old age of 29 or maybe my existence in corporate America has robbed me of the fire I once had; the undying need to express and share. Have I transformed into the automaton I long feared becoming? Looking back at each time I have sat and put my thoughts to whatever medium was present, whether it was a journal, notepad, napkin or word file, I was always in some sort of turmoil or pain. There would be strife and conflict, pain and endurance. The clash of steel, the screech of the four winds…scars in the making.
Why have I had a hard time writing? Because despite my great love of communication, I don’t know how to speak in a silent catacomb. I can’t hear my own voice in the corridors of calm and silence and it is unnerving. These past months I have found peace, and peace built me a house of serenity. I don’t know when it happened. Maybe peace found me when I was unaware, or maybe we found each other, but for the first time in my life I am enjoying a feeling of oneness and calm. Peace of mind and body. The heart and soul are another matter, but the language of my heart and soul are some combination of English and Latin, wolf and dove, crackling fire and Nordic wind, and to be perfectly honest I have no idea what heart or soul are saying most of the time. I suppose that is why I feel emotion. Maybe it’s my heart’s way of trying to communicate with me. Perhaps that is why I pray; in hope of a higher power helping me to understand the language of the soul. Regardless, I don’t feel like a hammer crashing against the anvil of the world. I don’t feel like an unshaped piece of iron being pounded between the anvil of yesterday and the hammer of tomorrow.
I wish I could say it was something profound that brought me to this place. That would certainly make for a better story, but in truth I think it was a bunch of little steps. A left turn here, a right turn there…a few crossed streams and a few more mended bridges and suddenly I am standing in an endless corridor of calm. There is color here. There are sconces and tapestries and the persistent fragrance of rose and cinnamon. It’s a wonderful place, it is just very hard for me to speak in this world. I am afraid it would diminish the experience; that it would shatter the image. I just need to have a bit more faith and use my voice once again. For those few that read this, you are hearing my voice as I am…for the first time. It has been a tumultuous past few years, and they have covered the entire rainbow of emotion; of love and hate, pleasure and pain. But I am sitting here on a frigid December night, drifting in my music, enjoying a drink, a stupid smile on my face, wondering what tomorrow brings. Alone, but calm. Tired, but at peace. I still have my inner fire, but it burns in a home called serenity and I hope it remains there unto the ending of my days.
Have I lost my muse? Have I entered the halls of silence and my words no longer ring aloud or taste of truth? Perhaps I have grown boring at my ripe old age of 29 or maybe my existence in corporate America has robbed me of the fire I once had; the undying need to express and share. Have I transformed into the automaton I long feared becoming? Looking back at each time I have sat and put my thoughts to whatever medium was present, whether it was a journal, notepad, napkin or word file, I was always in some sort of turmoil or pain. There would be strife and conflict, pain and endurance. The clash of steel, the screech of the four winds…scars in the making.
Why have I had a hard time writing? Because despite my great love of communication, I don’t know how to speak in a silent catacomb. I can’t hear my own voice in the corridors of calm and silence and it is unnerving. These past months I have found peace, and peace built me a house of serenity. I don’t know when it happened. Maybe peace found me when I was unaware, or maybe we found each other, but for the first time in my life I am enjoying a feeling of oneness and calm. Peace of mind and body. The heart and soul are another matter, but the language of my heart and soul are some combination of English and Latin, wolf and dove, crackling fire and Nordic wind, and to be perfectly honest I have no idea what heart or soul are saying most of the time. I suppose that is why I feel emotion. Maybe it’s my heart’s way of trying to communicate with me. Perhaps that is why I pray; in hope of a higher power helping me to understand the language of the soul. Regardless, I don’t feel like a hammer crashing against the anvil of the world. I don’t feel like an unshaped piece of iron being pounded between the anvil of yesterday and the hammer of tomorrow.
I wish I could say it was something profound that brought me to this place. That would certainly make for a better story, but in truth I think it was a bunch of little steps. A left turn here, a right turn there…a few crossed streams and a few more mended bridges and suddenly I am standing in an endless corridor of calm. There is color here. There are sconces and tapestries and the persistent fragrance of rose and cinnamon. It’s a wonderful place, it is just very hard for me to speak in this world. I am afraid it would diminish the experience; that it would shatter the image. I just need to have a bit more faith and use my voice once again. For those few that read this, you are hearing my voice as I am…for the first time. It has been a tumultuous past few years, and they have covered the entire rainbow of emotion; of love and hate, pleasure and pain. But I am sitting here on a frigid December night, drifting in my music, enjoying a drink, a stupid smile on my face, wondering what tomorrow brings. Alone, but calm. Tired, but at peace. I still have my inner fire, but it burns in a home called serenity and I hope it remains there unto the ending of my days.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Pet Peeves #1 - Concerning Traffic, Malls and Cash Registers
I have come to the conclusion that I have a deep-rooted dislike of slow moving people. I want to qualify that statement. If I am walking behind an elderly couple on a sidewalk, I am not annoyed. It might inconvenience me to move at a snail's pace, but there is nothing I can do about it, and it is not their fault. If I am waiting at a doorway while a parent ushers their little ones through an entrance, I am not annoyed. The younglings might get distracted and chase after a bug, or see their reflection, or encounter any number of things that might draw their wandering youthful attention and cause them to pause and hold up traffic. Is this annoying? Not at all...these are just kids being kids.
Who does annoy me are people that are unaware of the pace of the world around them. People that do not acknowledge that the universe is not set by their sloth-like pace, nor do they have the divine privilege to stand in the most inconvenient of locations for no apparent reason. I will offer three scenarios to better illustrate what I believe might be my greatest pet peeve.
Scenario #1 - Left Lane Traffic
I will be the first to admit that I drive faster than most people. I am not a reckless driver, but I generally prefer to drive above the speed limit when conditions permit. In my defense, I drive a small black sports car and it would be criminal for me not to drive with a little zeal. I still pale to the near sound-barrier speeds of your average driver in and around the greater Chicago area, but by Minnesota standards I am definitely an aggressive driver. This means I spend a lot of my time in the left lane, because last I checked, the left lane is considered the passing lane; the fast lane. This is a concept lost on far too many people. Every week I manage to get stuck behind some fool that believes the left lane means you drive exactly the speed limit. Legally they are in the right. I know this. But in common practice they are not in the right, they are just in the way. When the speed limit reads 70 mph and every other lane is going 65, this does not mean the balding man with the handlebar mustache should sit in the left lane going a mere 70. Does he not notice the massive line of cars rolled up behind him? Does he not notice people bobbing and weaving in and out of traffic to pass his obviously substandard pace? Is this an act of blind arrogance to force those that move faster, to slow down? I just do not understand, but I rejoice when he finally gets the hint, moves over and before he has fully changed lanes has already been passed by fifteen cars going 80+. Am I among those cars? Absolutely. Am I breaking the law? Yes. Do I still feel victimized by the tortoise that finally moved his clunker out of the way? Damn right!
Scenario #2 - The Mall Hall
I live near to a true monument of capitalism; a shining beacon to the shopper in all of us, a sprawling tower of Babylon in the frozen tundra of the upper Midwest, the Mall of America. Yes it is massive and despite its gargantuan size you can spend a day in the bowels of that beast and not find what you are looking for. However, despite its titanic proportions the corridors that control the ebb and flow of traffic are surprisingly narrow. So narrow in fact that a group of three or four people could easily stop, for no apparent reason, in the middle of the hall and deny ease of passage.
They are like great globs of arterial fat blocking the flow of blood to the heart. Couples that were walking hand-in-hand have to separate to bypass this clot in the corridor. Clogs of humanity pile up and lurch around this blockage, too polite to say anything. All the while these arterial plaques stop, stand, and do whatever it is that they feel was so important that they had to inconvenience anyone and everyone that has the misfortune of avoiding them. Why do people do this? Could they not have moved to the left or right of the hallway and taken care of their business away from the primary thoroughfare? Perhaps that would be asking too much. Quasi deities can stand wherever they want, whenever they desire can’t they? Oh wait, these people are not yet ascended to godhood...they are just rude asshats.
Scenario #3 - The Cash Register
I will preface this section by saying that women are not the only perpetrators of this pet peeve, but in my experience they are guilty far more often than men. It's not 100% their fault...the purse gives them the opportunity, and far too many abuse the chance to waste the time of others. How many times have you waited in line to pay for food, coffee, groceries, clothes, etc.? How many times has the person(s) ahead of you paid for their items, and then stood there while they rummaged through their pockets or purse. You stand there and wait while they slowly put the money back in their wallets....then slowly put their wallets back in their purse/pockets...then they sling their items over there arms...adjust their coat, or glasses, or whatever will take even more time...then they move aside allowing the next customer to move forward.
All that is required is a step or two to the left or right. Is that really too much to ask? Is it arrogance that drives this? "I am so important that everyone waiting can just stand there and watch me screw around with my stuff.' Or is it blind ignorance? Are they simply not aware of their position in the moving world? Do they not realize people are waiting on them? Do they not have the critical thinking skills to realize that if they moved just a bit faster or perhaps out of the way they could accomplish their goals while taking into account the convenience of others? Why am I even asking the question…I already know the answer is no.
Pet peeves are not always rational, and I would say they are as personal as fashion and hairstyle. Someday I will write a list of gym pet peeves, or ballroom pet peeves, but for tonight I will settle with this miniature treatise on slow moving people. This is not a parable of the tortoise and the hare, this is the hare telling the tortoise to get his/her slow ass out of the way so I can live life at my pace, not theirs.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Outsider
During my junior year in high school I was asked to write a story about myself. I don't remember the details of the assignment, but I know we were supposed to look within, find something worth sharing, and express it in written word. The option was given to share our prose with our fellow classmates; an option I declined, but I have a vague recollection of the general details that were shared. I remember people telling stories of their youth and others sharing tales of a beloved pet or family member. Some people shared emotionally moving journeys through life's struggles or captured their passion for a favorite hobby. I did not read my small apologue aloud, but I do remember some of my small contribution to this little piece of busy work. It was titled 'Fitting In.' I thought it was an honest, straightforward, unabashed assessment of my place in the social maelstrom of school at age sixteen. I thought it was well written and concise and expected that it would continue to serve my pursuit of the almighty grade. I felt it was solid work and would land me a precious 'A.' To my surprise what it got me was an intervention and several forced trips to the school counselor.
I will be honest, I did not save the document nor do I remember every detail of its contents. However, I do remember the thrust of the argument. I felt then, as I do now, that although we all feel a little awkward, and we all have hard time fitting in (especially in high school!), only a select few of us are truly outsiders. I did not write the document as a quiet plea for help. I did not dye my hair black and adopt the iconic emo-kid hair swoosh. I didn’t walk around with a ‘woe-is-me’ attitude and pout. I simply took an analytical look at the data that was my life at the time and formed a simple conclusion. In a house of glass where life tosses it's occupants around on a whim, it is just safer to place a brick outdoors. At that time I felt like a brick in a house of glass, and it was just best for the social order if the brick found its home outside in the yard.
Fast forward to today and not much has changed. I live alone, I wake alone, I exercise alone, I eat alone and I sleep alone. I have considered this an interim time between social circles, but the more I ponder I have to wonder if there was more to 'Fitting In' than I first suspected. Had I touched on some unseen wisdom in my youth? My intention was to write an honest paper and receive a solid grade for my efforts, but did I inadvertently channel a glimpse of things to come?
My family is comprised almost entirely of hard-working blue collar folks. They are good people, but they look at me like a strange fungus most of the time. I don't hunt, I don't fish, I spent an abnormal amount of time in school, and now I work in a cube. They were a bit more accepting when I was in 'Crush Face!' mode and playing football. However, I gave up the savagery of the gridiron for the slick wood of the ballroom and the gap never really closed.
My coworkers fit into two camps, those that report or might report to me in the near future, and those that I report to. As you might have guessed, the people closest to my age bracket are in a position where I could very quickly become their supervisor, so professional distance is required. Those above me surpass my age by no less than fifteen to twenty years, and as such it is difficult to find common ground. I am sure thirty-somethings exist in this company, but I am yet to find them and if I do, will I see the looks of future friends or of the entomologist coming to find the rare and elusive Cacao Bee…Brandonus Esotericus?
I spend a lot of time at the gym, but that is not a place I have ever sought or found the bonds of camaraderie. I have tried at times, but inevitably I quote some esoteric Latin poet or don't beat my chest with enough Cro-Magnon bravado and huzzah, the brick is set back outside on the porch.
The dancing community is far more accepting, but I often feel like a strange jell-o dessert at dance functions. I am on the table, vibrant in color and I draw attention. People are curious and will poke at me to see what I am made of, or they shake the table to see if I move, but it's a detached curiosity. Unable to really decide what I am, I end up enduring a mild neglect. I never have a problem finding dance partners, but then again, why would I? People’s dance cards might be full, but in the end, there’s always room for Jell-O.
Now, it could just be my age. People become very protective of their groups and their time as they get older. They are hesitant to let new faces and personalities enter their circles as a new voice can disrupt the status quo. The presence of a male with strong alpha tendencies can really toss order into disarray, so it’s often safer and more comfortable to leave the wolf chained up outside. People are also very covetous of their time. With work, hobbies and family, time becomes a truly precious commodity and it is a luxury not easily shared.
I do have friends, but having friends and having a posse are two very different things. I have flirted with the notion of ‘my crew.’ However, every ‘crew’ that rises as an effigy to companionship dissolves before the march of time and circumstance and the brick finds itself back in the grass. It really is not a terrible tragedy. There is much to learn, see and do outside those crystalline walls, but standing on the outside and looking in can do strange things to a person’s psyche. You begin to see yourself very differently than those you count as friends see you. Where laudatory words like unique, original, interesting or fascinating once brought a spark of pride you start to hear them as signs of division. Sometimes you feel very much like a fungus or an exotic insect; a thing best studied and observed from afar.
I am well aware that I am an amalgam of hobbies and interests that are seldom found in the same place. I could argue that I am actually my own house of glass, and most of the world is looking in. They don’t stop for very long because my home is wacky at best…perhaps an experimental dalliance into architecture; interesting to look at, but uncomfortable to enter. I also know that a casual reader might interpret this much like my teachers of bygone days and think I am standing on a precipice looking to jump. I don’t need a hug; I am not sitting here wallowing in self pity. I am simply taking stock in the facts as I see them and wondering how exactly people build up their groups, and once they are built, how do they maintain them?
Is it luck? It can become very challenging to maintain connections over distance and time and life often carries even the closest of friends half a world apart. Does it take a certain degree of sacrifice? Do the outsiders of the world simply not give enough of themselves? Do they give too much? Are they just bad at knowing where, when and how much to give? Are there certain characteristics that can be broken down like a simple equation, a social equation, to determine the calculus of friendship, camaraderie and ‘the crew?’ Maybe it is the fault of the brick. Does it weigh too much to be moved (yes, in an odd way I just called myself fat)…is it too dense to lift (and yes, I just called myself dense)? Perhaps it blends in with its surroundings. Perhaps it looks like a landmine in the grass and people give it space for a good reason.
I have no answers to my own questions. I merely have observations and a history of exploring the outer rim. Sometimes I venture closer to the center of this social galaxy and locate the elusive posse, but invariably I end up taking the path of Halley’s Comet and find myself hurtling back towards the edge…a brick of dust and ice and rock tirelessly finding its way back into the yard. I just hope it doesn’t take another 76 years to find that glass house again…
I will be honest, I did not save the document nor do I remember every detail of its contents. However, I do remember the thrust of the argument. I felt then, as I do now, that although we all feel a little awkward, and we all have hard time fitting in (especially in high school!), only a select few of us are truly outsiders. I did not write the document as a quiet plea for help. I did not dye my hair black and adopt the iconic emo-kid hair swoosh. I didn’t walk around with a ‘woe-is-me’ attitude and pout. I simply took an analytical look at the data that was my life at the time and formed a simple conclusion. In a house of glass where life tosses it's occupants around on a whim, it is just safer to place a brick outdoors. At that time I felt like a brick in a house of glass, and it was just best for the social order if the brick found its home outside in the yard.
Fast forward to today and not much has changed. I live alone, I wake alone, I exercise alone, I eat alone and I sleep alone. I have considered this an interim time between social circles, but the more I ponder I have to wonder if there was more to 'Fitting In' than I first suspected. Had I touched on some unseen wisdom in my youth? My intention was to write an honest paper and receive a solid grade for my efforts, but did I inadvertently channel a glimpse of things to come?
My family is comprised almost entirely of hard-working blue collar folks. They are good people, but they look at me like a strange fungus most of the time. I don't hunt, I don't fish, I spent an abnormal amount of time in school, and now I work in a cube. They were a bit more accepting when I was in 'Crush Face!' mode and playing football. However, I gave up the savagery of the gridiron for the slick wood of the ballroom and the gap never really closed.
My coworkers fit into two camps, those that report or might report to me in the near future, and those that I report to. As you might have guessed, the people closest to my age bracket are in a position where I could very quickly become their supervisor, so professional distance is required. Those above me surpass my age by no less than fifteen to twenty years, and as such it is difficult to find common ground. I am sure thirty-somethings exist in this company, but I am yet to find them and if I do, will I see the looks of future friends or of the entomologist coming to find the rare and elusive Cacao Bee…Brandonus Esotericus?
I spend a lot of time at the gym, but that is not a place I have ever sought or found the bonds of camaraderie. I have tried at times, but inevitably I quote some esoteric Latin poet or don't beat my chest with enough Cro-Magnon bravado and huzzah, the brick is set back outside on the porch.
The dancing community is far more accepting, but I often feel like a strange jell-o dessert at dance functions. I am on the table, vibrant in color and I draw attention. People are curious and will poke at me to see what I am made of, or they shake the table to see if I move, but it's a detached curiosity. Unable to really decide what I am, I end up enduring a mild neglect. I never have a problem finding dance partners, but then again, why would I? People’s dance cards might be full, but in the end, there’s always room for Jell-O.
Now, it could just be my age. People become very protective of their groups and their time as they get older. They are hesitant to let new faces and personalities enter their circles as a new voice can disrupt the status quo. The presence of a male with strong alpha tendencies can really toss order into disarray, so it’s often safer and more comfortable to leave the wolf chained up outside. People are also very covetous of their time. With work, hobbies and family, time becomes a truly precious commodity and it is a luxury not easily shared.
I do have friends, but having friends and having a posse are two very different things. I have flirted with the notion of ‘my crew.’ However, every ‘crew’ that rises as an effigy to companionship dissolves before the march of time and circumstance and the brick finds itself back in the grass. It really is not a terrible tragedy. There is much to learn, see and do outside those crystalline walls, but standing on the outside and looking in can do strange things to a person’s psyche. You begin to see yourself very differently than those you count as friends see you. Where laudatory words like unique, original, interesting or fascinating once brought a spark of pride you start to hear them as signs of division. Sometimes you feel very much like a fungus or an exotic insect; a thing best studied and observed from afar.
I am well aware that I am an amalgam of hobbies and interests that are seldom found in the same place. I could argue that I am actually my own house of glass, and most of the world is looking in. They don’t stop for very long because my home is wacky at best…perhaps an experimental dalliance into architecture; interesting to look at, but uncomfortable to enter. I also know that a casual reader might interpret this much like my teachers of bygone days and think I am standing on a precipice looking to jump. I don’t need a hug; I am not sitting here wallowing in self pity. I am simply taking stock in the facts as I see them and wondering how exactly people build up their groups, and once they are built, how do they maintain them?
Is it luck? It can become very challenging to maintain connections over distance and time and life often carries even the closest of friends half a world apart. Does it take a certain degree of sacrifice? Do the outsiders of the world simply not give enough of themselves? Do they give too much? Are they just bad at knowing where, when and how much to give? Are there certain characteristics that can be broken down like a simple equation, a social equation, to determine the calculus of friendship, camaraderie and ‘the crew?’ Maybe it is the fault of the brick. Does it weigh too much to be moved (yes, in an odd way I just called myself fat)…is it too dense to lift (and yes, I just called myself dense)? Perhaps it blends in with its surroundings. Perhaps it looks like a landmine in the grass and people give it space for a good reason.
I have no answers to my own questions. I merely have observations and a history of exploring the outer rim. Sometimes I venture closer to the center of this social galaxy and locate the elusive posse, but invariably I end up taking the path of Halley’s Comet and find myself hurtling back towards the edge…a brick of dust and ice and rock tirelessly finding its way back into the yard. I just hope it doesn’t take another 76 years to find that glass house again…
Monday, November 3, 2008
Love Affair
This is not a sordid tale of temptation and betrayal. It is not a casual jaunt through a steamy paperback loaded with flowing hair, glistening skin and burning gazes. There is no tall dark stranger sweeping in from a foreign land; no pale-skinned beauty craning her neck in the light of the dawn. No exotic lover at the window…no throaty whispers in the night. But this is a tale of lust and passion; intensity and fire. It is a languid stroll through the senses. A seduction of taste, a sweet caress of a craving sated. I will share a tale of my love affair…of my need, my desire and my obsession…with chocolate.
There are many vices in this world. Some turn to alcohol, others to narcotics. Some gamble or seek illicit pleasures of the flesh. I share my vice with pride. I am a chocolate aficionado. One could say I am a chocoholic or cacao junkie, but I think the title I have chosen carries an air of dignity. I have flirted shamelessly with the chocolate ambassadors of Godiva, all in hopes of receiving a free sample. I have fought for the honor and privilege to devour any remaining chocolate from a pan of frosting. I have found heaven in the embrace of a single piece of the finest cocoa…wrought more of artistry and grace, then of taste, and I have slummed it with a block of stale Hershey’s.
I imagine someone reading this thinking, ‘This is absurd. A chocolate addiction is not a vice. A love of all things cocoa is not overly decadent and chocolate poses no danger to anyone.’ I guffaw! What of a Grand Marnier truffle? What about a cup of hot cocoa so thick you could eat it with a spoon? Did you ever have the Starbucks Chocofino? How about a flourless chocolate torte so packed with cocoa it looks like a blissful sliver of midnight? Chocolate is dangerous my friends, but to give in to its call is such a sweet surrender I dare not turn away.
Society worries about the saturation of the media with sexual imagery and themes. There are advocate groups devoted to monitoring and condemning violence in television broadcasts and beyond. Whenever tragedy strikes at the heart of young America we ponder the influence of violent video games. We worry about children seeing too much too soon, but does anyone worry about chocolate? Maybe they should….
Despite the vast volume of violence and sex and all things profane in our day-to-day lives I would argue that chocolate has its own place as a corrupting influence. How many people remember the first time they were moved, for better or worse, by carnal imagery or violence? I imagine quite a few. Now I ask those same people, did that experience come before or after their first confrontation with the fruit of the cacao bean?
Some of my earliest memories are of a chocolate and Oreo cake purchased for my first birthday. I don’t think I could even walk, but I remember that giant blue frosting cake crafted in the likeness of Cookie Monster. I remember the lessons of the immortal Cookie Monster proclaiming his love of chocolate chip cookies. I had bowl after bowl of Cocoa Crispies, Cocoa Puffs and Count Chokula paired with chocolate poptarts. I had hot fudge sundays. I had Twix and Snickers, Milky Way and Reese’s Peanut Butter cups….all of which are wreathed in luscious chocolate. I had hot cocoa in the winter and chocolate ice cream in the summer. I had chocolate milk at school, a chocolate Santa at Christmas, a chocolate bunny at Easter. My youth, my schools, even my most sacred holidays; each felt the presence of chocolate, and all of this I had before I was even aware of the concept of violence or sex! The media might have been hitting me with these themes left, right and center, but they were years behind chocolate in digging their claws into me.
You may doubt the power of chocolate. You might feel that my argument is not at all compelling. But I maintain that the power of cocoa is indeed lethal in the most exquisite of ways. Few things have more corrupting potential. We have witnessed the transformation of the healthiest of indulgences become an orgy of decadence as fruit is doused in molten chocolate. Chocolate oranges, raspberries, lemons, or my personal favorite, strawberries dipped in dark chocolate. We make deep fried batter even more potent by smothering our donuts in chocolate, or working the cocoa into the batter itself! Chocolate cake…chocolate pie…chocolate in our coffee to give birth to the mocha….chocolate in our liquor to make us drunk with bliss as true inebriation sets in.
Chocolate will not destroy our civilization, nor is it to blame for all the world’s ills. It is not the root source of our expanding waist lines, or contributing to the moral decay of society. Chocolate is not evil, but it is dangerous and it is a vice. People stand on pedestals and laud themselves for the things they give up…for the pleasures they deny themselves. I am of a different school of thought. I stand proudly before my peers and share my joy and desire for chocolate. I don’t have a shrine to this wonderful slice of decadence, but I should. Sometimes it feels good to stray. Sometimes it feels so very good, to be so very bad. Chocolate opens the doors to be devious, decadent and naughty, without truly hurting anyone or anything. The only victims are a diet or a little enamel on our teeth. I call that a small price to pay for this little pleasure. We may walk outside the Garden of Eden. Paradise might have been lost. But in the desolation and ruin chocolate was found, and thus we walk in the presence of that small taste of ambrosia, and know that heaven can indeed be found on Earth. Try El Muerte por Chocolate and you will know what I mean…
There are many vices in this world. Some turn to alcohol, others to narcotics. Some gamble or seek illicit pleasures of the flesh. I share my vice with pride. I am a chocolate aficionado. One could say I am a chocoholic or cacao junkie, but I think the title I have chosen carries an air of dignity. I have flirted shamelessly with the chocolate ambassadors of Godiva, all in hopes of receiving a free sample. I have fought for the honor and privilege to devour any remaining chocolate from a pan of frosting. I have found heaven in the embrace of a single piece of the finest cocoa…wrought more of artistry and grace, then of taste, and I have slummed it with a block of stale Hershey’s.
I imagine someone reading this thinking, ‘This is absurd. A chocolate addiction is not a vice. A love of all things cocoa is not overly decadent and chocolate poses no danger to anyone.’ I guffaw! What of a Grand Marnier truffle? What about a cup of hot cocoa so thick you could eat it with a spoon? Did you ever have the Starbucks Chocofino? How about a flourless chocolate torte so packed with cocoa it looks like a blissful sliver of midnight? Chocolate is dangerous my friends, but to give in to its call is such a sweet surrender I dare not turn away.
Society worries about the saturation of the media with sexual imagery and themes. There are advocate groups devoted to monitoring and condemning violence in television broadcasts and beyond. Whenever tragedy strikes at the heart of young America we ponder the influence of violent video games. We worry about children seeing too much too soon, but does anyone worry about chocolate? Maybe they should….
Despite the vast volume of violence and sex and all things profane in our day-to-day lives I would argue that chocolate has its own place as a corrupting influence. How many people remember the first time they were moved, for better or worse, by carnal imagery or violence? I imagine quite a few. Now I ask those same people, did that experience come before or after their first confrontation with the fruit of the cacao bean?
Some of my earliest memories are of a chocolate and Oreo cake purchased for my first birthday. I don’t think I could even walk, but I remember that giant blue frosting cake crafted in the likeness of Cookie Monster. I remember the lessons of the immortal Cookie Monster proclaiming his love of chocolate chip cookies. I had bowl after bowl of Cocoa Crispies, Cocoa Puffs and Count Chokula paired with chocolate poptarts. I had hot fudge sundays. I had Twix and Snickers, Milky Way and Reese’s Peanut Butter cups….all of which are wreathed in luscious chocolate. I had hot cocoa in the winter and chocolate ice cream in the summer. I had chocolate milk at school, a chocolate Santa at Christmas, a chocolate bunny at Easter. My youth, my schools, even my most sacred holidays; each felt the presence of chocolate, and all of this I had before I was even aware of the concept of violence or sex! The media might have been hitting me with these themes left, right and center, but they were years behind chocolate in digging their claws into me.
You may doubt the power of chocolate. You might feel that my argument is not at all compelling. But I maintain that the power of cocoa is indeed lethal in the most exquisite of ways. Few things have more corrupting potential. We have witnessed the transformation of the healthiest of indulgences become an orgy of decadence as fruit is doused in molten chocolate. Chocolate oranges, raspberries, lemons, or my personal favorite, strawberries dipped in dark chocolate. We make deep fried batter even more potent by smothering our donuts in chocolate, or working the cocoa into the batter itself! Chocolate cake…chocolate pie…chocolate in our coffee to give birth to the mocha….chocolate in our liquor to make us drunk with bliss as true inebriation sets in.
Chocolate will not destroy our civilization, nor is it to blame for all the world’s ills. It is not the root source of our expanding waist lines, or contributing to the moral decay of society. Chocolate is not evil, but it is dangerous and it is a vice. People stand on pedestals and laud themselves for the things they give up…for the pleasures they deny themselves. I am of a different school of thought. I stand proudly before my peers and share my joy and desire for chocolate. I don’t have a shrine to this wonderful slice of decadence, but I should. Sometimes it feels good to stray. Sometimes it feels so very good, to be so very bad. Chocolate opens the doors to be devious, decadent and naughty, without truly hurting anyone or anything. The only victims are a diet or a little enamel on our teeth. I call that a small price to pay for this little pleasure. We may walk outside the Garden of Eden. Paradise might have been lost. But in the desolation and ruin chocolate was found, and thus we walk in the presence of that small taste of ambrosia, and know that heaven can indeed be found on Earth. Try El Muerte por Chocolate and you will know what I mean…
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