Scattered
The length of a night, day, week or month for that matter often escapes me as I live from one moment to the next. I’ve learned this about myself, that wherever I might be I am fully there, or as fully there as my constantly meandering mind allows me to be. When I sit with you I am there to do that one thing; sit with you. That’s why I show up, for you. Not to say that I don’t have my own selfish motives in mind but I try to be as present as the present allows.
I have tried to live my life in such a way as to have time for long, insightful conversations. This is what I live for. If I am not a rich man it is because living simply and loving others does not lend itself to making one rich, monetarily that is. I am coming to grips with the fact that in this life I will, save for some stroke of dumb luck (i.e. something like a drunken midnight decision where I find myself stumbling into a 7-11 handing over 2 dollars to the clerk behind the counter and him handing me back a lotto ticket which I hastily scratch off to reveal the lofty prize sum of 10 million dollars!!!), live a simple, low income life. At this point I am ok with that. In fact, I'm not sure I’d have it any other way.
Truth be told, I am naïve. Perhaps my mother sheltered me like a chick beneath the warmth of her wings for too many years. I do not know the woes of the truly poor. I am healthy, articulate enough to gain favor from a wide range of people in varying classes, and, simply put, white.
Sometimes I create. As an artist I have a certain amount of societal grace bestowed upon me. A grace that allows me to live in an unconventional way yet still be looked upon as a semi valuable member of society. As long as I am creating something worthwhile (worth is something completely subjective) then I am left alone to keep creating as I see fit.
You’ll have to forgive me as I have completely lost my train of thought due to a great burst of wind rushing down the blind black alley beside my room and out into a small courtyard which contains one, small bush that behaves more like a tree in appearance and height but is still only a bush by definition and species. This small bush tree is shaking violently for only a few seconds, the possession coming and going in a way that only the wind can truly produce.
The wind moves out over the fence and into some town homes that are built close enough to spit on. And sometimes I want to spit on them. Not because they are filled with people who are completely disconnected from the neighborhood that surrounds them but mostly just because I can spit pretty far.
It's a skill I picked up while living out my younger years in the south surrounded by NASCAR loving rednecks (R.I.P. Dale Earnhardt) and Skoal tobacco. Only once did I try a plug of chaw and even then it was the wussified version, all of the dark, rich tobacco wrapped up in a neat little cotton pouch which I was instructed to stick in the space between my lower lip and gum line. After 5 minutes of long hard pulls I became sick to my head and then to my stomach, promptly throwing up in the tall reeds that grew beside the stagnant algae green lake we were fishing in.
After that we reeled in our lines, threw our poles in the back of a rusty old truck bed and headed home.
There they are. The random thoughts of a quickly fading mind. Bright and early tomorrow morning it’s Obama and the Key Arena Rally. I'm there to catch a glimpse of what might possibly be our darkest skinned president yet to come. It sounds shallow but then again I never claimed to be deep.
I have tried to live my life in such a way as to have time for long, insightful conversations. This is what I live for. If I am not a rich man it is because living simply and loving others does not lend itself to making one rich, monetarily that is. I am coming to grips with the fact that in this life I will, save for some stroke of dumb luck (i.e. something like a drunken midnight decision where I find myself stumbling into a 7-11 handing over 2 dollars to the clerk behind the counter and him handing me back a lotto ticket which I hastily scratch off to reveal the lofty prize sum of 10 million dollars!!!), live a simple, low income life. At this point I am ok with that. In fact, I'm not sure I’d have it any other way.
Truth be told, I am naïve. Perhaps my mother sheltered me like a chick beneath the warmth of her wings for too many years. I do not know the woes of the truly poor. I am healthy, articulate enough to gain favor from a wide range of people in varying classes, and, simply put, white.
Sometimes I create. As an artist I have a certain amount of societal grace bestowed upon me. A grace that allows me to live in an unconventional way yet still be looked upon as a semi valuable member of society. As long as I am creating something worthwhile (worth is something completely subjective) then I am left alone to keep creating as I see fit.
You’ll have to forgive me as I have completely lost my train of thought due to a great burst of wind rushing down the blind black alley beside my room and out into a small courtyard which contains one, small bush that behaves more like a tree in appearance and height but is still only a bush by definition and species. This small bush tree is shaking violently for only a few seconds, the possession coming and going in a way that only the wind can truly produce.
The wind moves out over the fence and into some town homes that are built close enough to spit on. And sometimes I want to spit on them. Not because they are filled with people who are completely disconnected from the neighborhood that surrounds them but mostly just because I can spit pretty far.
It's a skill I picked up while living out my younger years in the south surrounded by NASCAR loving rednecks (R.I.P. Dale Earnhardt) and Skoal tobacco. Only once did I try a plug of chaw and even then it was the wussified version, all of the dark, rich tobacco wrapped up in a neat little cotton pouch which I was instructed to stick in the space between my lower lip and gum line. After 5 minutes of long hard pulls I became sick to my head and then to my stomach, promptly throwing up in the tall reeds that grew beside the stagnant algae green lake we were fishing in.
After that we reeled in our lines, threw our poles in the back of a rusty old truck bed and headed home.
There they are. The random thoughts of a quickly fading mind. Bright and early tomorrow morning it’s Obama and the Key Arena Rally. I'm there to catch a glimpse of what might possibly be our darkest skinned president yet to come. It sounds shallow but then again I never claimed to be deep.
posted by Corey at 9:43 PM
2 Comments:
hey, i am going to see obama too. i'm excited.
perhaps i'll see you there.
Post a Comment
<< Home