The title says it all.
Where to start, where to start, where to start.....how 'bout here?
It's painfully obvious that I don't have a fucking clue.
Now that that's stated, I can go on. It's amazing how much freedom that statement gives me. Just accepting the fact that I don't know it all, it allows me to move one. If you know me, you know that to a certain degree I have to know everything, or I'll at least give it a shot. Maybe it's not me, maybe it's a guy thing. Who knows?
It's past midnight on a school night, I should be asleep. But, I'm here, and so are you.
I was talking with a good friend (OK, maybe great friend) of mine, as I do often, about my next step. Which is never what I think it to be. 25-years-old. I've got the world ahead of me with a quarter of a century behind me. No strong footing to step on, to allow myself to climb higher up. Just sand. Quick sand, maybe.
Lately, I've fallen into the rut of waking up, cooking breakfast, setting the kids off to school, kissing the wife, and off to work I go.
Wait.....
I must've seen that on TV. But, I've fallen into the rut, anyway. Just without the kids or the wife. This whole concept of growing older, but not up, appeals to me. The problem is, I don't know if that's possible.
There seems to be a piece of the puzzle missing. One that I can't locate (hence the fact that it's missing). The problem is, I don't know what to look for. For as long as I can remember, I had this set plan of how my life was going to work out. Turns out, the only thing I had set planned was my career. Now, I wonder if that was just wishful thinking. Maybe I just assumed that once you hit a certain age and had a job, the rest would fall in line. No one said this would be easy. Bastards.
I was naive, I'm sure, in my presumptuous notion that a job = being grown up. That I had it all planned, and that was going to work.
Problem is, I don't like the plan that I had set forth for myself in 7th grade. Yeah, that's right, I'm doing what I've wanted to do since I was in 7th grade ('96-97). Great, right? Well, not so much anymore. I envy people that care so much, that are so passionate about what they want to do (solve world hunger, cure AIDS, etc.), yet, when I do what I do, I don't feel any good from it. Sure, it pays the bills (and I'm grateful for that) and I'm good at it (but I've got a lot to learn in this industry), but I don't know what kind of affect it has on the rest of the world.
We've all got a gift - whether we use it is up to us. I've got one. And sure it's nice and all, and I've shared it with the world once or twice (not my gum, but that is a gift that keeps on giving), there isn't much that can be made out of it. It's something I enjoy as a hobby, but in no way would I try to use it to support me (I'm not that good at it).
I talked with a couple of interns today, and told them "If you can find something that you can enjoy the dirty work, then go with it. Because, it'll only get better." Problem is, I can dish out advice like a barkeep and you're my only patron. My own medicine is harder to swallow. I'm not the type that thinks I deserve better (because I don't, and there's plenty of people out there who do, who deserve at the very least a fighting chance - I've got my cards, I'm playing my hand).
My puzzle doesn't seem to have a picture with it. So, not only am I missing a piece, but, I don't know where it's going to fit when I find it - into this picture that's only partially finished.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Drive
There's something to be said about driving. The Beatles sang about it. So did the Beach Boys. Even Chuck Berry got in on it. Sammy Hagar let us know that he "can't drive 55" - because really, who can? There's even a band called Cars.
Getting behind the wheel - there's power. You become the master of a two-ton wrecking machine. Gas. Brake. Clutch. Windows rolled down - the top if you're lucky. Gripping the steering wheel, white knuckled with a cold sweat. Like your first fight, you look around, trying to anticipate what others around you are doing, but ultimately it doesn't matter. You're in control. For once, you are your own boss. Going as fast as you need to to get where you're going, if anywhere in particular.
Weaving in and out of traffic like Barry Sanders. Cutting left. Then jamming on the gas pedal to avoid getting rear ended. You're flying now. Look ahead, the left lane is clear. You glance in your mirror like you do when you're checking yourself out in a reflective window walking down the street. Not enough to be considered vein. Not enough to worry about anyone that might be behind you as you start gliding down the highway.
The music blares. Not any of that top-40 crap. The oldies can't handle the speed. Jazz doesn't provide enough of a rhythm. Rock. Rock will direct your speed - dictate to the world who's highway this is. It's yours. The drum beat. Your foot listens to and adopts the pace of the skin player - like you were in the rehearsals when the song was cut. Your thumb now taps along on the steering wheel - picking up the beat.
You can't understand the words. You've tuned out the singer - the song is all too familiar to you, anyway. Your eyes are darting. The side view mirrors. All you see are the reflection from the lights behind you as each person you pass becomes another statistic.
The road bends, you bend. The tires hug the corner like the women saying goodbye to their G.I. Joes for the last time. There's no tears here, just rubber. Concrete. Inches from smearing the car against the sidewall. It doesn't matter, you don't think twice as the cars vibrations are almost unnoticeable. It hums like when your mother would lay you down to go to bed as a baby. It's a calming hum.
The songs have changed - but you haven't noticed. You're still in the moment. You can't take the risk of taking your eyes off the road - the station stays put. The car in the left lane isn't going to keep up with you. In your head you execute the perfect maneuver to avoid them without having to lay off the gas - time, is of the essence. Your hands are wet - you rub them on your pants to dry off the cold sweat.
You know people are looking at you as you fly by - the bullet leaving them for dead. Dust. You don't have the luxury of looking to see who's in the car next to you, like all the other times you've been in the car. It's not for fear of anything other than knowing you're better than them. It's not a race, but, you're not losing.
You lean forward to check your blindspot. You move right. Quick. The exit is coming. You don't know how far - you've yet to read a sign. You've been here before, it's no different than all the other trips you've made before.
Check the blind spot again. Clear. You hit the off ramp and lay on the brake. You pull of the highway and park the car. The cold sweat is gone. Your heart is pounding like the bass drum as the music blares. You turn the key and step out of the car. You breathe.
Getting behind the wheel - there's power. You become the master of a two-ton wrecking machine. Gas. Brake. Clutch. Windows rolled down - the top if you're lucky. Gripping the steering wheel, white knuckled with a cold sweat. Like your first fight, you look around, trying to anticipate what others around you are doing, but ultimately it doesn't matter. You're in control. For once, you are your own boss. Going as fast as you need to to get where you're going, if anywhere in particular.
Weaving in and out of traffic like Barry Sanders. Cutting left. Then jamming on the gas pedal to avoid getting rear ended. You're flying now. Look ahead, the left lane is clear. You glance in your mirror like you do when you're checking yourself out in a reflective window walking down the street. Not enough to be considered vein. Not enough to worry about anyone that might be behind you as you start gliding down the highway.
The music blares. Not any of that top-40 crap. The oldies can't handle the speed. Jazz doesn't provide enough of a rhythm. Rock. Rock will direct your speed - dictate to the world who's highway this is. It's yours. The drum beat. Your foot listens to and adopts the pace of the skin player - like you were in the rehearsals when the song was cut. Your thumb now taps along on the steering wheel - picking up the beat.
You can't understand the words. You've tuned out the singer - the song is all too familiar to you, anyway. Your eyes are darting. The side view mirrors. All you see are the reflection from the lights behind you as each person you pass becomes another statistic.
The road bends, you bend. The tires hug the corner like the women saying goodbye to their G.I. Joes for the last time. There's no tears here, just rubber. Concrete. Inches from smearing the car against the sidewall. It doesn't matter, you don't think twice as the cars vibrations are almost unnoticeable. It hums like when your mother would lay you down to go to bed as a baby. It's a calming hum.
The songs have changed - but you haven't noticed. You're still in the moment. You can't take the risk of taking your eyes off the road - the station stays put. The car in the left lane isn't going to keep up with you. In your head you execute the perfect maneuver to avoid them without having to lay off the gas - time, is of the essence. Your hands are wet - you rub them on your pants to dry off the cold sweat.
You know people are looking at you as you fly by - the bullet leaving them for dead. Dust. You don't have the luxury of looking to see who's in the car next to you, like all the other times you've been in the car. It's not for fear of anything other than knowing you're better than them. It's not a race, but, you're not losing.
You lean forward to check your blindspot. You move right. Quick. The exit is coming. You don't know how far - you've yet to read a sign. You've been here before, it's no different than all the other trips you've made before.
Check the blind spot again. Clear. You hit the off ramp and lay on the brake. You pull of the highway and park the car. The cold sweat is gone. Your heart is pounding like the bass drum as the music blares. You turn the key and step out of the car. You breathe.
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