I guess I never stopped to think about how moving 2150 miles from the place I've called home for much of my life would affect me. I've done so much traveling around the US that I've become accustomed to the instability, or so I thought. What I didn't realize is that this is an entirely new type of instability. In the past, whenever I traveled to a new place, I always knew that I would be returning home, that this new place was not going to be my new home. Being in a new place becomes a much easier experience when you know that you are just a part of the transient population and that this isn't a long term situation. And there is something about the simple enjoyability of being a member of a transient population that I've always loved.
When I moved to Louisiana, I thought that I would find the same enjoyability in moving that I do in traveling, and for a time I did. However, it's now occurring to me that I am not a member of the transient population here, that this is my new home, and I've lost the comfort I take in knowing that I can always go home. I think that I am finally being affected by culture shock. And homesickness is really setting in.
In effect, I've had to recreate myself and begin building a life for myself from almost nothing. I've left my large network of friends and acquaintances behind and I often find myself working much harder to make friends than I would have in Pennsylvania. I mean, making friends and being social has always been a natural and easy thing for me, but in Louisiana that's not the case. There are a different set of rules and requirements to make friends here. And signals that meant one thing for me in Pennsylvania have an entirely new meaning in Louisiana. Navigating social activities has become something of a chore and it's completely exhausting to present myself as a potential friend to someone when at this very moment, I'm not even sure that I know who I am or what I want. That's not to say that I'm giving up, because I'm not. I'm just frustrated and tired and occasionally, I'm lonely.
I miss my old life in Pennsylvania. It wasn't always an easy life, but it was comfortable. I had a routine and I almost always knew what I could expect. Here, I am unsure of almost everything. I feel like a piece of driftwood being tossed around in the sea. I'm sure that after a certain amount of time I will adjust to life here and be comfortable again, but for now, I just pine for my memories of ease and comfort.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Friday, May 21, 2010
The mutterings of a sleep deprived girl
It's late night here. Or maybe it's early morning. Is this what they call the pre-dawn hours? I suppose the time of day doesn't really matter though. What matters is that I'm sitting here, alone with my thoughts, in a room that feels more like a prison than a sanctuary. And I'm lonely. I'm not often lonely, though when loneliness strikes it always seems to find me at night when everyone else is happily dreaming. Even my cat is comfortably snoozing at my feet. Maybe if I hadn't drank so much coffee today, or was it yesterday already, I'd be able to sleep too.
I'm not being fair though. The coffee that I drank is only partially responsible for my wakefulness. Mostly, I am plagued by racing thoughts that follow one after the next, as though attached to each other like a train. The worst part is that these thoughts have little substance. They aren't important. I am not awake in the middle of the night because I am solving some great mathematical equation, or because I have just composed the next Moonlight Sonata. No, I'm awake because of thoughts like these: "I wonder if they have a lot of mosquitoes in Louisiana," and, "How many germs and how much bacteria does chlorine really kill when it's used in a public swimming pool?" and "Why does my ionizer make that annoying hissing noise even after I've cleaned it?" Why is it that these are the questions keeping me awake at night?
I'd play my guitar to help me relax, but it's almost four in the morning and I don't think that the other people who live here would take kindly to rock 'n' roll interrupting their slumber. I'd paint in the basement, but it appears that I am out of paint thinner right now. I'd read a book, but that would only give my mind more material to think about. So instead, I'm blogging, which doesn't seem to be helping much either. Rather than moving smoothly through my mind, my thoughts seem to have become a jumbled, tangled mess.
I suppose that my thoughts will fade away as I drift off to sleep. Until then, I will wonder if I should repaint my toenails with a bolder shade of silver glitter. I'll wonder if my impending move to Louisiana will give me the change of venue that I have been craving. And I'll wonder exactly how many hours of sitting in a car I can endure before my legs begin to tingle, cramp or ache.
I'm not being fair though. The coffee that I drank is only partially responsible for my wakefulness. Mostly, I am plagued by racing thoughts that follow one after the next, as though attached to each other like a train. The worst part is that these thoughts have little substance. They aren't important. I am not awake in the middle of the night because I am solving some great mathematical equation, or because I have just composed the next Moonlight Sonata. No, I'm awake because of thoughts like these: "I wonder if they have a lot of mosquitoes in Louisiana," and, "How many germs and how much bacteria does chlorine really kill when it's used in a public swimming pool?" and "Why does my ionizer make that annoying hissing noise even after I've cleaned it?" Why is it that these are the questions keeping me awake at night?
I'd play my guitar to help me relax, but it's almost four in the morning and I don't think that the other people who live here would take kindly to rock 'n' roll interrupting their slumber. I'd paint in the basement, but it appears that I am out of paint thinner right now. I'd read a book, but that would only give my mind more material to think about. So instead, I'm blogging, which doesn't seem to be helping much either. Rather than moving smoothly through my mind, my thoughts seem to have become a jumbled, tangled mess.
I suppose that my thoughts will fade away as I drift off to sleep. Until then, I will wonder if I should repaint my toenails with a bolder shade of silver glitter. I'll wonder if my impending move to Louisiana will give me the change of venue that I have been craving. And I'll wonder exactly how many hours of sitting in a car I can endure before my legs begin to tingle, cramp or ache.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Kenneth Burke's Dramatism: Overview and Application
What better way to begin a story than at the beginning? But which beginning is worthy of the reader’s careful eyes? After all, there are potential beginnings to stories coming to existence every second of every day. How should anyone know which story to tell, or where a story really begins? It seems that there are so many questions that need to be answered, but let’s not waste our time with those questions. Instead, allow me to tell you a short story of my own invention, which may or may not begin at the beginning.
I walk out of the door and onto a small bus with comfortable chairs. There are televisions buzzing with static in a quiet way overhead. This bus is already nearly full with people chattering to one another. In less than five minutes we will be on our way. I don’t know the destination of this bus, nor do I care. I just look forward to the beginning of a new adventure, as this one has grown tiresome. I pull out my iPod, slip my ear buds into my ears and blast classical music into my brain. As the Moonlight Sonata plays and the bus begins to move forward, I drift off to sleep. The darkness envelops me like the arms of an old friend and the conscious world drifts away. I am standing alone against a blank canvas that is mine for creating and somewhere above me Barber’s Adagio for Strings begins to play its melancholy strains. I pick up a paintbrush, dry and soft, and begin to paint the nothingness into something.
The brush moves with the sound of the strings, long slow strokes of disembodied enchantment. The mood a soft blue, a quiet sadness in the tone offers a look at a somber world in the process of becoming. Then the brush strokes shorten, not quite staccato, and whites and yellows dot the background of what will surely be a masterpiece. I close my eyes and let the music guide me. My hand moves across the canvas, as though a dancer sashaying across a stage. The haunting music builds… crescendo… and hold. I tremble. Sustaining the note… release and rest… and then, pianissimo. As the song ends, the brush falls from my hand and disappears. My muscles pull my eyelids upward and light floods into my pupils. They constrict and I can see what I have created. The canvas of this dream? A quiet nightmare of horror and sadness. An interrupted New York City skyline bathed in blue with smoke billowing in the place where the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center once stood confronts me. Is it really September 11th again?
A story of a dream, which reflects a day I will never forget, is the story I have chosen to share. Yet, this story, as all others is significant. While it seems to be a small story of nothing more than a dream, it might be so much more when considered through the lens of Kenneth Burke’s dramatism.
Kenneth Burke’s dramatism became a part of communication theory in the late 1950s. However, even before dramatism was acknowledged by the field of communication, Burke was using the word, “to describe what he saw going on when people opened their mouths to communicate” (Griffin, 2009, p. 289). Burke concerned himself with the drama of life. In order to better understand this drama, he went on to define the term identification as it pertains to dramatism and he created the dramatistic pentad.
Burkean identification is the ability for a speaker and the audience to connect with each other through such things as, “physical characteristics, talents, occupations, experiences, personality, beliefs, and attitudes” (Griffin, 2009, p. 209). It was Burke’s belief that a speaker could not persuade his or her audience without identification, which could work to unify and/or divide depending upon the cause of the speaker. In accordance with Burkean identification, I, as the speaker, have expectations that the reader(s) of my story, the audience, will be able to identify with me. In particular, I play upon the idea that my readers and I will be able to relate to one another through the shared experience of falling asleep and dreaming, through the shared experience of remembering the September 11th, 2001 terrorist attacks on New York City, through the shared experience of listening to Samuel Barber’s “Adagio for Strings” and through the shared experience and talent of painting. If my audience is able to identify with me on the basis of our common ground, our shared experiences or similar talents, then perhaps I will be able to persuade them to see the verisimilitude of my story.
Further, Burke’s dramatistic pentad is “a tool to analyze how a speaker attempts to get an audience to accept his or her view of reality using five key elements of the human drama – act, scene, agent, agency, and purpose” (Griffin, 2009, p. 291). It was Burke’s belief that when a message used one of the five elements more than the other elements, or when a message placed more stress upon one of those five elements than it did upon the other elements, that the speaker’s worldview or philosophy would be revealed. Based upon the pentad, my story can be analyzed to find out how I attempted to get my audience to accept my view of reality, and my story can be analyzed to reveal my worldview or philosophy.
Act considers what is done, or what has taken place. In my story there were three acts. The first act was the boarding of a bus, the next act was falling asleep, and the final act was the creation of my dream.
Scene considers when and where the act is taking place, thus giving context to the act. In my story there were two scenes. The first scene is the scene of the crowded bus bound for an undisclosed location. The second scene is that of my dream, which is described as a canvas in various stages throughout the progression of the dream. The canvas goes from being a blank canvas to becoming the interrupted New York City skyline.
Agent is the person who is performing the act. Within my story, all acts were performed by only one agent: me. Though often I was carrying out an action using only one part of myself, such as my hand or my eyes, in my story.
Agency considers the means the agent employs to carry out the act. There were several types of agency within my story. First, I walked onto the bus. Then, I used music to help me fall asleep. Once I was asleep, I used music to help me create my dream by painting on a canvas.
Purpose is the speaker’s stated goal or the speaker’s implied goal of the story or address. While there are no clear goals of the story, I could argue that there were two implied goals of this story: reminding my audience of the September 11th attacks in New York City, and encouraging my audience to believe that we create our own dreams out of memories, symbols and sensory experiences.
Simply based upon this analysis, it is possible to argue that the pentad has revealed my philosophy or worldview to be a commitment to realism or pragmatism, as I do favor the elements of act and agency. I, however, disagree with that. Knowing myself as I do, I find myself quite often avoiding pragmatism. Quite often I enjoy the most complicated and least practical means of arriving at my destination, whatever or wherever it might be. But, I digress…
So you, dear reader, did you experience identification? Did you accept my story as a view of my reality? How did my story make you feel? Using Burke’s pentad, what did your analysis of my story yield? And what does my story make you think of me?
References
Griffin, E. (2009). A first look at communication theory (7th ed.).
New York, NY: McGraw-Hill.
I walk out of the door and onto a small bus with comfortable chairs. There are televisions buzzing with static in a quiet way overhead. This bus is already nearly full with people chattering to one another. In less than five minutes we will be on our way. I don’t know the destination of this bus, nor do I care. I just look forward to the beginning of a new adventure, as this one has grown tiresome. I pull out my iPod, slip my ear buds into my ears and blast classical music into my brain. As the Moonlight Sonata plays and the bus begins to move forward, I drift off to sleep. The darkness envelops me like the arms of an old friend and the conscious world drifts away. I am standing alone against a blank canvas that is mine for creating and somewhere above me Barber’s Adagio for Strings begins to play its melancholy strains. I pick up a paintbrush, dry and soft, and begin to paint the nothingness into something.
The brush moves with the sound of the strings, long slow strokes of disembodied enchantment. The mood a soft blue, a quiet sadness in the tone offers a look at a somber world in the process of becoming. Then the brush strokes shorten, not quite staccato, and whites and yellows dot the background of what will surely be a masterpiece. I close my eyes and let the music guide me. My hand moves across the canvas, as though a dancer sashaying across a stage. The haunting music builds… crescendo… and hold. I tremble. Sustaining the note… release and rest… and then, pianissimo. As the song ends, the brush falls from my hand and disappears. My muscles pull my eyelids upward and light floods into my pupils. They constrict and I can see what I have created. The canvas of this dream? A quiet nightmare of horror and sadness. An interrupted New York City skyline bathed in blue with smoke billowing in the place where the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center once stood confronts me. Is it really September 11th again?
A story of a dream, which reflects a day I will never forget, is the story I have chosen to share. Yet, this story, as all others is significant. While it seems to be a small story of nothing more than a dream, it might be so much more when considered through the lens of Kenneth Burke’s dramatism.
Kenneth Burke’s dramatism became a part of communication theory in the late 1950s. However, even before dramatism was acknowledged by the field of communication, Burke was using the word, “to describe what he saw going on when people opened their mouths to communicate” (Griffin, 2009, p. 289). Burke concerned himself with the drama of life. In order to better understand this drama, he went on to define the term identification as it pertains to dramatism and he created the dramatistic pentad.
Burkean identification is the ability for a speaker and the audience to connect with each other through such things as, “physical characteristics, talents, occupations, experiences, personality, beliefs, and attitudes” (Griffin, 2009, p. 209). It was Burke’s belief that a speaker could not persuade his or her audience without identification, which could work to unify and/or divide depending upon the cause of the speaker. In accordance with Burkean identification, I, as the speaker, have expectations that the reader(s) of my story, the audience, will be able to identify with me. In particular, I play upon the idea that my readers and I will be able to relate to one another through the shared experience of falling asleep and dreaming, through the shared experience of remembering the September 11th, 2001 terrorist attacks on New York City, through the shared experience of listening to Samuel Barber’s “Adagio for Strings” and through the shared experience and talent of painting. If my audience is able to identify with me on the basis of our common ground, our shared experiences or similar talents, then perhaps I will be able to persuade them to see the verisimilitude of my story.
Further, Burke’s dramatistic pentad is “a tool to analyze how a speaker attempts to get an audience to accept his or her view of reality using five key elements of the human drama – act, scene, agent, agency, and purpose” (Griffin, 2009, p. 291). It was Burke’s belief that when a message used one of the five elements more than the other elements, or when a message placed more stress upon one of those five elements than it did upon the other elements, that the speaker’s worldview or philosophy would be revealed. Based upon the pentad, my story can be analyzed to find out how I attempted to get my audience to accept my view of reality, and my story can be analyzed to reveal my worldview or philosophy.
Act considers what is done, or what has taken place. In my story there were three acts. The first act was the boarding of a bus, the next act was falling asleep, and the final act was the creation of my dream.
Scene considers when and where the act is taking place, thus giving context to the act. In my story there were two scenes. The first scene is the scene of the crowded bus bound for an undisclosed location. The second scene is that of my dream, which is described as a canvas in various stages throughout the progression of the dream. The canvas goes from being a blank canvas to becoming the interrupted New York City skyline.
Agent is the person who is performing the act. Within my story, all acts were performed by only one agent: me. Though often I was carrying out an action using only one part of myself, such as my hand or my eyes, in my story.
Agency considers the means the agent employs to carry out the act. There were several types of agency within my story. First, I walked onto the bus. Then, I used music to help me fall asleep. Once I was asleep, I used music to help me create my dream by painting on a canvas.
Purpose is the speaker’s stated goal or the speaker’s implied goal of the story or address. While there are no clear goals of the story, I could argue that there were two implied goals of this story: reminding my audience of the September 11th attacks in New York City, and encouraging my audience to believe that we create our own dreams out of memories, symbols and sensory experiences.
Simply based upon this analysis, it is possible to argue that the pentad has revealed my philosophy or worldview to be a commitment to realism or pragmatism, as I do favor the elements of act and agency. I, however, disagree with that. Knowing myself as I do, I find myself quite often avoiding pragmatism. Quite often I enjoy the most complicated and least practical means of arriving at my destination, whatever or wherever it might be. But, I digress…
So you, dear reader, did you experience identification? Did you accept my story as a view of my reality? How did my story make you feel? Using Burke’s pentad, what did your analysis of my story yield? And what does my story make you think of me?
References
Griffin, E. (2009). A first look at communication theory (7th ed.).
New York, NY: McGraw-Hill.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
The wolves
I have kind of been living inside of my own personal Hell recently. (Searching for a personal Jesus is harder than it looks, I might add.) In any case, as in any life, there are ups and there are downs and you have to take the good with the bad. I have come to realize this to be one of the most important lessons I've ever learned. Regardless, in a recent email, I was fortunate to receive encouraging words and this tidbit of Native American wisdom. I am sharing it here:
One evening a Cherokee elder told his grandson about the battle that goes on inside of people. He said, “My son, the battle is between the two ‘wolves’ that live inside us all. One is Unhappiness. It is fear, worry, anger, jealousy, sorrow, self-pity, resentment, and inferiority. The other is Happiness. It is joy, love, hope, serenity, kindness, generosity, truth, and compassion.”
The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf wins?”
The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”
I don't know much about wolves, but I hope that in my life, I've managed to choose the correct wolf.
One evening a Cherokee elder told his grandson about the battle that goes on inside of people. He said, “My son, the battle is between the two ‘wolves’ that live inside us all. One is Unhappiness. It is fear, worry, anger, jealousy, sorrow, self-pity, resentment, and inferiority. The other is Happiness. It is joy, love, hope, serenity, kindness, generosity, truth, and compassion.”
The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf wins?”
The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”
I don't know much about wolves, but I hope that in my life, I've managed to choose the correct wolf.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
A Conflict: Reality versus Romantic Ideals.
The songs written about love that lasts forever, about lovers being wrenched apart, but vowing to remain true to each other, about a heart being devoted to one person for all of eternity, are the epitome of romantic. They are beautiful and terrible all at the same time. They speak of heartache and rescue in the same breath. These songs speak volumes to the apparent magnitude of humanity's capabilities to love and be loved. They are songs of faith -- a faith that all things will be restored to their proper order as long as love is true and prevails. I'd like to think that these songs speak the truth, that if I just continue to love, that everything will be restored to its proper order, and I will be rescued by my true love and we can love each other forever. Yet, with my somewhat jaded perceptions of the world, skewed as they may be, I just can't seem to wrap my head around the idea that love will prevail and I will be able to ride off into the sunset with my knight in shining armor. Isn't it human nature to doubt? And aren't we all inherently selfish creatures? And what if love becomes synonymous with hurt? When it hurts to love, is love even worth the effort? And how far will blind faith get me? But, non-God, I want all of it! I want the songs to be true. I want to love and be loved and to be rescued and to be held forever.
At this point, I am forced to battle myself. My understanding of reality is at odds with my want of these romantic ideals to win out. I cannot have my reality and these romantic ideas together because they conflict with each other. The reality that I've grown to accept is that humans are fickle, that they are emotional and easily confused. Most times, humans are conflicted, torn between an idea, an ideal, an emotion, a word, a phrase, an action. And love exists in so many forms, though it isn't a tangible thing. Moreover, in my understanding of reality, humans are capable of loving more than one person in more than one way. They are even capable of being in love with more than one person at any given time. And when that happens, a heart cannot be given fully to any one person, though pieces of that heart are devoted to each party involved. Yet, this reality conflicts with the romantic notions presented in these songs. And it is this conflict, which makes it so hard for me to buy into the idea that these songs have any validity at all. All of this just makes me want to scream:
Does love, as the songs describe, truly exist? And if it does, when is it my turn to find it? And will it hurt? And can it really last forever, when nothing else seems to? Or if such a thing doesn't exist, why does the entertainment industry perpetuate the idea that it does? Why give people false hope? Why? And when? When is it my turn to find all of this?
But wait, look at me! Again, true to my selfish nature, this has become all about me. But what if it isn't meant to be about me? What if I've got it all wrong? What if it isn't about being loved, as much as it's about loving another unconditionally? I am so confused.
The truth is that I do love, and I am in love with someone, and I am confused and horribly conflicted. And now I find myself further at odds with my perception of reality, and my irrational want of a non-existent idea. If only ideas weren't so appealing! If only reality wasn't so convincing! But really, was this ever about my head at all? I rather think it is more likely entirely a matter of my heart. All I know for sure is that I love, I am in love, and I am loved in return. Shouldn't all of that be enough?
Run by Snow Patrol
I'll sing it one last time for you
Then we really have to go
You've been the only thing that's right
In all I've done.
And I can barely look at you
But every single time I do
I know we'll make it anywhere
Away from here.
Light up, light up
As if you have a choice.
Even if you cannot hear my voice,
I'll be right beside you, dear.
Louder, louder
And we'll run for our lives.
I can hardly speak, I understand
Why you can't raise your voice to say.
To think I might not see those eyes
Makes it so hard not to cry
And as we say our long goodbye,
I nearly do.
Light up, light up
As if you have a choice.
Even if you cannot hear my voice,
I'll be right beside you, dear.
Louder, louder
And we'll run for our lives.
I can hardly speak, I understand
Why you can't raise your voice to say.
Slower, slower
We don't have time for that.
All I want is to find an easier way
To get out of our little heads.
Have my heart, dear.
We're bound to be afraid,
Even if it's just for a few days,
Making up for all this mess.
Light up, light up
As if you have a choice.
Even if you cannot hear my voice,
I'll be right beside you, dear.
At this point, I am forced to battle myself. My understanding of reality is at odds with my want of these romantic ideals to win out. I cannot have my reality and these romantic ideas together because they conflict with each other. The reality that I've grown to accept is that humans are fickle, that they are emotional and easily confused. Most times, humans are conflicted, torn between an idea, an ideal, an emotion, a word, a phrase, an action. And love exists in so many forms, though it isn't a tangible thing. Moreover, in my understanding of reality, humans are capable of loving more than one person in more than one way. They are even capable of being in love with more than one person at any given time. And when that happens, a heart cannot be given fully to any one person, though pieces of that heart are devoted to each party involved. Yet, this reality conflicts with the romantic notions presented in these songs. And it is this conflict, which makes it so hard for me to buy into the idea that these songs have any validity at all. All of this just makes me want to scream:
Does love, as the songs describe, truly exist? And if it does, when is it my turn to find it? And will it hurt? And can it really last forever, when nothing else seems to? Or if such a thing doesn't exist, why does the entertainment industry perpetuate the idea that it does? Why give people false hope? Why? And when? When is it my turn to find all of this?
But wait, look at me! Again, true to my selfish nature, this has become all about me. But what if it isn't meant to be about me? What if I've got it all wrong? What if it isn't about being loved, as much as it's about loving another unconditionally? I am so confused.
The truth is that I do love, and I am in love with someone, and I am confused and horribly conflicted. And now I find myself further at odds with my perception of reality, and my irrational want of a non-existent idea. If only ideas weren't so appealing! If only reality wasn't so convincing! But really, was this ever about my head at all? I rather think it is more likely entirely a matter of my heart. All I know for sure is that I love, I am in love, and I am loved in return. Shouldn't all of that be enough?
Run by Snow Patrol
I'll sing it one last time for you
Then we really have to go
You've been the only thing that's right
In all I've done.
And I can barely look at you
But every single time I do
I know we'll make it anywhere
Away from here.
Light up, light up
As if you have a choice.
Even if you cannot hear my voice,
I'll be right beside you, dear.
Louder, louder
And we'll run for our lives.
I can hardly speak, I understand
Why you can't raise your voice to say.
To think I might not see those eyes
Makes it so hard not to cry
And as we say our long goodbye,
I nearly do.
Light up, light up
As if you have a choice.
Even if you cannot hear my voice,
I'll be right beside you, dear.
Louder, louder
And we'll run for our lives.
I can hardly speak, I understand
Why you can't raise your voice to say.
Slower, slower
We don't have time for that.
All I want is to find an easier way
To get out of our little heads.
Have my heart, dear.
We're bound to be afraid,
Even if it's just for a few days,
Making up for all this mess.
Light up, light up
As if you have a choice.
Even if you cannot hear my voice,
I'll be right beside you, dear.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
The Kismet Edict
And fate decreed
"'Twas meant to be!"
The words from lush lips fell,
Tumbling toward the dirt.
Spun sugar, the web ensnared us,
Captured all our lives and bound us.
"You are mine, my dear."
The song she sang,
Keening high, so sweetly,
Shattered eardrums,
Cochlea, anvil and hammer.
"I am no prisoner of yours!"
To move along so freely,
Liquid, flowing, and seething,
Like molten rock carving paths
Of destruction through healthy life.
"I'll create my own destiny."
But destiny had chosen prior:
"'Twas meant to be!"
Choices, free enterprises,
Human agency didn't matter
As the world turned 'round its axis,
Fixed to a shining star.
"You are mine, my dear."
"'Twas meant to be!"
The words from lush lips fell,
Tumbling toward the dirt.
Spun sugar, the web ensnared us,
Captured all our lives and bound us.
"You are mine, my dear."
The song she sang,
Keening high, so sweetly,
Shattered eardrums,
Cochlea, anvil and hammer.
"I am no prisoner of yours!"
To move along so freely,
Liquid, flowing, and seething,
Like molten rock carving paths
Of destruction through healthy life.
"I'll create my own destiny."
But destiny had chosen prior:
"'Twas meant to be!"
Choices, free enterprises,
Human agency didn't matter
As the world turned 'round its axis,
Fixed to a shining star.
"You are mine, my dear."
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Allowing my mind to wander
The empty road laid out before me, stretching the great expanse of my life, or at least stretching itself between Reading and Lancaster. Sparklehorse was playing through my car speakers and the window, halfway open, allowed the warm night air to rush into my car. I was traveling 65 mph down 222 North headed for home. Every few miles a green sign would pass, almost anonymously, almost, but not quite. These signs heralded exits to towns I knew by heart. And in between these green signs stood obnoxious orange signs announcing "Caution: Road Work Ahead. Left Lane Closed." And yet, I knew that these signs were lies. There was no road work happening on 222 at 2:27 AM. There never was. And really, why should there be? It's 2:27 in the morning, for Chrissakes!
The fog rolled in, the dotted white line blurred by my speed, the small white reflecters stuck in the road glowed faintly, all serving as lonely reminders of the quiet of the night. Every now and again, I'd pass a set of headlights traveling in the opposite direction, but mostly, I was alone in the night. And being alone was perfectly fine by me. Being alone on that longish drive home allowed me time to think.
65 mph down 222 North and I allowed my mind to wander:
So this is it? This is where I'm at? This is my life? Somehow, I thought there would be more than this. In fact, I'm certain that there must be more than this. I was sure that I'd find happiness sooner or later. Well, really, I was sure that I'd find happiness soon. And here I am, still searching. What am I doing? Or rather, what am I doing wrong?
Is bartending really so bad, though? I mean, it has it's moments where it's really not so bad. I'm getting paid to hang out and talk to people while they get drunk, which isn't a bad gig. How many other people can say that their job is so relaxed? And sometimes I think bartending is worth all of the frustration simply because of the ridiculous stories I've accumulated from my years as a bartender. I could write a book about the antics of the drunk people I've served. But then I stop to think about those very same drunk people and my headache resumes. GAWD, they are so terrible! But who am I to talk? As a bartender, I'm likely to be one of the worst bar patrons when I'm on the other side of the bar. I'm drinking to get drunk, to forget it all. I know the loopholes and will use every single one of them if it means that I can imbibe more alcohol. Sure, I'll tip well and I won't argue if I get cut off, but there is some truth to the statement that bartenders are the worst bar patrons.
Like I said, I allowed my mind to wander....
Then I was taking my exit and the scenery changed along the twisty road. A few more minutes to think was all that the rest of this ride afforded me.
People can be so terribly rude sometimes. And so often they are inconsiderate of the feelings of others. Are we really so selfish, all of us? Isn't there anything we can do? I don't want to be so selfish. I'd never call myself altruistic, but I don't want to be so selfish either. Perhaps I am a happy medium of sorts. Is there a happy medium?
My hand hurts. How the Hell did I cut it open and why is it still burning? Maybe I got lemon juice in it. That's possible.
Will I ever find my happiness? I mean, really? I feel like I'm getting older and that's because I am. I don't feel as young as I once was and it feels like maybe I'm doing something wrong. I don't want to do this wrong. I want to live life the right way, the way it's meant to be. I feel like an old soul and I intend to get it right this time so that I can finally rest. I mean, really, really rest. I want to be done. I want to return to starseed and starshine.
Maybe my happiness is waiting in another place. Maybe it means I'm supposed to leave here and find my destiny elsewhere. It just feels like I'm meant to be doing something so much larger than what I'm doing here and I can't help but wonder if I'm limiting myself by staying in Reading. What else is out there? Who else is out there? Where would I go?
And then it was time to reign in my mind, to stop the wandering, because I had reached my final destination: home. And I'll admit, my home has never felt less like my home in my entire life. I felt the dread in the pit of my stomach as I realized that I'd arrived to this loathsome place yet again. And it was almost like the dread was an indicator that perhaps it's soon time for me to move on. As I closed my car door and headed for the front door of my house, I found myself pondering one simple sentence, provided to me on Twitter by @bobwoodcock: "Home is where the suitcase is." I think he was correct in saying so, in fact. Home is not where my heart is, for my heart travels with me. My nomadic, little heart has the wanderlust nearly constantly. I've never felt more free than when in transit, than when I move around, than when I am exhilerated by the adventure of a new and strange place, which allows me my anonymity. In fact, I think, perhaps, home is where the suitcase is.
The fog rolled in, the dotted white line blurred by my speed, the small white reflecters stuck in the road glowed faintly, all serving as lonely reminders of the quiet of the night. Every now and again, I'd pass a set of headlights traveling in the opposite direction, but mostly, I was alone in the night. And being alone was perfectly fine by me. Being alone on that longish drive home allowed me time to think.
65 mph down 222 North and I allowed my mind to wander:
So this is it? This is where I'm at? This is my life? Somehow, I thought there would be more than this. In fact, I'm certain that there must be more than this. I was sure that I'd find happiness sooner or later. Well, really, I was sure that I'd find happiness soon. And here I am, still searching. What am I doing? Or rather, what am I doing wrong?
Is bartending really so bad, though? I mean, it has it's moments where it's really not so bad. I'm getting paid to hang out and talk to people while they get drunk, which isn't a bad gig. How many other people can say that their job is so relaxed? And sometimes I think bartending is worth all of the frustration simply because of the ridiculous stories I've accumulated from my years as a bartender. I could write a book about the antics of the drunk people I've served. But then I stop to think about those very same drunk people and my headache resumes. GAWD, they are so terrible! But who am I to talk? As a bartender, I'm likely to be one of the worst bar patrons when I'm on the other side of the bar. I'm drinking to get drunk, to forget it all. I know the loopholes and will use every single one of them if it means that I can imbibe more alcohol. Sure, I'll tip well and I won't argue if I get cut off, but there is some truth to the statement that bartenders are the worst bar patrons.
Like I said, I allowed my mind to wander....
Then I was taking my exit and the scenery changed along the twisty road. A few more minutes to think was all that the rest of this ride afforded me.
People can be so terribly rude sometimes. And so often they are inconsiderate of the feelings of others. Are we really so selfish, all of us? Isn't there anything we can do? I don't want to be so selfish. I'd never call myself altruistic, but I don't want to be so selfish either. Perhaps I am a happy medium of sorts. Is there a happy medium?
My hand hurts. How the Hell did I cut it open and why is it still burning? Maybe I got lemon juice in it. That's possible.
Will I ever find my happiness? I mean, really? I feel like I'm getting older and that's because I am. I don't feel as young as I once was and it feels like maybe I'm doing something wrong. I don't want to do this wrong. I want to live life the right way, the way it's meant to be. I feel like an old soul and I intend to get it right this time so that I can finally rest. I mean, really, really rest. I want to be done. I want to return to starseed and starshine.
Maybe my happiness is waiting in another place. Maybe it means I'm supposed to leave here and find my destiny elsewhere. It just feels like I'm meant to be doing something so much larger than what I'm doing here and I can't help but wonder if I'm limiting myself by staying in Reading. What else is out there? Who else is out there? Where would I go?
And then it was time to reign in my mind, to stop the wandering, because I had reached my final destination: home. And I'll admit, my home has never felt less like my home in my entire life. I felt the dread in the pit of my stomach as I realized that I'd arrived to this loathsome place yet again. And it was almost like the dread was an indicator that perhaps it's soon time for me to move on. As I closed my car door and headed for the front door of my house, I found myself pondering one simple sentence, provided to me on Twitter by @bobwoodcock: "Home is where the suitcase is." I think he was correct in saying so, in fact. Home is not where my heart is, for my heart travels with me. My nomadic, little heart has the wanderlust nearly constantly. I've never felt more free than when in transit, than when I move around, than when I am exhilerated by the adventure of a new and strange place, which allows me my anonymity. In fact, I think, perhaps, home is where the suitcase is.
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