Memory

One of my biggest fears is that I’ll forget about you. That your touch, taste, sound, smell and true (un-pixelated, un-Skype-filtered) look will fade from my memory. That I’ll forget more of our past and how things were and how we felt than I already have. Three years is a lot of stuff to remember. If I believed in God, I would thank him for giving you such a wonderful memory and an acute attention for detail. (But since I don’t, I guess I’ll just thank your ill mother and absent father, as much as I hate their guts.) Three years is such an awful lot to remember. Not only does my internal memory disk not hold that much, but it corrupts some files that I do have. I just can’t trust it. But you, my wonderful external hard drive, you keep things for me. Thank you.

                I wish I could download my files of you onto you, so they wouldn't go bad. Which they are, every day. It scares me so much, because I want to hold on to you. Everything that you were and are – everything – I need it with me. I need it so I can retrieve it when we’re together again, so I can know where to pick up. So I can remember how far you've come. Thus I torture myself into seeing you as often as I can. To looking through your photos. To remembering you whenever I have time. True, a lot of this happens involuntarily, but I feel it’s partially because my subconscious is trying to back up the JPEGS and MP3’s that are somewhat quickly degrading in quality. And also, of course, because you make me happy. Though, it’s kind of funny, because when I’m sobbing over how much I miss you and am pleading to “the universe” to let you hear me, I’m saying “He makes me so happy.” But you really do. What hurts is not having you here. Not being with you. Not being able to call you my own. Not knowing if you’ll ever come back for me. And if you don’t, you’ll take our memories with you. Because without you… we will disappear. And I just can’t bear the thought of that.

The Pursuit of Happiness

If you ask a foreigner, especially a European, they’d say Americans are neurotic. Which is true, of course. Most of the world doesn't really get the “on time” idea. Time is irrelevant when life is being lived. We Americans worry and obsess over our near and distant futures that we forget the ‘why’ in our mania over the ‘how.’ That is, when achieving a goal trumps the process of achieving. We’re so concerned with… well, we’re just so concerned. We’re going places quickly, we’re crunching for deadlines, we’re skimming to get through it. We’re left at the end thinking there’s just not enough time in the day to get everything done. But, what exactly are we getting done? What did I actually do today? I went to a class that quantifies my knowledge and ability to perceive into a range of five letters. (My sociology class is rationalizing and standardizing me. Hilarious!) Then I spent two whole hours trying to get a discount on train tickets that I bought to go see my family this weekend to postpone my inevitable nervous breakdown I’ll have from fear of failure in this crucial time in my life: college. Then I ate. Then I went to another class which is modeled entirely by bureaucrats, or “bean counters” as my professor likes to call them, because it’s a general education requirement for every degree here- so of course it has to be useless. They clearly weren't able to distinguish the difference between accumulating points and learning. Then I ate again. Then I went to an Undergraduates For Publishing meeting where, instead of paying attention to the author Q&A that the meeting was for, I found myself much more interested with what the girl in front of me was doing with her hair. She had some of it in this little clip and then slowly wrapped other groups of hair around it, to make this kind of swirly line along her head. Then she undid it. She did this over and over again the entire time. And I watched her- the entire time. Then I went back to my room, ate some more, got kicked out because my roommate needs to be in a cone of silence in order to go to sleep, and then finally ended up here, in the floor common room, where I’m writing this shit at 1:00 in the morning instead of doing my homework that’s due… today. And I sat, an hour ago, thinking there’s just not enough hours in the day, asking where all the time went. Where did it go? What am I doing? I’m trying to stay sane and alive in a place that I’m just using to get my degree to hopefully get a good job in a field that I’m hoping I’ll be able to stand for the rest of my life so that I can earn enough money to get my own home in which I can have kids and then save enough to send them off to do the same exact thing. And I call that happiness. I’m going to college so that one day I can achieve real happiness. People here always say that, don’t they? “What do you want in life?” “I just want to be happy, man.” And then they spend at least a good ten years of scurrying around, frantically keeping connections and building resumes to get to “happiness.” Foreigners don’t get it. They’re happy in that moment that they’re living in. For them, happiness isn't some distant notion that’s directly associated with the success of their pursuits. It’s just not about pursuits. The moment is there, given to them, and they choose to savor it. Do you think they have it right?

If you asked Freud, we’d surely be his next case history on severe neuroses. We’re abnormally sensitive, obsessive, tense and anxious. And yet somehow, America is the top nation in the world in just about everything. We are the world’s big sister (I say sister because we are much more involved with fashion and gossip than a typical big brother would be). If we go down, so does everyone else. When we have good times, the world has good times (well, except most of Africa- they’re kind of in a perpetual bad time). So maybe there’s something good to be said about anxious Americans. After all, we created the land of opportunity. Isn't that incredible? It certainly is.

If a neurotic nation can be so awesome, that makes me feel a bit better about my being neurotic. I’m a little bit crazy. I think way, way too much- spend a whole hell of a lot more time in my head than I should. It’s made me nuts. I’m in a constant state of worry about my near and distant future. And then sometimes, it apexes, and I wonder what the fuck I’m doing here. I’m always wrong and I’m seldom happy. I’m nothing more than the red ink on my papers- and the anxiety it causes- the noise in my mind that it creates! But as I walked into the common room, a profound silence hit me. The large windows that face the city were illuminated by the fact that the whole room was dark. I left my things in the entrance, and in a trance, made my way to the glass. I gazed outside and laughed about how silly everyone looked on the street, being so busy as they were, going home, or going to a club, or picking up some last minute milk. I thought “this nation is so neurotic.” And then I remembered how successful America is. How everyone looks up to us. How talented and beautiful and great we are. We are successful, and so we are happy. Happiness for me, for America, is synonymous with success. Naturally, that would make us a little anxious with the bar for happiness set so high. But we reach it. And we surpass it. And we reach it again. Within the responsibility of being awesome, comes the anxiety of meeting your own high standards.

It gave me hope that maybe I, too, can be great. That I, too, can achieve happiness- despite the fact that the pursuit of it makes me a little bit crazy.  

You Animals!

In this recent Lance Armstrong debacle, I’m kind of left wondering what his team is up to. Turns out they’re busy throwing him under the bus. But why would they do such a thing? I say they’re fed up with Lance and they've got their own asses to save.

USADA CEO Travis T. Tygart  in his statement Regarding The U.S. Postal Service Pro Cycling Team Doping Conspiracy claimed: “It took tremendous courage for the riders on the USPS Team and others to come forward and speak truthfully… But that is what these riders have done for the good of the sport, and for the young riders who hope to one day reach their dreams without using dangerous drugs or methods.” And then he goes on to list the 11 names, in alphabetical order, of the teammates of Lance that fessed up. What I take issue in is the motive that Mr. Tygart so certainly claims was behind these riders’ confessions. “For the good of the sport,” he says- “for the young riders who hope to one- blah blah blah, pathos appeals.” Has it occurred to anyone else that- has anyone ventured to think that- perhaps these riders are driven by a bit of jealousy? Perhaps a bit of blame defecting? Though as understandable as their actions of defense are, it makes them no less of a self-driven animal than Lance is being made out to be.

“For the good of the sport,” the teammates admit to their wrongdoings. I see it as a well-timed ploy to induce karma. It makes sense why they’d be jealous: Lance single-handedly won America (and much else of the world) over doing a sport that honestly, the majority of Americans don’t care for. (Well, for good reason: without Lance, we won’t win. And, as the Guardian Express Newspaper aptly puts it, “Americans don’t care unless we are in contention.”) He garnered so much attention and was paid immensely for it. The amount Lance made a year since 1996 (his great comeback) was about $12 million. That’s the same amount as the entire USPS pro cycling team budget. Of course, the entire budget didn't go just to lance, but, as retired Olympic cyclist Mark Gorski illustrated “Lance Armstrong commands a substantial salary and that [12 million dollar] budget includes Lance.” Basically, Lance is a star- a star in a sport that hardly produces stardom. He’s a star in a system of very un-shiny planets that are anyways at a disadvantage for shiny-ness because of the dark space they live in. You get the jist. He’s a star and, well, can you even name his teammates? Did you even know he had 19 of them? So, great, I’m a teammate of Lance Armstrong, I help him achieve his victories, I spent years and years training and dedicating my life to this sport and what am I worth? Certainly not the estimated $125 million that Lance is. That would probably piss me off- just a little. Not only am I worth much less than my teammate, but I can’t say or do anything about it because of his touching cancer story that elevated him to national hero. He makes me feel worthless and I can’t say a thing because he’s a public saint. I’d be especially aggravated if Lance really was doping. He really was doping and I, the team member, can’t do shit because no one will believe me- no nation wants to lose their hero. Maybe it’s not so shocking that his teammates threw Lance under the bus just as it arrived. Well, the second time it arrived. It came around back in 1999 when, supposedly, the UCI produced a positive drug test on Lance. But Nike allegedly tried to cover it up and proved successful as the story didn't stick. The bus kept driving and his teammates were still left in his all-consuming shadow. Finally, now, the opportunity comes to get back. Enough allegations were made and enough of the American people believe them. Now, with much more support from the public, the petty human penchant for jealousy is allowed to be called “the good of the sport.”

                “For the good of the sport.” Right. Maybe for the good of naiveté. For the purpose of keeping people ignorant of- or at least busy enough to look past- their own dirty files. They chose the exact right time to come up. They confessed their own sins when the country is consumed by the defiling of their hero much more so than of his scurvy crew. Lance was supposed to be a leader, a captain, and now his poor, helpless teammates are confessing their wrongdoings as victims of the times- of bad management. The American people, much more concerned with the team’s star, are letting the rest of the team slide off into the corner to quietly serve their little timeouts and slaps on the wrists. The team is adding fingers in the many that are pointed at Lance, diverting the blame from themselves.

                I highly doubt that Lance's teammates' actions are for the good of anything but their own jealousy and blame shifting. I have a strong suspicion that what Lance’s teammates are doing is driven by self-interest. Kind of like what lance was driven by when, and if, he was doping. Kind of like animals that do whatever it takes to stay alive.

From Capitalism to Ultimate Purpose

In my Visual Society class we've been discussing the effects of capitalism on human tendencies through the eyes of Marx, Ewen, Mills and Derber. They have a lot to say about capitalism. Generally, it’s that capitalism is shaping human tendencies. Nike’s, for example. They suggest, specifically Derber and Ewen, that my attraction to Nike's can be narrowed down to a ploy for attention. So I got to thinking, where does this need for attention come from? I tend to think that an individual is the way he is because that’s the way humans are, not because society molded the individual. Society wouldn't exist if the individual didn't.  Society is made from the individual human’s natural tendencies. Society makes us crave attention because a human naturally wants attention, with or without society. I, the individual, like Nike’s because they appeal to me aesthetically- I like aesthetic things because they imply health- I like health because I value life- I value life because that’s the way humans are. Why are humans this way? There is absolutely no greater reason, purpose or meaning for it.

Let’s back up again: why do we value attention? Because, ultimately, attention gives us meaning. What is our ultimate meaning? The religious would say that God knows. God gives us purpose. Purpose within our lives. Why are we here? God put us here. Why? To populate his Earth. Why’d he create the Earth? Because he could… Wait, then where’s the purpose in that? Where’s the purpose in God’s existence besides to run human life? Who created God? Did he pop into existence the same way scientists argue that humans did? If God has no purpose, how could we, supposedly his creation, have any purpose either?

God is there so that, ultimately, one day all of us can be together in our ephemeral form and do… what? What then? After the second coming of Christ or the first coming of the Messiah or whatever else religions claim, what happens after that? So that we can be in eternal happiness, yes I know, but look past that. What do these happy souls do? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. They’re just… there.

We value attention because it gives us meaning. It gives life meaning. Why do we need meaning? Why can’t we live without purpose? Like an ant. We, humans, define and recognize its purpose, but the ant doesn't. The ant doesn't feel its purpose. It gets no gratification from its fulfillment or depression from failing. It just… is. God is able to answer the question of purpose for an entire planet, or universe, but not for himself. Because how could he possibly know why he exists? He has no parents or other existences, supposedly, telling him that there is a greater plan at work here. What is God’s purpose? Poor God doesn't know. God just… is.

Now that’s a terrible thought. The point of existence is that there is no point. Something happened, and now life is what it is. Whether you believe that something was the random split of a cell or the popping into existence of a god or God, it doesn't matter. None of it means anything.

But we can’t live with that thought governing our lives. We would just all kill ourselves. No, we have to think on a much smaller scale, so that we can enjoy this life we’re living. We give ourselves purpose because we are able to perceive it. And we, having the privilege of being human, are not just able to perceive purpose but get the pleasure of fulfilling it.

Through realizing that there is no real purpose to anything, I am made happier about the illusion of purpose that I have- that I’m a being capable of immense joy and fulfillment, unlike an ant. Even without a true purpose for existence, I am able to enjoy my Nike’s. Why? Because that’s the way humans are. Thank God!

Sprinkler

I've realized a relationship can be a lot like running through a sprinkler. During, it's so fun and exciting. A nice and refreshing experience. But then when you have to get out, for whatever reason- your mom's calling you, you're too cold, your friends want to go somewhere else- when you get out it's really cold. Really cold and wet. You stay uncomfortable and agitated for a while, waiting for your clothes to dry. Then time passes and... you're dry. At that point... well, I don't know how it feels. I'm not there yet. I assume you're okay again. Or maybe that's not how it works. I don't know. I've also realized it's not so bad not knowing what the next stage feels like. It's okay being frustrated and mildly damp right now. Time and money take care of most things. I haven't got the latter, so I guess the prior will do.

I thought of this when I ran through a sprinkler this morning. I'm mostly dry now.

I suggest...

You are so much more than they could ever become. You know that. You know you will rise so much higher than anyone thought you could go. You have everything in you to do it- and you will use all of it. You’ve survived all this time and now it’s time to live. So face the things that are hindering your tools. Think about what a terrible person your mother was for leaving her children. Think about how blind your biological father was for not seeing what every dad should see. Think about how unfair your father was for treating you like so much less than you are. Shame on them all. Put yourself in the darkest and most painful places that you’ve been to. Revisit them. Let the wind sweep the rocks and dust into your skin and beat the hail upon your shoulders while your worst fears and most hurtful memories manifest around you. Stay there. Stay there and don’t come out until the light of your reasoning and strength break through and offer you a ladder to your own salvation. It won’t be quick, or enjoyable, but the feeling when you get out and can wield the tools of your talent, character and spirit will be so beyond worth all the suffering you’ll face. David, you must put yourself there. You’ve never needed anyone, to survive. You don’t need anyone, to live. 

A Piece of New England

Many colleges have denied me, now. Most of them. This has elicited many feelings.

Maybe it's just me attempting to come to terms or truly some guidance of energies, but I feel like I'm being led. Nowhere on the west coast accepted me and New York and Connecticut weren't too fond of me either. But Massachusetts... My top choice for college is there: Boston University. They denied me. But University of Massachusetts: Boston didn't. Right there in the middle of a city I fell in love with from long ago, a train ride away from everyone I love and offering a state-college education that can only bring me further than I am now. Not only do these college decisions make me feel like I'm being led, but a strange, much stronger, sensation has been coming over me that, to be honest, started from much before any university had anything to say about me:

The thought of Massachusetts is starting to feel more and more like home than California. I grew up in California. I was devoted to that piece of land. I swore I'd come back when I got the chance. Well, my senior year ends in May; I could buy my tickets to San Diego now, have my things packed for summer and be completely registered in the southern California community college system for the Fall semester. But I'm not even considering that. I never honestly did. It seems though over these past many months California has become more of an ambiguity in my sentiments. It's been the same intense change of feeling as if I've been a hardcore atheist and am now being saved by the word of God. Or, at least what I would imagine that to be like. So far the word of God, or a team of very intelligent story-tellers, hasn't come to my rescue.

Maybe someday I'll go back- when I'm not so afraid of how my hometown's changed in my absence. I want it to be the same beautiful, glorious, kind, simple, Schwarzenegger state I spent my first decade of life in. But I know it won't be. And the people I knew have changed. Not necessarily for the better, in my opinion, from what I can surmise from Facebook. Maybe I'll go back when it's become something totally new that I won't associate with the fuzzy, sunny memories of my youth.

But for now, home's become something I never really thought it would be: a piece of New England. 

Rocky Mountain High

It was sunny in the mountains today. Sunny and warm. Some people find those to be synonymous, but that's not the case in Woodland Park. Many winter days are very, very sunny while it's a frigid twenty degrees Fahrenheit outside. But it's Spring now, and though we'll get sporadic snow flurries, when the sun is out it's more likely for it to be honestly warm. Well, warm for here. Warm for Woodland Park's inhabitants who've had a long at least five months of dry, windy, dreadful winter. The highs are fifties to sixties and lows are a whopping thirty to forty, these spring days. Blades of grass are shooting up everywhere, as if overnight. One day of melted snow and suddenly you have a lawn. It's sad to think I'll be leaving this state when it's at its most comfortable and beautiful.


Sometimes I regret having not taken any in-state schools into consideration. I do like being here. And by "here" I certainly don't mean Woodland Park, specifically, but this state. I like being in this state called Colorado and I like being in this state of mind and state of being. (See what I did there?) I'm comfortable here. I'm happy here. But no. No, no. I'm not getting away from here because I don't like it, but because there's more opportunity for me elsewhere. The fields I want to become successful in are bustling in places that aren't anywhere near here. Some may call it unfortunate, but I was raised too big for this state. I was given too much ambition to stay comfortable.


It was sunny in the mountains today. Very sunny. Partly because it's spring, partly because we're so high in elevation so the sun is closer and partly because Colorado has about one hundred and fifty sunny days a year making it one of the sunniest places in the country. I'll just have to remember that when I'm wherever I'll be that that bright, rocky-mountain sun is the same one that shines everywhere. I'll never be too distant from here that I've come to love.

"Colorado Rocky Mountain high
I've seen it rainin' fire in the sky
The shadow from the starlight is softer than a lullaby
Rocky Mountain high

And the Colorado Rocky Mountain high
I've seen it rainin' fire in the sky
You can talk to God and listen to the casual reply
Rocky Mountain high "

- John Denver 

Life Is Art

Music from freeplaymusic.com

Leaving Behind

Leaving him behind is such a depressing thought.


With my friends, it's different. We're leaving each other but, not behind. No one's staying here. We're all going off somewhere to do something that'll consume our lives. It doesn't mean we'll forget; it just might take ten years- when we take a second while packing for the move to our first home- or sit back with a glass of wine and a spouse- or babysit our college friend's two-and-a-half-year-old who has a fascination with names- and we'll pull out or stumble upon the old photos and will be reminded, happily, of the "good old times." Ten years from now when we can afford a moment to reminisce, we'll do just that. Until then, life is happening.


But with him, it won't be so simple. An excited chat on Facebook or the occasional call to see what's up won't make sense. It'll be the residue of three years of intense companionship that'll muck up the happiness that would come of hearing from each other. So many times I've attempted to imagine what those last minutes might be like until I click my heels and get on my way. Every time I've come to nothing. I simply can't fathom what might be going through my head, or what I might say, or what his reactions might be. I'll be so conflicted; I'll be so indescribably happy to be going out into the world, but I'll be leaving what was once my future- him- my love, behind.


I'll be looking back out of the rear window- or from my front door- or from the escalator- or wherever- and he'll be looking back- or walking away- or gone. I just know I'll look back. I'll see in the expanding distance all the happy weeks spent in Longmont, delicious anniversary chicken, Our-own-dance-party-with-only-us-because-we're-awesome-and-prom's-overrated Party, our movie series marathons, him stepping on a tack, his arms lifting me to the sky, the bouquet of my favorite flower, the sex through New Year's, the frolicking in stores, the never putting the annoying things he says on FML to not give him the satisfaction, the egg sandwiches... I'll see the sun rotating in a perfect circle as the car flips, his hug after I collapsed in front of him and the two pink lines, his hand wrapped around my stomach as I nearly lose consciousness from the medication, his expression when I show him my wrist, the moon on the tears that ran down his face as he left me, his anger and desperation burning through my eyes once I completely lose it, vibrating waking me up at four in the morning to notify me that I was alone a second time, a glaze that signified the coming down of a brick wall I was talking to, trembling cellular waves bringing me his painful scorning- and the deep wish that, as heavy as they are, they can carry cross-country to remind her of her abandoned son... I'll see our two boys and two girls, the beautiful home in Washington, the late college nights in each other's dorms, our novel, his dad patting him on the shoulder at Thanksgiving, my reluctantly welcoming his mother to her seat before the ceremony, Band-Aids being applied by a father's gentle hands... I'll see it, gushing out all at once, a sea of photos sweeping out from my peripherals and dancing in the wind before me like forgotten fliers. I'll have time only to see a few, in the elongating trail, settle to the ground. And I'll witness those dissolve into unseeable  particles.


So many times I've attempted to imagine what those last minutes might be like until I click my heels and get on my way. Every time I've come to nothing. Until now. I found a connection, a memory, an image- that somehow makes perfect sense of things:


My pacifier was a dark teal, with either a yellow or clear nob to suck on. It was a special build my mom had found that wouldn't make my teeth form an angle outwards. All my deepest affection was within it. I can't remember anything before that where I didn't have it. I was nearing four years, and my mother prepared me: "You're getting older, Tahlie, soon you'll have to stop using a pacifier"... "What about today? Be strong, you can do it. No? Alright, but it'll be harder later"... "None of the kids at school will still use one"... "Tahlie, it's difficult, but it's part of growing up. I promise you'll be okay." Everything she said made sense; I knew it all to be true. I understood. Finally, after one of the aforementioned phrases or another, I walked to the bathroom with my mother. "No, go," I said. "Alright," she stopped in the doorway, "I'm proud of you." I slowly pressed down on the trashcan's pedal that equally as slowly lifted its lid. My heart was racing like I never new it could. I opened my jaw and, threw a watery blur, I saw my pacifier fall to the bottom, a blotch of color amongst the wavy whiteness.


So many times I've attempted to imagine what those last minutes might be like when I leave him behind.
My pacifier. My love. I'll miss you.