I want to say that I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. But the truth is that I wake up and roll off the same side of the bed every morning. It's just this morning Life was waiting at the front door with his fists up. I'm not sure what got into him but he was clearly pissed and was looking for company this morning. So now I'm pissed. We're both pissed. So what did his aggression solve?
Sometimes it takes a lot not to turn into that guy that shoots up the McDonald's because his Big Mac didn't look like the one in the picture. So today I want to spaze because this life doesn't look like the one I wanted to buy in the picture. This is a soggy ass, thin, despicable excuse for a burger and I wish I could pull a sawed-off shotgun on the cashier and calmly say, "Excuse me Sir, but this isn't what I ordered."
Today is that day when if they can't get my burger right I swear I'm gonna shoot up the place.
Today, I had to find money that I didn't have to help pay for something that I can't afford. And that's not the annoying part. The prize is that it still wasn't enough to fix the problem so not only did it plant a small bomb in my pocket but it served as reminder the size of one of those flying advertisement banners that reads, "You're broke...... And you're an asshole. ..... Asshole." Then when I decide to drive to work, I roll through the e-z pass lane only to stop when barrier doesn't lift itself to let me pass. There goes the e-z part.And there goes that damn flying advertisement again. Off to work. Nothing better than walking into a place that generally pisses you off than walking in pissed off already. Oddly enough though, I wasn't pissed. Yet. I had the great fortune of receiving a Dunkin Donuts coffee cup with a small hole in it. Apparently the cup knew that my shirt was feeling somewhat parched and decided to offer it a taste of toasted almond coffee. Great.
So currently I'm expending the majority of my energy restraining myself from cracking a stranger in the face. I think it's only fair that they feel what I feel. These are the days that I imagine myself having a Samurai sword that's magically connected to my spirit so it belongs to only me. Then I slip through Manhattan stealth-like. I'm a ninja and it will be my honor to take home several heads with me as sacrifice to the gods.
But I'm getting off topic. Clearly the e-z pass is no longer easy. It's the line to be embarrassed because everyone who's impatiently waiting behind now knows that you have an issue with your bill. Maybe I should have taken the train today. Wait, I just looked at the newspaper. Fare hike. Again. The MTA official call it a doomsday plan. Another called it "horrific." Where's my sword? Scratch that. Where's that shotgun. To hell with it, I'm carrying both.
Is this venting or plotting? Am I crazy or frustrated? Blood-thirsty or fed up? So the sun is going to come out tomorrow. But what good is that if it shines on the same pile of shit and makes it stink worse? This is an attempt to turn the pen into a broom. No, maybe the pen can be the gun or the Samurai sword. I'll use the words to cloak in darkness while Life pays for its indiscretions. No, no, the pen will be the broom so that I can sweep up the pile and tomorrow the sun will shine on me.
If not, the gun is still loaded.
C
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Random writings..... (unfinished)
It felt like I woke up before the world. I felt like I was all alone, knowing that the rest of the world existed but that they only existed because of me. When I woke up, someone pressed the Play button on life and every scene waited for me to enter at Stage Left before Action. Do people really exist when they aren't around me. Is this world real or am I part of someone else's imagination?
Somehow everything became a silent movie and even though I was sitting there as a character, I felt outside. I was a spectator. Maybe I just turned the channel. Do I belong here?
But there is something tranquil about observing the world in its stillness. Those are the few minutes that you witness life in its daily purity, before it's corrupted by people and curse words and stereotypes and pressures and failures and greed and selfishness. It's the time before people corrupt space by their inner. Each night the darkness cleans the earth and each morning ushers in freshness. I guess the morning is good.
And if this wasn't random enough.....RANDOMNESS
Ryan Leslie is more talented that I've imagined being. I just need him to button his shirt. .... Drake is a monster. Even though he looks like Al B. Sure's kid. I'd buy his album twice though. .... Steve Harvey's book is propaganda. Public Service Announcement: No man can tell you how ALL men think. .... Why does that thought just sound stupid to me yet people are reading this book like he's the Pied Piper. .... Read PUSH. I'm 70 pages in and it's one of the best books I've ever read. .... T.I. had machine guns in his house and went to jail for a year.... machine guns, semi-automatic rifles, pistols, loaded magazines and $10,000 cash in his car. Yet Weezy goes on TV and tells Katie Couric that he's a gansta because he says what he wants. .... If I'm supposed to be a writer, why has writing been so hard? .... Either I'm afraid to be good or I'm just not that good at this. .... Sometimes I want to disappear. Not out of existence. Just out of the world. Give me a house in Middle Earth right next to Frodo. .... We out here angry that President Obama bowed his head to the leader of another country. We should be happy that our leader can show some humility instead of being arrogant fucks like the rest of us. See how far that "We rule the world" shit got us last time. ... I haven't visited Gym in awhile. But I'm good. Running is keeping me company. .... Sometimes I feel so fly, I'm satellite and my swag is playing catch up. .... Sometimes I wear Swag like clothes to cover up the fact that I feel naked underneath. .... People have no problem being analytical but think that introspection is a made-up word. .... Randomness is healthy because it doesn't force me to color inside the lines. .... If I can run for 30 minutes a day, I can write for 30 minutes a day.
I hope reading isn't exhausting.
Somehow everything became a silent movie and even though I was sitting there as a character, I felt outside. I was a spectator. Maybe I just turned the channel. Do I belong here?
But there is something tranquil about observing the world in its stillness. Those are the few minutes that you witness life in its daily purity, before it's corrupted by people and curse words and stereotypes and pressures and failures and greed and selfishness. It's the time before people corrupt space by their inner. Each night the darkness cleans the earth and each morning ushers in freshness. I guess the morning is good.
And if this wasn't random enough.....RANDOMNESS
Ryan Leslie is more talented that I've imagined being. I just need him to button his shirt. .... Drake is a monster. Even though he looks like Al B. Sure's kid. I'd buy his album twice though. .... Steve Harvey's book is propaganda. Public Service Announcement: No man can tell you how ALL men think. .... Why does that thought just sound stupid to me yet people are reading this book like he's the Pied Piper. .... Read PUSH. I'm 70 pages in and it's one of the best books I've ever read. .... T.I. had machine guns in his house and went to jail for a year.... machine guns, semi-automatic rifles, pistols, loaded magazines and $10,000 cash in his car. Yet Weezy goes on TV and tells Katie Couric that he's a gansta because he says what he wants. .... If I'm supposed to be a writer, why has writing been so hard? .... Either I'm afraid to be good or I'm just not that good at this. .... Sometimes I want to disappear. Not out of existence. Just out of the world. Give me a house in Middle Earth right next to Frodo. .... We out here angry that President Obama bowed his head to the leader of another country. We should be happy that our leader can show some humility instead of being arrogant fucks like the rest of us. See how far that "We rule the world" shit got us last time. ... I haven't visited Gym in awhile. But I'm good. Running is keeping me company. .... Sometimes I feel so fly, I'm satellite and my swag is playing catch up. .... Sometimes I wear Swag like clothes to cover up the fact that I feel naked underneath. .... People have no problem being analytical but think that introspection is a made-up word. .... Randomness is healthy because it doesn't force me to color inside the lines. .... If I can run for 30 minutes a day, I can write for 30 minutes a day.
I hope reading isn't exhausting.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Why I Run.....
The reason why some people become addicted to running is because it offers an almost absolute truth. It is objective. It is forthright. Unrelenting. Painfully honest. Joyfully cruel.
Running will never tell you that you can do something that you can't. If X then Y. If you work then you will be rewarded. The rewards are minimal. But every reward is personally noticeable and provides a reason to attempt torturing yourself through another 30-minute run tomorrow. Running is not racist. It doesn't show class bias. It's not sexist. It doesn't judge based on religion or whether you're a mean person or nice or funny for fat or skinny or bald or stupid or ignorant. Running doesn't care if you're Democrat or Republican or if you give to charity or mentor children. It doesn't care if you're selfish or a recluse.
But running cares if you run. It cares if you challenge yourself. And Running will punish you if you don't. It might even punish you if you do. Running challenges you to punish yourself, to torture or body. Call it sadomasochistic meditation.
Running allows you time to push your limits and the only judge of success is You. The watch presents the facts. You decide if the mission is failed or accomplished.
And despite your own personal limits, running has none and it inspires you to follow suit. It tells you that there is always something better than what you've done, yet gives you the leeway to enjoy today's improvement.
Today my legs didn't feel like I was lugging two tree trunks. Today my heart didn't feel like it would tear a hole in my chest. Today my body cursed me out for running those first four miles and then decided to come along for the fifth mile anyway.
Today I shaved five seconds off the 3-mile loop that I ran last week.
Today I endured a run in the rain.
Today, I actually finished my run.
Today, I didn't walk.
Today, I survived.
My legs aren't what they used to be. I remember when my chest felt like an inexhaustible engine and my legs were more like wheels. Some days my body was more ready to run than I was. My legs would beg my mind to get me off this bed so they could please get a workout. Now my legs are spoiled, fat and spiteful. They resist my every stride. They are angry about the 50 extra pounds they are forced to carry and disgusted by the aching they must endure afterward.
The hard part is that I remember what it's like to be fast. I remember when six-minute miles were normal. When 6:45 was "conversational pace" and anything slower than that was a jog. Now anything faster than 9-minute pace is an all-out sprint. Now if I raced my best friend barefoot down the block, an ambulance and oxygen mask better be on stand by.
Well, not now. That was before.
Now I don't need to be fast. Now I just need to finish what I start. Now I'm just happy to put one foot in front of the other. I'd be happy to see the numbers on the scale recede. I'd be happy if my legs weren't so damn disagreeable. But they're getting the point. We're going to run whether they like it or not. And every day will be a reward. Every second shaved. Every breath that wasn't an uncontrollable pant. I'm happy just to run. I'm happy just to finish.
Running will never tell you that you can do something that you can't. If X then Y. If you work then you will be rewarded. The rewards are minimal. But every reward is personally noticeable and provides a reason to attempt torturing yourself through another 30-minute run tomorrow. Running is not racist. It doesn't show class bias. It's not sexist. It doesn't judge based on religion or whether you're a mean person or nice or funny for fat or skinny or bald or stupid or ignorant. Running doesn't care if you're Democrat or Republican or if you give to charity or mentor children. It doesn't care if you're selfish or a recluse.
But running cares if you run. It cares if you challenge yourself. And Running will punish you if you don't. It might even punish you if you do. Running challenges you to punish yourself, to torture or body. Call it sadomasochistic meditation.
Running allows you time to push your limits and the only judge of success is You. The watch presents the facts. You decide if the mission is failed or accomplished.
And despite your own personal limits, running has none and it inspires you to follow suit. It tells you that there is always something better than what you've done, yet gives you the leeway to enjoy today's improvement.
Today my legs didn't feel like I was lugging two tree trunks. Today my heart didn't feel like it would tear a hole in my chest. Today my body cursed me out for running those first four miles and then decided to come along for the fifth mile anyway.
Today I shaved five seconds off the 3-mile loop that I ran last week.
Today I endured a run in the rain.
Today, I actually finished my run.
Today, I didn't walk.
Today, I survived.
My legs aren't what they used to be. I remember when my chest felt like an inexhaustible engine and my legs were more like wheels. Some days my body was more ready to run than I was. My legs would beg my mind to get me off this bed so they could please get a workout. Now my legs are spoiled, fat and spiteful. They resist my every stride. They are angry about the 50 extra pounds they are forced to carry and disgusted by the aching they must endure afterward.
The hard part is that I remember what it's like to be fast. I remember when six-minute miles were normal. When 6:45 was "conversational pace" and anything slower than that was a jog. Now anything faster than 9-minute pace is an all-out sprint. Now if I raced my best friend barefoot down the block, an ambulance and oxygen mask better be on stand by.
Well, not now. That was before.
Now I don't need to be fast. Now I just need to finish what I start. Now I'm just happy to put one foot in front of the other. I'd be happy to see the numbers on the scale recede. I'd be happy if my legs weren't so damn disagreeable. But they're getting the point. We're going to run whether they like it or not. And every day will be a reward. Every second shaved. Every breath that wasn't an uncontrollable pant. I'm happy just to run. I'm happy just to finish.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Standoff...
A blank page is so disrespectful. It looks at you, defiant and proud. Clean. Just waiting for you to paint the picture. But when your mind is as blank as the page in front of you all the emptiness just leaves room for frustration to crawl its sneaky ass into your mind. Fucker.
So I got a plan. I’m going to keep soiling this page with my words until a story forms. I’m going to be as persistently, blindly flagrant as this blank page. I wish I could just throw a pail of genius on the page and cover it in its entirety. Then throw the next page up to do the same. But you have to be methodical with these pages, cover it line by line, inch by inch, word by word until it drowns in your thoughts. You have to watch while it fades into the sea like the villain and disappears into the pool of lava until his index finger is the last thing slowly sinking in.
This is the standoff. Me and you Page. I’m going to sit here until I dress you to my liking. Or at this point, dress you at all, because I’ve let you remain naked too long. At this point your outfit doesn’t matter. You’ll wear what I tell you to wear.
I’ve been subordinate too long. I waited for you to come to me. I waited for you to then validate me. I’m taking control now – of you and myself. I will focus here. I will decide my pace or I will sit here and stare at each other until I feel I’ve concentrated on one thing for a sufficient amount of time.
You’ve been winning. But I’m gonna take this thing back. Inch by Inch until you’re as filled as I know my mind is.
So I got a plan. I’m going to keep soiling this page with my words until a story forms. I’m going to be as persistently, blindly flagrant as this blank page. I wish I could just throw a pail of genius on the page and cover it in its entirety. Then throw the next page up to do the same. But you have to be methodical with these pages, cover it line by line, inch by inch, word by word until it drowns in your thoughts. You have to watch while it fades into the sea like the villain and disappears into the pool of lava until his index finger is the last thing slowly sinking in.
This is the standoff. Me and you Page. I’m going to sit here until I dress you to my liking. Or at this point, dress you at all, because I’ve let you remain naked too long. At this point your outfit doesn’t matter. You’ll wear what I tell you to wear.
I’ve been subordinate too long. I waited for you to come to me. I waited for you to then validate me. I’m taking control now – of you and myself. I will focus here. I will decide my pace or I will sit here and stare at each other until I feel I’ve concentrated on one thing for a sufficient amount of time.
You’ve been winning. But I’m gonna take this thing back. Inch by Inch until you’re as filled as I know my mind is.
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