Molly,
I miss you.
And I'm sorry.
-josh
16 March 2011
27 September 2010
Love 2
3:55
The numbers on the alarm clock were flashing.
And then the beat collapsed.
And you said
It was like fire around the brim
But the song, it just kept playing, so I turned up the volume all the way; I shoved the headphones into my ears and I stared at the floor, I stared through it, burning imaginary holes through the wood, refusing to give in, letting my eardrums soak in the bass line...
There was no structure, just pure memory; there was fire, and there were bed sheets, and white walls, yes, I remember the walls, I remember them, and they were white, and I kept staring into the floor, letting it all wash over me.
Burning solid
Burning thin the burning rim
They were still flashing, and it wasn't over yet. And I kept looking at the floor, my head turned, my body perched on the side of the bed, and my hands, like claws, contorted, and I remembered.
There was dark, and I couldn't see anything, but I could remember...I could remember her.
3:56
She'd turned the lights off, and all of the sudden the beat hit me again, plunging me into a sea of noise, and my world slowed down, and I heard steps, steps outside, but I didn't pay attention; I just kept staring into the floor, trying to remember.
Like stars burning holes right through the dark
Flicking fire like saltwater into my eyes
And there it was again, there was passion, there was orange and red and there was wind and rain, but our fire, no, it didn't go out, no, our fire...and I turned it up louder. The snare drum snapped like the second hand on a clock...
There was a burst...
3:57
And she was gone.
And everything is going to the beat
And everything is going to the beat
And everything is going
The numbers on the alarm clock were flashing.
And then the beat collapsed.
And you said
It was like fire around the brim
But the song, it just kept playing, so I turned up the volume all the way; I shoved the headphones into my ears and I stared at the floor, I stared through it, burning imaginary holes through the wood, refusing to give in, letting my eardrums soak in the bass line...
There was no structure, just pure memory; there was fire, and there were bed sheets, and white walls, yes, I remember the walls, I remember them, and they were white, and I kept staring into the floor, letting it all wash over me.
Burning solid
Burning thin the burning rim
They were still flashing, and it wasn't over yet. And I kept looking at the floor, my head turned, my body perched on the side of the bed, and my hands, like claws, contorted, and I remembered.
There was dark, and I couldn't see anything, but I could remember...I could remember her.
3:56
She'd turned the lights off, and all of the sudden the beat hit me again, plunging me into a sea of noise, and my world slowed down, and I heard steps, steps outside, but I didn't pay attention; I just kept staring into the floor, trying to remember.
Like stars burning holes right through the dark
Flicking fire like saltwater into my eyes
And there it was again, there was passion, there was orange and red and there was wind and rain, but our fire, no, it didn't go out, no, our fire...and I turned it up louder. The snare drum snapped like the second hand on a clock...
There was a burst...
3:57
And she was gone.
And everything is going to the beat
And everything is going to the beat
And everything is going
25 September 2010
Aproximación #1
One day as I was walked,
and began to lose my sense of time,
a familiar yellow friend
found its way into my mind.
And when I saw
the sun in the trees
I had to stop there
and think
why,
why must all of this be?
But there was some comfort
in those broken rays
some stillness found in remembering
those long-forgotten days
those afternoons when we'd
hidden ourselves away
losing our memories
somewhere in the depths of May.
and began to lose my sense of time,
a familiar yellow friend
found its way into my mind.
And when I saw
the sun in the trees
I had to stop there
and think
why,
why must all of this be?
But there was some comfort
in those broken rays
some stillness found in remembering
those long-forgotten days
those afternoons when we'd
hidden ourselves away
losing our memories
somewhere in the depths of May.
Life 3
"She's beautiful."
"Yes," he smiled. "She died 15 years ago."
I know I'm just a punk. I'm just a kid who's never loved anything or anyone more than he's loved himself, one who's really never seen the world beyond this 13" screen, one who's just another number, just another person who gets up every day and scrapes his elbows against the cubicle as it shrinks around him. I'm caught up in these cycles of life, these inhuman rhythms we're told to hopscotch our way through, carrot dangling in front of us, thinking we've got a better shot at that orange stick than everyone before us.
He was shorter than me. And much older. He'd run the race...and maybe he'd lost. That's what most would say, I think, if they saw him, as I did, slowly fumble for another nickel. But I didn't see that.
I saw them together. Pianos and guitars were playing somewhere...a jazzy melody with just a twinge of melancholy floating lightheartedly above the bass line. There was wind. And the wind, I watched it, I smelled it, I tasted it as it buffeted against her dress, blowing away the flower he'd picked for her from its comfortable resting place behind her ear. But she didn't care, because she was with him, and I could see it.
I could see it. He felt like the luckiest chum in the world.
But with a snap I blinked, and all of a sudden I was in the real world again.
The cycle continued.
And he was gone.
For a minute there,
I lost myself.
I lost myself.
"Yes," he smiled. "She died 15 years ago."
I know I'm just a punk. I'm just a kid who's never loved anything or anyone more than he's loved himself, one who's really never seen the world beyond this 13" screen, one who's just another number, just another person who gets up every day and scrapes his elbows against the cubicle as it shrinks around him. I'm caught up in these cycles of life, these inhuman rhythms we're told to hopscotch our way through, carrot dangling in front of us, thinking we've got a better shot at that orange stick than everyone before us.
He was shorter than me. And much older. He'd run the race...and maybe he'd lost. That's what most would say, I think, if they saw him, as I did, slowly fumble for another nickel. But I didn't see that.
I saw them together. Pianos and guitars were playing somewhere...a jazzy melody with just a twinge of melancholy floating lightheartedly above the bass line. There was wind. And the wind, I watched it, I smelled it, I tasted it as it buffeted against her dress, blowing away the flower he'd picked for her from its comfortable resting place behind her ear. But she didn't care, because she was with him, and I could see it.
I could see it. He felt like the luckiest chum in the world.
But with a snap I blinked, and all of a sudden I was in the real world again.
The cycle continued.
And he was gone.
For a minute there,
I lost myself.
I lost myself.
20 June 2010
Life 2
"I woke up this morning, and I felt like I was ready to take on the world."
I saw an honesty in his flush lips, a certain directness behind his pale complexion. I caught a good-humored candor in the old man's voice as he continued:
"Now I feel otherwise."
He stood there hunched over his cart as I handed him his change. Brows furrowed in suspicion, his bruised hands shook violently as he counted his money. His arms were battered, purplish, banged up. After a few moments he looked up, smiled halfheartedly, and left. My voice called after him, delivering the customary "Have a nice day," but my words sounded surprisingly distant, somehow unsure. I knew that I was saying them, but I wasn't sure that they were my own; I couldn't tell where they were coming from.
There was something unsettling about that man.
The rest of the day passed as normal - the crowds, the rush, the receipt reprints, the tiny errors at the register, the "I'm sorry, can I have you swipe your card again?" and the the "can I see your i.d. please?" - but an introspective quietness had come over me. I drove home in silence that night, with all the windows down and my arm hanging out, palm open, facing the unforgiving torrent of oncoming wind. A storm was approaching from the west; it had begun to rain. My hand nearly froze in the night's cold, but I didn't care; for a few moments, it was enough just to feel the bitter wind rush over my exposed skin.
..
My bed was uncomfortable; I couldn't sleep. Or maybe it was my mind, maybe my mind was uncomfortable; maybe my mind was uncomfortable and my body couldn't sleep. Or maybe it was my body, maybe that was it; maybe my body was uncomfortable and maybe my mind couldn't sleep. Every now and then I would scoot out of bed to walk around the room. Legs tingling, sometimes I'd go to the window and peer out, watching leaves flit and quiver uncontrollably in the wind.
That's what I'd seen.
There was a wind in that man's soul, not a breeze - a gale, a ferocious current, a jet stream - and I was just a leaf. You couldn't hear it in his voice, but you could see it in his face; it was quiet at first, but it was there. Behind the skin, the flesh, the bone, tucked away somewhere near that still-beating heart, amidst that water-and-carbon frame, it was there. Amongst otherwise organic components there was some other element, something deathless, abiding. There was an intractably grim determination in the way he moved, a deliberateness in each motion and a boldness in each step.
Maybe he's a veteran; maybe he'd once been sent half way across the world to struggle his way through unfamiliar landscapes, get lost in exotic surroundings, gnash his teeth in frustration and steel himself against defeat at the hands of his faceless enemies. Maybe his gun had jammed once, and maybe in that moment it had meant his friend's life. Maybe he pushed on anyways, despite the burn in his knees and the pain in his gut. Maybe, in his old age, he just sits and stares at the cracks in his kitchen table, wondering what would've happened if he'd been quicker, if he'd used his knife, if he'd been a better friend.
Or maybe he's just a farmer. Maybe he's never left the Midwest. Maybe he's only ever seen the corn and the beans and squash, but maybe he survived the blizzard of '78 and the death of his beloved wife, and maybe he still chooses to live alone in that secluded farmhouse and buy his own groceries. Maybe he just sits on his old oak swing now, watching the sun go down and pretending that she's still sitting next to him. Maybe that makes him smile, and maybe he wonders if she can see him smile, and if she's smiling down on him from the clouds, like the nice man at church said she would.
Life had marked that man, but it'd done more that; it had marred him. Yet, he persisted. He still pushed his own cart at the grocery store, and he still looked suspiciously at the boy behind the counter until he knew he had the correct change. He still preferred paper to plastic, and he still found it within himself to smile in acknowledgment at the absent-minded, gum-chewing teenager who bagged his canned beets.
The tingling in my legs was gone. I'd found my way to the floor; it was cool, but firm, and I took comfort in its steadiness.
Sometime during the darkest hours of the night I fell asleep, lying there on the floor with my hands behind my head like an easygoing pharaoh the priests had forgotten to entomb.
..
The sun's amber rays, blanketing me in warmth, teased me awake the next morning. Eyes closed, I laid there alone, my limbs enjoying the heat of its mellow glow. Parts of my brain coming back to life, a surge of adrenaline sprang into my chest from my gut. I smiled knowingly, feeling for those few moments that I was ready to take on the world.
I saw an honesty in his flush lips, a certain directness behind his pale complexion. I caught a good-humored candor in the old man's voice as he continued:
"Now I feel otherwise."
He stood there hunched over his cart as I handed him his change. Brows furrowed in suspicion, his bruised hands shook violently as he counted his money. His arms were battered, purplish, banged up. After a few moments he looked up, smiled halfheartedly, and left. My voice called after him, delivering the customary "Have a nice day," but my words sounded surprisingly distant, somehow unsure. I knew that I was saying them, but I wasn't sure that they were my own; I couldn't tell where they were coming from.
There was something unsettling about that man.
The rest of the day passed as normal - the crowds, the rush, the receipt reprints, the tiny errors at the register, the "I'm sorry, can I have you swipe your card again?" and the the "can I see your i.d. please?" - but an introspective quietness had come over me. I drove home in silence that night, with all the windows down and my arm hanging out, palm open, facing the unforgiving torrent of oncoming wind. A storm was approaching from the west; it had begun to rain. My hand nearly froze in the night's cold, but I didn't care; for a few moments, it was enough just to feel the bitter wind rush over my exposed skin.
..
My bed was uncomfortable; I couldn't sleep. Or maybe it was my mind, maybe my mind was uncomfortable; maybe my mind was uncomfortable and my body couldn't sleep. Or maybe it was my body, maybe that was it; maybe my body was uncomfortable and maybe my mind couldn't sleep. Every now and then I would scoot out of bed to walk around the room. Legs tingling, sometimes I'd go to the window and peer out, watching leaves flit and quiver uncontrollably in the wind.
That's what I'd seen.
There was a wind in that man's soul, not a breeze - a gale, a ferocious current, a jet stream - and I was just a leaf. You couldn't hear it in his voice, but you could see it in his face; it was quiet at first, but it was there. Behind the skin, the flesh, the bone, tucked away somewhere near that still-beating heart, amidst that water-and-carbon frame, it was there. Amongst otherwise organic components there was some other element, something deathless, abiding. There was an intractably grim determination in the way he moved, a deliberateness in each motion and a boldness in each step.
Maybe he's a veteran; maybe he'd once been sent half way across the world to struggle his way through unfamiliar landscapes, get lost in exotic surroundings, gnash his teeth in frustration and steel himself against defeat at the hands of his faceless enemies. Maybe his gun had jammed once, and maybe in that moment it had meant his friend's life. Maybe he pushed on anyways, despite the burn in his knees and the pain in his gut. Maybe, in his old age, he just sits and stares at the cracks in his kitchen table, wondering what would've happened if he'd been quicker, if he'd used his knife, if he'd been a better friend.
Or maybe he's just a farmer. Maybe he's never left the Midwest. Maybe he's only ever seen the corn and the beans and squash, but maybe he survived the blizzard of '78 and the death of his beloved wife, and maybe he still chooses to live alone in that secluded farmhouse and buy his own groceries. Maybe he just sits on his old oak swing now, watching the sun go down and pretending that she's still sitting next to him. Maybe that makes him smile, and maybe he wonders if she can see him smile, and if she's smiling down on him from the clouds, like the nice man at church said she would.
Life had marked that man, but it'd done more that; it had marred him. Yet, he persisted. He still pushed his own cart at the grocery store, and he still looked suspiciously at the boy behind the counter until he knew he had the correct change. He still preferred paper to plastic, and he still found it within himself to smile in acknowledgment at the absent-minded, gum-chewing teenager who bagged his canned beets.
The tingling in my legs was gone. I'd found my way to the floor; it was cool, but firm, and I took comfort in its steadiness.
Sometime during the darkest hours of the night I fell asleep, lying there on the floor with my hands behind my head like an easygoing pharaoh the priests had forgotten to entomb.
..
The sun's amber rays, blanketing me in warmth, teased me awake the next morning. Eyes closed, I laid there alone, my limbs enjoying the heat of its mellow glow. Parts of my brain coming back to life, a surge of adrenaline sprang into my chest from my gut. I smiled knowingly, feeling for those few moments that I was ready to take on the world.
09 June 2010
Life 1
I live here now in this village, so far from all the racket that city streets stir up.
And you might wonder how that could ever be.
I tell you, dear reader, that there is some unexplainable comfort in the stillness, in the empty solitude I find amidst the impassive hush of this rural existence. When I go to bed each night, when with balled fists I clench the edges of my blanket and pull it around my tired frame, my body in silent repose, I think maybe I'll just stay like this: maybe I'll just stay.
Or when I sit hunched on the edge of my bed, my elbows resting in those spaces between the tendons above my knees, my eyes following bluish moon beams as they play games with the shadows of summer storm clouds on my bedroom floor, I think maybe...maybe, maybe this is enough. The moon, the clouds, and my bedroom. Maybe, just maybe, this is all I need.
But I know that this cannot last. Like a seasonal nomad, I know that my feet will be treading more northerly ground in a few months, and all of this, this summer, this serenity, this will be nothing but a warm memory among so many others stored somewhere in my amygdala.
There's a robin who's made her nest on a gutter outside the bathroom window, and all too often I find myself tip-toeing stealthily towards the screened-in opening, my fingers grasping the mahogany-stained edges of the windowsill, my breath held in childlike anticipation, my mind in a thoughtless lull, waiting...hoping to catch a glimpse of the robin at work.
Sometimes she's not there, and other times I actually catch her returning to the nest with an unfortunate worm, feeding one of her three chicks. Most often, however, my excited apprehension is simply broken; in most cases I am met only with an equally blank gaze. Most often, I only find her standing stoically on the fringe of her stick-and-mud abode, her orange-feathered breast swollen in a stately show of prideful protectionism. I wonder if someday that pride will fade, if someday she, like me, will realize the impermanence of her situation and if, one day, after she's long-since pushed the last of her chicks out of the nest, she'll stand again on the edge, looking with melancholic eyes on her former sanctum, remembering a life which no longer is. Though a wall and a window separate us, I wonder if she realizes this now, if her tiny brain comprehends her tinier role in the plodding-on, in the trudging forward and in the continuous churning-over of the universe around her. She is destined to be like this; nature has programmed her to move and to be motionless, to roam and to be at peace, to fly and to be still. And when her black eyes look back at me, I feel as if I understand her. Our lives are spent in a commute between extremes; we are forced to live here now, despite being aware of the chaotic movements and relocations our futures will most inevitably bring to us. Yet she still stands proudly on her nest, and I sit peacefully on my bed; until our lives tell us otherwise, the robin and I have decided to stay here, to exist meaningfully in these rustic surroundings, to be in this place so long as circumstance permits.
In the meantime, we will enjoy the tranquil beauty that this quiet village seems to be imbued with. The blissfully lackadaisical calm permeates life here; maybe that's why the robin chose it; maybe that's why I've returned. But I wonder if others will ever find what I and the robin have found here. I wonder if someone else will ever look at same glowing sun in the same purple clouds and ever feel the same inexplicable joy. I wonder if anyone else will ever hear the same cacophony of morning birdsong and, tasting the dew-drenched air of daybreak on their tongue, ever feel the same aphonic ecstasy somewhere deep inside themselves. I wonder, dear reader, if you'll ever look to the horizon at sunset and see what I see in the low clouds overhead: heavyhearted happiness at dusk, distant hopes in the dawn.
And you might wonder how that could ever be.
I tell you, dear reader, that there is some unexplainable comfort in the stillness, in the empty solitude I find amidst the impassive hush of this rural existence. When I go to bed each night, when with balled fists I clench the edges of my blanket and pull it around my tired frame, my body in silent repose, I think maybe I'll just stay like this: maybe I'll just stay.
Or when I sit hunched on the edge of my bed, my elbows resting in those spaces between the tendons above my knees, my eyes following bluish moon beams as they play games with the shadows of summer storm clouds on my bedroom floor, I think maybe...maybe, maybe this is enough. The moon, the clouds, and my bedroom. Maybe, just maybe, this is all I need.
But I know that this cannot last. Like a seasonal nomad, I know that my feet will be treading more northerly ground in a few months, and all of this, this summer, this serenity, this will be nothing but a warm memory among so many others stored somewhere in my amygdala.
There's a robin who's made her nest on a gutter outside the bathroom window, and all too often I find myself tip-toeing stealthily towards the screened-in opening, my fingers grasping the mahogany-stained edges of the windowsill, my breath held in childlike anticipation, my mind in a thoughtless lull, waiting...hoping to catch a glimpse of the robin at work.
Sometimes she's not there, and other times I actually catch her returning to the nest with an unfortunate worm, feeding one of her three chicks. Most often, however, my excited apprehension is simply broken; in most cases I am met only with an equally blank gaze. Most often, I only find her standing stoically on the fringe of her stick-and-mud abode, her orange-feathered breast swollen in a stately show of prideful protectionism. I wonder if someday that pride will fade, if someday she, like me, will realize the impermanence of her situation and if, one day, after she's long-since pushed the last of her chicks out of the nest, she'll stand again on the edge, looking with melancholic eyes on her former sanctum, remembering a life which no longer is. Though a wall and a window separate us, I wonder if she realizes this now, if her tiny brain comprehends her tinier role in the plodding-on, in the trudging forward and in the continuous churning-over of the universe around her. She is destined to be like this; nature has programmed her to move and to be motionless, to roam and to be at peace, to fly and to be still. And when her black eyes look back at me, I feel as if I understand her. Our lives are spent in a commute between extremes; we are forced to live here now, despite being aware of the chaotic movements and relocations our futures will most inevitably bring to us. Yet she still stands proudly on her nest, and I sit peacefully on my bed; until our lives tell us otherwise, the robin and I have decided to stay here, to exist meaningfully in these rustic surroundings, to be in this place so long as circumstance permits.
In the meantime, we will enjoy the tranquil beauty that this quiet village seems to be imbued with. The blissfully lackadaisical calm permeates life here; maybe that's why the robin chose it; maybe that's why I've returned. But I wonder if others will ever find what I and the robin have found here. I wonder if someone else will ever look at same glowing sun in the same purple clouds and ever feel the same inexplicable joy. I wonder if anyone else will ever hear the same cacophony of morning birdsong and, tasting the dew-drenched air of daybreak on their tongue, ever feel the same aphonic ecstasy somewhere deep inside themselves. I wonder, dear reader, if you'll ever look to the horizon at sunset and see what I see in the low clouds overhead: heavyhearted happiness at dusk, distant hopes in the dawn.
01 June 2010
Identity 1
What does it mean to be a 6'0" tall, 180-pound, white American male?
Amused by my circumstances, this is something I ponder as I stand behind a drawer full of money, delivering change and pleasantries for seven and a half hours a day at minimum wage.
Sure, I'd told myself hundreds of times, "I won't be at [insert name of grocery store] this summer. I'll be elsewhere; I'll find something more productive to do with my life." But, as I found out, telling yourself something does not necessarily amount to said something becoming reality. And so here I am, at Kroger, the Big K, the King of all K's, the [insert something with letter 'k'].
But to be honest with you, dear reader, this K took me by complete surprise. It seems to be run very effectively, and everyone is always smiling. I've already made a lot new friends there, and being a near-perfect fit for the average Monroe county native--understanding the geography, history, demographics and language of the area (barring the fact that I'm an atheist)--I feel I have a unique opportunity to lose myself, and then find myself, and then maybe lose myself again in a sea of others just like myself.
But what does it mean to be myself? What is this flesh, this body? What is this mind, and this body hanging from it? Whence came my identity, and how much is it rooted in the past? How much of it can I control, and how much of it has been created for me? How much am I a part of these present circumstances, and how much am I detached? How much of me is in each one of these people I see across the counter? How much of the inner makings of these people who are seemingly just like me but often so vastly different from me can I actually understand?
These are things I think about at my new job. Sometimes, I think maybe the Korea veteran in the blue button-down knows. Sometimes, as he's peering at me through those thick glasses, watching me scramble haphazardly for nickels and dimes, I think he understands me a little bit better than I understand myself. Or, when he opens his wallet, and I see a faded black-and-white photo of a beautiful woman, I think he knows a little bit more about life than I do. I think he knows a little bit more about joy, a little bit more about loss, a little bit more about sorrow than I do. Sometimes, when, jaw clenched, his near-crippled hands battle his Parkinson's to move his groceries from cart to conveyor belt, I think he knows a little bit more about struggle than I do. Does he?
Other times, I think maybe the old florist knows. Is she a florist? I don't know. I do know that every time she comes through my line, she's smiling...and buying flowers. Maybe I'd be smiling too if I were buying flowers. Would I? Is she going to plant them when she gets home? Will she take the same care when she finds a suitable spot for her hibiscus that she took when she chose the background design for her checks? Her checks have a flower on them...it's a rose, a red rose, and when she was in the bank and she told the lady behind the desk that she wanted her checks to have that one, pointing at the intricate, botanical design with her index finger, I bet it made her smile. And when I see it, I think of her choosing it, and it makes me smile. Can I communicate that joy? Does she understand my joy, or only through her own eyes?
All the while I'm just enamored with the constant interaction I get with the people around me, and my day at work is spent in this sort of happy-go-lucky, question-filled daze, replete with smiles and hearty Midwestern greetings (i.e., "how are ya? how's it goin'?"). I often find myself nearly doubling over in a kind of joyous warmth, my heart enveloped in the giddiness from the interaction of the raw emotions that wrap around my brain like a warm, bulletproof blanket and the rapid production of almost-unanswerable questions that, like machine-gun rounds, try to break through from within. My seven and a half hours, supplemented by my union-sanctioned lunch and two breaks, usually pass extremely fast, and as I casually make my way out to my car at the end of the day I find my head abuzz with new thoughts.
I took the long way home from work today, a twisted, bumpy, winding series of roads going through an area of the county known as Bigelow Flats. As I passed the old Potawatomi burial ground, marked only recently with a large stone memorial by the history-saving aspirations of a white, middle-class family of (mostly) German descent much like my own, my eyes took in the wide, open grassland where many people most certainly lie lifeless a few feet beneath the topsoil.
As my car gently maneuvered around the bend, an onslaught of long-oppressed voices seemed to cry out, springing from the silent mouths of the Potawatomi themselves, vigorously besieging my beleaguered mind. What separates us from you? Where, then, is the divide? If you cross the road, if you step into our holy ground and thus into our history, do you in some sense become a part of our tradition? By stepping into their history, can I begin to understand these people, a people so alien to my own? Or has their history died with them? Will my history die with me? For how long do we last, and when do we cease?
But I know their voices are soon to fade, and I will be left only with my thoughts. The purr of my engine continues, and in a slow-motion sort of way my eyes blink and shift from the low-lying marshy graveyard to my left and back to the road. In a few moments those people are gone, lost to my mind...but I keep pondering, I keep questioning. I move on; I persist...adrift, or otherwise alone.
Amused by my circumstances, this is something I ponder as I stand behind a drawer full of money, delivering change and pleasantries for seven and a half hours a day at minimum wage.
Sure, I'd told myself hundreds of times, "I won't be at [insert name of grocery store] this summer. I'll be elsewhere; I'll find something more productive to do with my life." But, as I found out, telling yourself something does not necessarily amount to said something becoming reality. And so here I am, at Kroger, the Big K, the King of all K's, the [insert something with letter 'k'].
But to be honest with you, dear reader, this K took me by complete surprise. It seems to be run very effectively, and everyone is always smiling. I've already made a lot new friends there, and being a near-perfect fit for the average Monroe county native--understanding the geography, history, demographics and language of the area (barring the fact that I'm an atheist)--I feel I have a unique opportunity to lose myself, and then find myself, and then maybe lose myself again in a sea of others just like myself.
But what does it mean to be myself? What is this flesh, this body? What is this mind, and this body hanging from it? Whence came my identity, and how much is it rooted in the past? How much of it can I control, and how much of it has been created for me? How much am I a part of these present circumstances, and how much am I detached? How much of me is in each one of these people I see across the counter? How much of the inner makings of these people who are seemingly just like me but often so vastly different from me can I actually understand?
These are things I think about at my new job. Sometimes, I think maybe the Korea veteran in the blue button-down knows. Sometimes, as he's peering at me through those thick glasses, watching me scramble haphazardly for nickels and dimes, I think he understands me a little bit better than I understand myself. Or, when he opens his wallet, and I see a faded black-and-white photo of a beautiful woman, I think he knows a little bit more about life than I do. I think he knows a little bit more about joy, a little bit more about loss, a little bit more about sorrow than I do. Sometimes, when, jaw clenched, his near-crippled hands battle his Parkinson's to move his groceries from cart to conveyor belt, I think he knows a little bit more about struggle than I do. Does he?
Other times, I think maybe the old florist knows. Is she a florist? I don't know. I do know that every time she comes through my line, she's smiling...and buying flowers. Maybe I'd be smiling too if I were buying flowers. Would I? Is she going to plant them when she gets home? Will she take the same care when she finds a suitable spot for her hibiscus that she took when she chose the background design for her checks? Her checks have a flower on them...it's a rose, a red rose, and when she was in the bank and she told the lady behind the desk that she wanted her checks to have that one, pointing at the intricate, botanical design with her index finger, I bet it made her smile. And when I see it, I think of her choosing it, and it makes me smile. Can I communicate that joy? Does she understand my joy, or only through her own eyes?
All the while I'm just enamored with the constant interaction I get with the people around me, and my day at work is spent in this sort of happy-go-lucky, question-filled daze, replete with smiles and hearty Midwestern greetings (i.e., "how are ya? how's it goin'?"). I often find myself nearly doubling over in a kind of joyous warmth, my heart enveloped in the giddiness from the interaction of the raw emotions that wrap around my brain like a warm, bulletproof blanket and the rapid production of almost-unanswerable questions that, like machine-gun rounds, try to break through from within. My seven and a half hours, supplemented by my union-sanctioned lunch and two breaks, usually pass extremely fast, and as I casually make my way out to my car at the end of the day I find my head abuzz with new thoughts.
I took the long way home from work today, a twisted, bumpy, winding series of roads going through an area of the county known as Bigelow Flats. As I passed the old Potawatomi burial ground, marked only recently with a large stone memorial by the history-saving aspirations of a white, middle-class family of (mostly) German descent much like my own, my eyes took in the wide, open grassland where many people most certainly lie lifeless a few feet beneath the topsoil.
As my car gently maneuvered around the bend, an onslaught of long-oppressed voices seemed to cry out, springing from the silent mouths of the Potawatomi themselves, vigorously besieging my beleaguered mind. What separates us from you? Where, then, is the divide? If you cross the road, if you step into our holy ground and thus into our history, do you in some sense become a part of our tradition? By stepping into their history, can I begin to understand these people, a people so alien to my own? Or has their history died with them? Will my history die with me? For how long do we last, and when do we cease?
But I know their voices are soon to fade, and I will be left only with my thoughts. The purr of my engine continues, and in a slow-motion sort of way my eyes blink and shift from the low-lying marshy graveyard to my left and back to the road. In a few moments those people are gone, lost to my mind...but I keep pondering, I keep questioning. I move on; I persist...adrift, or otherwise alone.
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