Discontent

The rain fell methodically. It droned so evenly and constantly that its sound nearly disappeared. The occasional drop that struck the thin plastic lid of my disposable coffee cup punctuated this wash of sound with a slightly more pronounced resonance. The rain had endurance, tenacity, and discipline. It was unaffected by its emotions. It just kept going. All was wet, both with moisture and the rain’s unwavering tone. It had no ebb or flow. It had no rise or fall. It had no dynamics. It was a long distance runner. It was punctuated by the occasional drop that struck the thin plastic lid of my disposable coffee cup. What this sort of sustain lacks in aesthetics, it compensates for with accumulation. The flooding was destructive. It seems so harmless, when you tune it out, when you forget about it. It collects like interest on a loan. Then its wealth of discontent becomes apparent, not in a sensational, cathartic, explosive moment, but as a gradual revelation of its toll. Through time, it builds, erodes and destroys. Incrementally, subtly, and painlessly, it informs you of its consequences.

Unhappy Son

Sometimes my mom calls at really bad times. Often my mom calls at really bad times. It’s not her fault. She doesn’t know. Unfortunately, I have lots of bad times. So she’s always playing against bad odds. She’s not into gambling and doesn’t revel in my misery. Circumstance has dealt her that hand, though, so she has to grapple with it. I do what I can to soften it. I feel badly. She doesn’t deserve to deal with me. She deserves an emotionally well-adjusted son who shares her values. She got me. My life is my own choice. I don’t blame anybody but myself for my discontent. My discontent just occasionally makes it hard for me to be talkative and buoyant. When I’m down, I’m down. I’m an artist suffering an affluent, consumerist, suburban American hell. I’ve got a good job as a web developer that makes me want to end my life and leaves me with inadequate time to paint and write. Writing code for a living dries me out. Then I have to come home and mow the yard that I never wanted. I wanted the house but not the yard. The yard came with it. Last year the yard was dead. It was magnificent. We got it treated and I didn’t think anything of it. I didn’t expect the fertilizer to work. This year it’s green and thick and growing like mad. I long for it to be brown and flat again. Fuck grass. I only like the kind that I can smoke. So my mom calls one evening, and I’m telling her all this, omitting the smoking part. She suggests that I pay a lawn care service to come mow my lawn. I laugh so hard that I nearly drop the phone. She laughs too. I don’t know if she saw the same humor in it that I did, but at least she realized it was funny and we shared that moment.

An Ordinary Crucifixion – No. 2

The woman working at the parking attendant’s booth looks to be about 40 years old. She’s got some very blond hair, bleached, permed, about two feet long, topped with a baseball cap. She looks like she’s had a rough life. She’s there every day and I've never once seen her smile. Quite the opposite; she does a great deal of scowling. She looks like she used to have very attractive facial features that settled into this mask through years of scowling. The baggy polo shirt that constitutes her uniform conceals what must certainly be a wraith-like frame. Underneath it, I imagine that even her breasts are angrily scowling. Her forearms are practically skeletal, and wrapped in big veins, like earthworms draped over her skin. She does not speak, ever. My guess is that she used to be a stripper and has only recently been forced to retire from that profession. That has to be humiliating. I suspect that’s where she developed her scowl. I imagine that a few long years of stripping will suffice to drain a good bit of the joyful magic out of life. I’ll bet that will leave you a little bitter and jaded. This can only be aggravated by her current situation. Consider the timeline of a stripper. Stripping is certainly a field that rewards youth. More accurately, it is a field that does not tolerate age. In her prime, she probably made quite a bit of money stripping, which is why she stuck with it so long. Inevitably, as time passed, that cash flow must have diminished to such a point that it led her to retire from stripping and start a career in professional parking lot attendance. I suppose that’s all that 20 years of stripping qualifies you for? I don’t know. Moreover, it must engender a strange cocktail of emotions. The money that she could no longer make dancing was essentially stolen by an abundant set of younger, more nubile girls. Whereas she may resent them for taking money away from her, she cannot honestly fault them for making the same decision that she made herself. They’ve done nothing different than she did. I am quite certain that a healthy and well-justified hatred of men would also run throughout all of those sentiments. Who can blame her? It’s difficult to speculate whether or not she’s had other issues or what those issues might have been. Alcohol? Drugs? Abusive relationships? Who knows?

Beef Jerky and Black Coffee

My piss stunk of beef jerky and black coffee. The urinal cake made it smell worse. My friend entered the room, said, “Think fast, fucker!” and pushed me into the urinal as he walked down to the first available stall. I quickly braced myself on the wall with my left hand, to avoid actually making contact with the urinal, and shouted back, “Asshole!” He laughed out a big loud stinking shit.

Mediocrity

Evil is real. It exists, not externally or absolutely, but as a projection. It is an attitude that we harbor towards things. Regardless of evil’s origin or nature, there it is. You’re wading in it up to your balls. Don’t let it get to you, though. Seeing past it is key. Ignore the mind-fuck. Evil is an underachiever. It may be everywhere. It may seem inescapable. Keep in mind, however, that evil is typically uninspired and mediocre. It’s just dirt. Everything gets dirty, but it’s just dirt. A little vigilance and turpentine wipes it away. The other side of this proverbial coin is the glory of all things beautiful and inspired. It is worth it. It is worth the pain. The beauty is worth ugliness. Strength, art, music, sex, drunkenness, friends, family, and those special moments of accomplishment, serenity, solitude, authenticity, and satisfaction are the real virtue. Victory! It can be simple and tiny, or large and complex, but bliss comes in many forms. It is always more remarkable than uninspired, mediocre negativity. What you want to see is what you will see.