The Transcendence of Reality
In the spring of 2003 I TA'd for Civil War History. I have since come to learn that in that class, and I hear some others, undergrads considered me a MFTA. Perhaps I should tell you . . . most fuckable TA. I am still uncertain of what I should make of these assertions, but . . . in class this week I asked a student why he comes to class and does not take notes. His response, while continuing to give me his creepy undressing me stare, "I come to look at you." Scraping my mouth off of the floor, I quickly went on with a lecture on the Cold War. Moments like this make you wonder about the transcendence of youth and the people we once were and the people we still are.
Running along my route, and through Astoria Park among the Greek and Spanish men with laser eyes and guttural cat calls, the folds of my mind lay themselves in almost primordial layers of bareness. Wafts of lilacs tingle my nose against the East, and one foot strikes in front of the other. I cuss as I push on, as the thoughts continue to unfold. Sometimes I force them into cages, like animals on display at the zoo. I will choose what process gets to release itself and bare its soul to the proverbial running soul of miles and seconds. As free forming and natural as it may be, releasing of confinement and convention, parameters must be established or the mind will travel too far taking me beyond the pressurized realm it normally resides in. Unchecked bounds remind me of the men who have come and gone, the aches of Lupus, and the moments of life I'd rather forget. Yet, letting the layers unfold brings a sense of calm and clarity to a normally discombobulated front.
Contemplating the layers of literature in American Legion magazines, discussing the nature of the soldier in and outside of the war fronts, reminds me of the philosophical points of life often devoid of exact context and meaning. In college, when coming back from the Broadway class (i.e. a week in NY studying plays and playwrights), some limo guy was holding a sign for Rosencrantz at a New York airport. Our professor begged us not to go up and say "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead." As a good literary moment will often do in life, when we got back to KY there was a Godot sign. I shit you not . . . couldn't make this up if I tried. Poor Professor Britton was beside himself praying we wouldn't show off our intellectual prowess of literary masterminds in poor manners. Godot will never truly show, just as the image of the soldier becoming the veteran will never stay stationary. The veteran becomes the protestor, the disabled, the corporate CEO, and the line worker.
Somewhere in the midst of this demise of my existential reality, Ren and Stimpy surface for moments of juvenile bliss. Ren, or maybe Stimpy, drank a shake made of snot.
One foot in front of the other carries on to the vague notions of who I once was. A decade ago I moved here, with a shaky soul and unconceptualized dreams. Never did I fathom my staying. Never did I foresee a vitriol sunset of my life unfolding in perverse manners of bliss, chaos, and uncertainty. Isometimes often think the girl of 24 would not recognize the 34 she is now. Did she know who she wanted to be? Did she want to be what she has become?
When I turned 30 I found a note I had written myself at some point in my early 20s, or perhaps late teens. It was the classic bucket list of what to do by the time I hit 30. A trite as it is, I guess one of my former selves saw 30 as a marker of age and lost longevity. Let's see . . . 1) get published in a major press, 2) have a song demo made from my lyrics, 3) leave the US borders, 4) go cross country alone, and some other rather trite things. There may have been four or five markers on that list. I remember looking at that list, laughing hysterically, and stopping in shock. I was on my friend Gene's deck, as I was camping at his house that summer. A glass of wine in one hand, the bottle next to me, and that note in my hand provided an almost poetic moment as I sat on the wooden planks with summer flowers in bloom down his hill. I had been for a run earlier, and still in my sweaty running shorts and tank I realized that I had accomplished everything on that list. Had I set the bar too low? Or had I reached some type of success only known to the lucky few?
The girl who moved here, years and years ago, worried about bills and rent. As to what she fathomed for her life, perhaps it was very close to what I am now. . . perhaps not. Part of me thinks that I should be farther along, parts think that I am fine, and parts . . . parts are at a loss for words to adequately describe the time and space of the presentness of now.
Sometimes I'm not sure I would want to have a beer with that girl in Birks. . . the dreamer I was.
Running along my route, and through Astoria Park among the Greek and Spanish men with laser eyes and guttural cat calls, the folds of my mind lay themselves in almost primordial layers of bareness. Wafts of lilacs tingle my nose against the East, and one foot strikes in front of the other. I cuss as I push on, as the thoughts continue to unfold. Sometimes I force them into cages, like animals on display at the zoo. I will choose what process gets to release itself and bare its soul to the proverbial running soul of miles and seconds. As free forming and natural as it may be, releasing of confinement and convention, parameters must be established or the mind will travel too far taking me beyond the pressurized realm it normally resides in. Unchecked bounds remind me of the men who have come and gone, the aches of Lupus, and the moments of life I'd rather forget. Yet, letting the layers unfold brings a sense of calm and clarity to a normally discombobulated front.
Contemplating the layers of literature in American Legion magazines, discussing the nature of the soldier in and outside of the war fronts, reminds me of the philosophical points of life often devoid of exact context and meaning. In college, when coming back from the Broadway class (i.e. a week in NY studying plays and playwrights), some limo guy was holding a sign for Rosencrantz at a New York airport. Our professor begged us not to go up and say "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead." As a good literary moment will often do in life, when we got back to KY there was a Godot sign. I shit you not . . . couldn't make this up if I tried. Poor Professor Britton was beside himself praying we wouldn't show off our intellectual prowess of literary masterminds in poor manners. Godot will never truly show, just as the image of the soldier becoming the veteran will never stay stationary. The veteran becomes the protestor, the disabled, the corporate CEO, and the line worker.
Somewhere in the midst of this demise of my existential reality, Ren and Stimpy surface for moments of juvenile bliss. Ren, or maybe Stimpy, drank a shake made of snot.
One foot in front of the other carries on to the vague notions of who I once was. A decade ago I moved here, with a shaky soul and unconceptualized dreams. Never did I fathom my staying. Never did I foresee a vitriol sunset of my life unfolding in perverse manners of bliss, chaos, and uncertainty. I
When I turned 30 I found a note I had written myself at some point in my early 20s, or perhaps late teens. It was the classic bucket list of what to do by the time I hit 30. A trite as it is, I guess one of my former selves saw 30 as a marker of age and lost longevity. Let's see . . . 1) get published in a major press, 2) have a song demo made from my lyrics, 3) leave the US borders, 4) go cross country alone, and some other rather trite things. There may have been four or five markers on that list. I remember looking at that list, laughing hysterically, and stopping in shock. I was on my friend Gene's deck, as I was camping at his house that summer. A glass of wine in one hand, the bottle next to me, and that note in my hand provided an almost poetic moment as I sat on the wooden planks with summer flowers in bloom down his hill. I had been for a run earlier, and still in my sweaty running shorts and tank I realized that I had accomplished everything on that list. Had I set the bar too low? Or had I reached some type of success only known to the lucky few?
The girl who moved here, years and years ago, worried about bills and rent. As to what she fathomed for her life, perhaps it was very close to what I am now. . . perhaps not. Part of me thinks that I should be farther along, parts think that I am fine, and parts . . . parts are at a loss for words to adequately describe the time and space of the presentness of now.
Sometimes I'm not sure I would want to have a beer with that girl in Birks. . . the dreamer I was.
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