Restlessness on a Triumphant Feburary Evening

There comes a time when our decisions become grey instead of black and white. A dissociative crossroads. A verge of my parasympathetic and sympathetic nervous systems interacting with one another to associate brain chemistry and electricity. The crucial decisions in our lives are both the most challenging and most rewarding. A look into the timeline both passed and present. Do we straddle the white horse and conquer lands much like Napolean or do we take the lesser route? I know, what your wondering that I must have come into contact with a legion of marijuana crops and have been cascading the rainbow pathway. That i'm stoned, burnt and tattered. It's not true I pass on grass.Instead i'm impulsive but there has been a ransom on my heart for sometime.

The option of door number one: He woke up in the same clothes he wore last night in a situational dispostion of apathy. The situation being every morning. Quickly he thought, shower before i'm late to work with clients of denial, minimizing, projecting, rationalizing and countinuing too add other Freudian defense mechanisms that can be conjectured. Is the tone of his hallow existence covered by duplicity, many people may speculate, scry and try depict the aftermath. A blank stare, zombie-like as he pours his first cup of many cups of Peruvian coffee. He is an addictions counselor riddled with trivial questions and fears. He is abrasive. The content of his work..a bore, a struggle. One success story after another falls to the wayside. He is his own cave ruled by Minnesota Statutes, codes, regulations, referrals, and assessments. The paperwork stacked high enough to make the Appalachian Mountains look like a bundle of mustard seeds. He then gets into his car and instantly lights up a brown filter roled with white paper. The insides of the roled item happens to be tobacco mixed with a delightful batch of toxins that make the alveoli scream, their sounds are like the sirens of a tornado warning.

Immortality beckons the brain, the receptors sites are as comfortable and careless as a teenager on a high speed chase. The radio plays for the waves of tone deaf pop music lovers, most songs repeat lyrics of sexual positions and incorporating some instant gradification in a span of two minutes. The artistry and imagination of the music lost to the black hole of consumerism. He doesn't care too much about the music, he's heard the songs before and he's aging. He drives just in time to catch the zany and wacky pair of radio announcers trying to be funny, them dreaming of bumming their humor technique from the ghosts of Richard Pyror and Chris Farley. They fail to entertain and fall again he thinks. He gets intensively frustrated with Zany Wayny and company and would like to hear any song that can connect the distant memories before his mom and dad parted like the Red Sea, before he reaches his destination. He gets to hear the beginning of a song that reminds him of passions on a distant soil and the soothing waves of the oceans push. The dreamscape ends abruptely when one of the main senses the sense of physical touch connects with the frothy and bittersweet mist of old man winter throwing "Take that" snowballs at him as he opens the car door. He approaches feeling unsatisfied and submissive with the teenage angst raging (in mute)against his own machine. He thinks about the various theories to be practiced, dreadful assessments, and hatred he has for his clients. He hears the stories from the wet brains, the coke addicts, the strung out junkies, the bottom-dwellers, and the lower social economic status' plight. He cares and is concerned but something evil exists within his own psyche. It's his own battle with the same consequences, it's the cravings that are cunning, baffling and powerful. His fears of relapse grow strong with each story of misuse and use. He relives the strong urges to snort lines of white stuff and it triggers his cravings to unbearable porportions. You speak about the addictions and he is envious of the hunt of followed two rabbits and never catching either one. He understands the obsession that Gollum had with the ring in Lord Of The Ring, Winnie the Pooh to honey, or Tiger Woods too attractive white women. Addiction is intense, back-breaking work at times. He ends his day dealing with his issues, others issues and unfinished paperwork. His lunch break is in the neighborhood of his archaic jagermeister and rockstar energy drinking explosions. He desires alcohol and settles for three cigarettes in sequential order. The Gold. The Silver. The Bronze. He leaves work hurt, struggling and exhausted. Face to face with what if's. listens to "Sisters of Mercy" by Leonard Cohen as he ponders traversing to TV dinners and red light desired districts.

Before the doors opening, left slightly ajar: Upon the discovery that he needs to do this, a desire that has always been applauded by his peers. This craft that can be explored, scanned and revised. I went to spend some time with my father over the weekend and he pointed out a necessary change in the styling of my writing. I need to focus on the seperation of personal and professional at times without losing authenticity. I concure.

I was driving back from the town of Plymouth, MN, Earth, Milky Way, then...God? I'm not sure what's next. I'm not an Astronomy major. I do enjoy the Crab Nebula and is grass dust or gases luminous. So beautiful and we have the technology to photograph it and share it. When driving I was considering my options or should I say he was, the guy from above was actually me all along. I was thinking about what a dear friend of mine once said. "Do what you love and you will make money" (Laura P).
There is where the angling fear lies, a green sheet of paper which could have traveled to anywhere, seen horrible things and placed in awkward situations. A sheet that could easily be stained red, fractious and when tied together could cause mass hysteria. We become machines. To steal a line from a title of Noam Chomsky book "The thing that seperates the prosperous few and the restless many." I understand the lure and seductiveness that money has on people. It's control over people, it's a necessity. That's the worry "making it." Making what exactly? I'm growing older and learning so much from books,people, places, but it's the experience of living right now that it's having the greatest effect. Simplicity is teaching me that less is more. I do have things.....things don't have me though. We seem to live in a very constraint part of the world even though we are free. There is no longer physical thralldom, but there is perhaps from consumerism where the gap between the middle class and the lower class is starting to meld together. Replaced soon with the term the loathsome class or the peons for the few proud. To summarize this maddening ordeal, My life is fragile (very Western of me, to think only of me). Making "It" does not require a "perfect" looking sted-ford wife, or a Rolex watch, or a blood diamonded encrusted pimp cup, a vehicle powered by children of Darfur's tears, or a poodle that eats healthier than the majority of Americans (i'll have my shame in a to go bag please), a health care plan that will remove both of my lungs when they get napalmed by the extra chemicals in the cigareetes I vaccum up and replace them with healthier onces, or even having Hanz and Franz as personal trainers.

I love this, this feeling of uncertainity. The moment, the most overlooked portion of my day. Slowing everything down and listening to the quite sounds in the house, the hum of the train in the distance, the clicking of the letters on my keyboard, the ignoring streams of thought that fly through my head faster then a light rail in Japan. Being is better than doing and when I write I feel apart of something magical and mysterious, both limitless and captivating. So, here I go making another change, in the next couple of days I will be transition from Mass Communication to Theatre to Alcohol and Drug Studies to English. It is fitting though when looked at genetically. My father also a English major, a heavy influence on my love for books. My grandparent were teachers, same as my mums. The greatest thing to me is discovering the beauty in both creativity and science. When blended together it is better than money. The option of door two is loving the now, the moments. Life is so short....