Here I am, wasting precious sleep time to update my the picture gallery on my Geocities site. I’m watching MTV2, which helps pass the time. Up until now, things have been cool. Then all of sudden, “Gimme” by Jill Scott comes on. Holy geez, that song irritates me to no end. It pains me to say it, because I love Jill Scott. But seriously. How can a talented artist with so much soul sing something so obnoxious?
It’s funny the way love progresses. In the beginning, long before you’re even in love, it’s all about talking. That’s what makes or breaks the relationship…talking. If you and that special somebody find yourselves suffocating in agonizing silence, you eventually realize that that nonsense of being together is nothing but a bad idea. But if all goes well, you find yourselves connecting in so many ways. You talk about past loves, future hopes, current fears, and the endless potential that drives your unwritten lives.
Then that first kiss comes, and something changes. The new paradigm that defines your relationship is a combination of conversation and physical affection. Sure, you keep on talking, but it’s all a prelude for the next, inevitable kiss. And while you’re not kissing—though there’s plenty more to be said—you sometimes just get tired of talking. So you sit in silence, arms around each other, staring at a movie screen or watching the starlit sky.
Subsequently, some of the most profound moments you and that somebody will ever share won’t involve a single spoken word. I enjoy that irony. After the countless hours, days, months, or even years you spend conversing with that special somebody, once you two eventually fall in love and commit to each other, you’re perfectly content with silence.
I know, this whole rant grossly oversimplifies the progression of love. That perfect silence, once it’s reached, doesn’t last forever. Even so, it lasts just long enough to make me wonder.
Stupid mass-produced Gap clothing. I can’t wear my track jackets anywhere without passing some guy wearing the same thing. It’s an endless battle, I guess. No matter what you wear, you’re conforming to some kind of tragic standard. You want true individuality? Try punching a collar and arm holes into a potato sack and roping pink shoelace around your waste to serve as a belt. Me? Well, I’ve come to accept that fact that I’ll always look like somebody else. Of course, the next time I see some guy sporting one of my outfits, I might see it fit to regulate (Warren G style).
Moments of truth have a funny way of blindsiding you when you’re looking the other way. Just yesterday, I spent most of the day with my father’s father, my only surviving grandparent. In the morning, I drove up to San Francisco with my dad and my brother to pick up my grandfather. When we arrived, he wasn’t ready yet. So the three of us parked outside my grandfather’s apartment and walked across the street to buy some food. On our way back to the apartment, I hear my brother say, in an anxious tone, “he’s already out.” Immediately, my dad bolts across the street and grabs onto my grandfather, making sure he doesn’t trip and fall. I know San Francisco isn’t very hospitable to the elderly, what with the steep hills and all, but Jesus.
It was like that the entire day. Everywhere we went, my dad made sure that somebody was always helping my grandfather walk this way or that. The man is 84 years old and he has a cane, but I’ve never seen him stumble once while walking on his own. Of course, my dad probably knows what he’s doing since he spends infinitely more time with my grandfather than I do. But I remember just five years ago, my grandfather’s mobility was never an issue.
From San Francisco, we drove down to Half Moon Bay to visit my grandmother’s grave. She died in January of 2000, but it all seems like it was ages ago. My grandfather spent most of our visit in the car, although he did come out briefly to pay respects to my grandmother. Staring at that gravestone was nothing short of surreal. I remembered that, just two years ago, I had witnessed the coffin being lowered and the grave being filled with soil. But for some reason, I had blocked all memory of the gravestone. Yesterday, as I looked down at my grandmother’s grave, all I could see was the word “ZING” staring up at me in block letters. At that moment, I was reminded that, like my grandmother and so many others that have died before and after her, I am equally entitled to death. I had come to that realization long ago when my mother took me to visit her parents’ graves; but I guess the blow was softened because their last name is different from my own.
By dinnertime, we met up with my aunt (my dad’s sister), her husband, and her four-year-old son at a restaurant. When my grandfather wanted to go to the restroom, it became my reluctant responsibility to escort him. It’s not as if I minded helping out. I just felt guilty for questioning his ability to take care of himself. I followed behind him as he slowly made his way from the table to the other side of the room. He has a clumsy way of handling his cane, making me wonder if he’ll ever get used to using it properly. He’d lift the cane, plant it slightly forward and take a step, and then drag it for a few more steps, forcing anybody behind him to walk at a distance. Maybe he does that on purpose. Maybe he does it as a way of telling people to back off and to let him retain at least a shred of dignity in his old age. Just maybe. As it turned out, he didn’t need my help at all. For that, I’m thankful. If and when the time comes that my grandfather should truly need my help, I’d do anything for him. But until then, I’m not going to bury him yet.
Well, spring has finally sprung around here, and that means people all around me are dying of hay fever. I feel so bad, because I actually enjoy the rich scent of nectar and pollen in the air. In an ideal world, everybody would have the opportunity to appreciate spring that way that I’ve been able to.
But spring is about so much more than pretty scents and warm breezes. Sure, outdoor recreation and falling in love are certainly signs of the season; but above all other reasons, spring is so significant because it is a time of reproduction. Just think…it was only a month or two ago when the animals in your local ecosphere were feeding on winter rations and sheltering themselves from the rain. Now, all of a sudden, this cruel and humorless world around you brightens up a bit and becomes one giant orgy of animal lovin’. Hot damn, what a world we live in.
It occurs to me, though, that something about the season is a bit off. Why, during this happy season, with most of the wildlife around us reveling in animal sin, are so many of us sneezing? Then, it hits me. The cause of most of our springtime woes is airborne pollen, which comes from trees and flowers. And it’s not as if plants have the luxury of uprooting to mate; so they propel their reproductive substances on the April breeze. Essentially, the very air we breathe in during the spring is full of plant semen. When you stop to think about it, how can anybody not be sneezing?
“I hate those people who say, ‘follow your heart.’” he says. “It’s never, ‘follow your mind.’ They’re so ignorant, they create a vacuum that I can’t stand next to.”
I laughed then, and I’m still laughing now. Oh, that Martin.
I can’t say I completely disagree with him, though. How do you expect to accomplish any of your goals if you keep forfeiting to your every whim? A lot of people I talk to seem to have it all together. When I hear them talk about their agendas and their aspirations for success, I just feel really small. I plotted out an agenda once, but that was only because I felt obligated to do so. It’s not a bad plan; I just wonder if it’s the right one for me. It’s all a matter of perspective, I guess. Too bad my perspective keeps changing. Prudence or passion…what’s a dreamer to choose? Damn it all…if only there were a way to have both.
Sometimes I forget why I love writing so much. It’s funny how much of a conundrum my love for writing has turned out to be. Bitching and moaning, lamenting lost love, crooning for that new special somebody, sharing insights into the rhymes and dissonance of life—that’s what it’s all about. But ever since the beginning, I’ve overthought every damn word I’ve written. There are times when I get so caught up in pretension and flowery words that even I can’t take my writing seriously. I tried keeping a writing journal, once. I figured that I’d be able to pump out a billion and half poems and short stories if I’d just commit to scribbling down my truest thoughts. To this day, there’s a lingering suspicion in my mind that I’ve been lying to myself in writing all this time.
Well, what the hell, I’m trying again. This is a journal, of sorts…albeit a very public one. But that doesn’t bother me very much since most of what I write ends up being read by somebody anyway. I’ll keep writing because I know there’s plenty more to say. I’ll keep writing until I’ve said it all the way that it was meant to be said.
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