[ i ] AM [ a dusty old book ]

On my drive home this evening, I saw a shooting star. And I'm realizing how naive I am now as I reflect back on that moment because with the deepest sincerity my heart could muster, I made a wish. My wish, the result of my life long pursuit of certainty.
Though it may be hard to believe---please note the sarcasm in my tone--- that I am still a child in my mind. I am in a constant search for gratification, a gold star, a stamp on the hand for  each accomplishment I achieve. This desire is not for the purpose of recognition. It is stems from I believe, the desire to feel . . . well, special.
I know, childish huh? The problem is, I am so intentional about everything I do. This when mixed with my idealistic tendencies--- can be extremely destructive. And this is my dilemma.
Like a book on a shelf in a library, I'm eagerly awaiting for someone to pluck me up and read me cover to cover. But as the saying goes, you can't judge a book by its cover. And the truth is, we all do.
This in mind I've created an extremely elaborate cover for myself, one that appeals to the eye and is not easily over looked. But on all accounts the content I feel, is nothing short of disappointing.
What does one do with a disappointing book? Well, they set it down, unfinished. They don't recommend it  to their friends. They don't rant and rave about how great the plot was, or how the characters were so well established. They set it down, on their coffee table, or their desk, on the ground or they leave it in the trunk of their car.
Worse then this, sometimes it is put back on the shelf and left untouched for an unpredictable period of time. The patient reader continues on in hope that the time they have already spent reading it will not have been a waste. But rarely, do they make it to the end.
The wish I spoke of earlier, the one I made on that shooting star I saw. It was for piece of mind. To know that I have already been written and read and throughly enjoyed by my author.

goodnight.

[ i ] AM [ brain-barfing]

I'm uncertain of whether this feeling I have right now is due to a decrease in motivation, or a slight irritation with myself for lacking the creative ability to find something worth while to do with my free time.  What I do know is my book-self is organized and dusted as is my work space. My sheets are clean and my bed neatly made, as I sit here spilling the contents of my thoughts all over this once blank page. If only the mind were as easy to navigate as a web browser. All one would have to do is simply find a good search engine (google) and they would be able to easily locate the source of their anxiety, sadness, fear, anger, rage even. Seeing how most everyone misplaces these things.

A perfect example would be the woman who cut me off while turning across on coming traffic (a.k.a. me) into a shopping center without thinking to herself "hmm, this might cause a significant amount of unnecessary trouble for someone (a.k.a me) say... if I can't clear traffic in time." But no, she turned anyway, and then slammed on her breaks right in front of my car and preceded to let me know how pissed she was that I just happened to be also be in that exact spot and the exact time she chose to turn into traffic.

In this example, the woman obviously had a lot on her mind. Enough to compromise her ability to drive safely. In return she cut me off, and then responded as though I had no business using the road at the same time she happened to be turning into the shopping center. Missed place anger/frustration/whatever emotion she was held captive in that moment. The worst thing about this none-sense of a blog post is that I am guilty of this very practice. As I am sure, are a great many of you. This however is besides the point, or is it the point...I'm not sure.

All I'm trying to say is that it would be wonderful if I had a refresh button...I don't care where it would be...it could be on the center of my forehead. It would just be nice on those days where everything is out of control and my brain seems to be functioning abnormally slow, or fast for that matter... to be able to press this button and then have everything fall once more where it belongs. I'm not even going to reread this post before posting it. I figure the misspellings and grammatical errors will give it character. Disagree? Whatever.

[ i ] AM [ there ] 

 

.   .   .

               I remember once a long time ago, skipping around the backyard at my Aunts house while my Uncle stood over a grill smoking a salmon. My Uncle---who has long since parted ways with my Aunt---was a tall handsome man, with olive sun weathered skin. He spent a lot of time surfing the waves, a true 'Beach Boy'. His stringy sandy blond hair rested on his shoulders, and he wore old sun faded tee shirts and cut off jeans.

               When I close my eyes I can picture the patio of their home in San Luis Obispo. A slab of cement sheltered by canopy connected to the roof. Patio chairs and a table sat there beneath the covering. The grass that ran from the cement met a wall that lined their property. Along the wall were an assortment of tall tropical plants, I cannot recall what kind but I remember it being brilliantly green---this a shocking contrast to the desert in which I was not born but raised in, and still dwell to this day.

               The setting sun shone brightly on this particular afternoon, and a smooth breeze danced off the ocean countering the summer heat and making the air shimmer and the temperature near heavenly. I was wearing a little one-piece bathing suit, which was typical for me at that age. My mother had given up on asking me to get dressed, most summer afternoons at home I spent in my bathing suit. I recall feeling freer that way, cut loose of the restraints and weight proper clothing imposed---free to run through the neighbors sprinklers with my friends or soak myself in our front hose at will.

               My Aunt sat in a one of the patio chairs puffing away at a clove. The smell of them made me wish I too were adult. But due to my age, and the relentless supervision of my responsible parents I was forced to simply sit and enjoy the smell of what smoke drifted my way from the bud of her dark maroon colored cigarette. I sat as near as was possible without raising the suspicion of my parents. I recall---this memory being the most revisited in my thoughts---skipping past the smoke rising from the grill and in-hailing deeply with the hope that when I exhaled I too would see smoke drift out of my mouth and then float away in the air, just as it did each time my Aunt parted her lips to exhale.

               And so summer afternoons at their home went much like this. I was always filled with a sense of adventure when my parents agreed to let me explore the tree fort at the edge of the development. It had been perfected and then left behind by what seemed to be generations of children that came before us. The fort extended over multiple thick branches of an old monstrous tree. I can't recall the type of tree, but what I can recall were the well placed ladders and ropes---making accessing and exiting very easy incase a sudden attack were to be launch by a certain older brother who had very good aim, and plenty of ammo on the ground.

               A few paces past the tree fort were railroad tracks. We could hear the train’s horn blow from the house. I still to this day feel a rush of excitement at that sound because it is a rarity now. My excitement, due to a trick we learned from our Uncle. He showed us how to get pennies and quarters flatter then pancakes by placing them, just so, on the railing.  This became a regular practice when we would visit. My big brother and I would gather a small collection of coins and place them on the tracks and then go home and wait until we heard the trains approaching. Once they passed we'd race to the tacks and search high and low for the coins.

                           .  .  .

               I am uncertain why some moments stick to our conscious memories while others slip away into the abyss of our minds. I am so fond of moments like these. It is at the most unexpected times that they emerge from the depths of our minds and remind us of how full and wonderful life has been. Not all the memories that emerge are pleasant, in fact some are extremely painful to revisit. But that is what reminds us we are alive---at least it is that way for me. I liken them to the coldness of winter. I become so much more aware of each of my fingers and toes, and my checks turn pink once exposed to the crisp cool air. How my nose beguines to run, and the hairs on the back of my neck are raised as shivers run from my neck down my spine and into thighs and calves. The cool air makes me more aware of a great many things, but tonight it has brought to me a pleasant memory. One I will revisit I am sure, many many more times.

                          .   .   .