a little thought

For me, there is never enough time. I’m sure we all feel this way, that there is never enough time in the day. We don’t have time to sleep, time to relax, time to socialize. But it goes deeper than that, doesn’t it? There is never enough time to write all the stories you wish to pen, to draw all the images you wish to create, to photograph all the sights you wish to capture, to view all the films you want to see, to say all the words you want to speak, to listen to all the ideas there are to hear, to dream all the fantasies you wish to dream, to do all the things you want to do. In short there is simply not enough time to enjoy all the life you wish to live. And I tell myself that I’m young, that I’ll have plenty of time to do all of these things. But the thing is, I don’t quite believe that. I don’t think that I’ll come to a time, years down the road when I say to myself, I’m done. I’ve done all the things I’ve wanted to do, there’s nothing more life can give me. But perhaps that’s why we fear death so much. Not simply because it’s the end of life, but because we never finish all that we wanted to do. Because we just didn’t get enough time. Who knows.

peace

Really?

Saw this on Coates blog, I was almost positive this was an Onion production. Sadly, I was wrong.`

peace

Beware of Dog

I came across this article today about this dog mauling a toddler. Any decent human being would find this sad, no child should have to experience not only the pain but the scars left behind. In the article the mother said this,

"Because I feel like the least I can do for (my) daughter is give her a bit of justice," Ms Jobe said.

She's going to have scars for life. The least I can do is take away that dog's life.”

This is often the argument parents give for wanting the death of an animal who has harmed their children. But I don’t really think it makes sense. Perhaps if she had said so the dog didn’t harm someone else, so someone else didn’t have to go through this ordeal, I would be okay with it, that seems like a reasonable statement. But that’s not what she said. She wants to kill the dog because it hurt her daughter. Now while I can understand where she’s coming from, I don’t quite agree with it. How does killing the dog bring justice to her daughter? How does it makes up for her accident?

It’s the same concept used in our justice system. The family of the victims murdered put their loved ones assailants on trial, hoping for the death penalty because they believe that somehow, this will bring them justice. But someone, please tell me how that works. How does taking the life of another make any difference? I don’t buy the whole piece of mind shit. Revenge never gets you anywhere, it only makes you just as bad as your enemy.

"An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind."

-Ghandi

Maybe I'm just being insensitive. Any thoughts?

peace

Down with Schmulver's

Note: Some names have been changed in order to protect the privacy and integrity of the places featured in this post/ my job.

So after four years of working at Schmulver’s, I have finally been promoted. I’m unsure of how to take this news. It’s true I did finally build up the courage to ask for this promotion, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m happy about it. I mean yeah, I did get a raise and I now get free food, which isn’t that big of a deal because I can’t remember the last time I actually paid for my food there, and let me tell you, I have eaten my share of their merchandise. I suppose now I’ll get to boss people around and putting manager on a college application will look nice. But let’s look at the cons here shall we. I’ll now be responsible for the shit that goes wrong in the store, meaning I’ll start getting blamed for mess ups that aren’t even my fault.I’ll have to work till almost eleven on school nights, and with my class schedule I’ll get like no sleep. But hey, I ain’t no punk bitch, so I figure I’ll be fine.

But as I stood in the employee bathroom, buttoning up my oversized blue manager shirt, I began wondering if this was selling out. The moment I agreed to the position of manager, I basically sold my soul to the devil. I can no longer talk back to my GM, I am her slave and must listen to her because that is what managers must do. Put quite simply, I must change myself to fulfill the qualities expected from me from my superior. There is no doubt that I am a sellout.

But as a tightened my brand new tie, symbolizing my new state of oppression, I decided to rebel. I decided to build an army. I decided to fuck over Schmulver’s.

And here’s how:

While I will continue to do as I am told, following the directions of my superiors, when outside of their watch, I will instruct others to break every rule possible. Someone orders a single burger, I’ll tell them to make it a double, they want a six piece shrimp, make it a ten, they want one scoop of custard, give them two, a short shake will be turned into a medium. I know all this seems very childish and immature, mostly because it is. And you probably doubt that this insubordination will have any affect on the Schmulver’s establishment. Wether my childish plan works or not is of no concern to me. The important thing is the idea. The act of rebelling against Schmulver’s. That’s all I want really, is to start a minor form of a revolution. The idea will be passed on, and regardless of effort, you cannot kill an idea.

Yes, I realize how stupid this sounds. But I’m just a girl who hates her job and wants some control, no matter how small, after relinquishing all the rest. Down with Schmulver’s.

peace

"We are remembered for the totality of our accomplishments, but we are defined by the singularity of our greatest failure.

We are what we cannot do."

-Downtown Owl, Chuck Klosterman

For a first novel, this book is pretty damn good. Read it.

peace

Sanctuary

I went to my church yesterday. It was the first time I had set foot in that building in over eight years. I remember, as a child, I was all about Jesus and the word of the lord. I would compare everyday situations to bible stories I learned in Sunday school, I would light the candles at the beginning of the service, I went to Vacation Bible School every summer. I loved God.

But for some reason I stopped going. My mother had just married my step-dad and he wasn’t very religious so I guess we just sort of forgot about church. I don’t remember my last sermon there and I don’t remember my first free Sunday morning, but some time ago it must have happened. I guess I forgot about my faith too. Without weekly revivals, it must have slipped away. And as I learned more about war, and corruption, and life in general, I began questioning established religions. It’s almost comical to look back at the child I was, reciting verses and singing hymns, to the person I am now, a person who has seriously considered atheism and scoffs at regular church goers.

But about two months ago I had this really powerful dream. In it, I was walking through my old church. I recognized everything, the water fountain that had always been too tall for me, the color of the wood pews, the doors leading to the offices of the pastors, it was just how I remembered it. But what’s weird is that I hadn’t thought about the layout of the place in years. If I had even attempted to remember what it had looked like, I am sure I would have failed to see it. But in my dream, the ones that are so vivid you’re sure it’s reality, I saw everything just how it was.

In my dream, I walked down the hallway, to the entrance of the sanctuary. But instead of turning left to enter the great steeple, I turned right into a little nook in the wall. There stood a small table, a tall one like the ones you use bar stools to sit on. Standing on the table was a candle, a long one, a worship candle in what looked like a glass cup. But for some reason, the candle was submerged in water. Next to the glass was a bottle of oil and a box of matches. I added the oil to the glass and lit a match, igniting the submerged candle.

Now I understand that this dream seems a bit anticlimactic, but for me, dreams aren’t about the images, but rather the feelings one gets from the picture. When I ignited the candle, I felt something, that surged through my sleeping body. When I awoke, I had this powerful desire to return to my church. Something was there for me. Whether it had been a message from my sub-conscience or perhaps from something more powerful than my mind, I had this undeniable sensation to go see what there was to see, to visit my past. You don’t mess with feelings like that.

So yesterday I went. I came late, I didn’t want to talk to anyone, I didn’t want to have to answer questions mostly. I came in during a hymn and quietly sat in the pew farthest to the back. I listened to the preacher present his sermon, and as he did so, I remembered why I once loved church so much, why I once loved God. The bible, all bibles, are pure good. I think that it’s hard for most nonbelievers to see that sometimes. They get so wrapped up in the faults of religion that they completely miss all the good it offers, which is sad because the gospel is poetry. It will speak to you if you let it.

Now, in my opinion, there is no question that God exists, but I doubt he is really a he, or a person at all. To think that God is some guy with an impressive beard who just chills on clouds all day is childish to me, but to think that this, us, life all came from nothing is just as ludicrous. I think that my discontent with religion had prevented me from realizing that. I’ll still probably denounce organized religion, but as Buddy Wakefield put it no matter what it is that you believe in, you have to spare yourself of making fun of God because that guy hasn’t even talked. Ever.

peace

re-evaluating some things

So, I feel like crap. I had an interview today for the National Council on Youth Leadership. When I first signed up for this I admit I didn’t really care. I was told to do so by my counselor, and me being an obedient child, I listened. If nothing else, it will look good on my college application, right? So I signed up, and got in. Cool. Then I get a letter, probably like a month ago, telling me that I have to do an interview . Alright, that’s totally fine, I have no problem talking with people. I also find out that six students are selected to go to this conference at Washington University. I really want to be one of those six. It was scheduled for today at 2:30, I worked till 2:00. Not a problem I thought to myself, I’ll bring my clothes to work, change, then go straight there. I’ll surely have enough time.

But, here’s the thing with time. It’s kinda a bitch. I got to Kirkwood, the location of the aforementioned interviews, saw a sign directing me to the building and followed it. Every single time I ever have something there I get lost. Why? I don’t know, I’m stupid maybe. So I frantically drove around the campus for twenty minutes, looking for this building so I can be on time. I’m speeding, running stop signs, pretty much neglecting all the rules of the road. I see a security guy, perfect! I’ll just pull up next to him and ask him where to go. Motherfucker wouldn’t slow down. I’m following this guy for like ever, honking like a mad man to get him to stop. Eventually, I ended up cutting him off, I really wanted to get there. So I ask him where to go, he tells me, I find it, I’m five minutes late. I hate life. I run in, oh, did I mention it was raining? It was raining. So I run in, hike my fat ass up two flights of stairs. I’m soaked because I forgot a coat. I’m out of breath. The ladies at the check-in desk look very frightened to see a drenched, very flustered looking black woman. Good impression right? I walk up to them, fearful that they’re just going to tell me to go home because of my tardiness. She tells me it’s alright, they give me a new time, I go in, do my interview, and if I hadn’t been late, I would feel very confident about it.

After the interview I drive to Read Photography to drop off this sheet for NCYL. On the sheet is said turn in by August 9th. Yeah, I know I shouldn’t have waited till the last minute, but I figured I would be out then anyway, so why not. I get there, the door is locked, and the sign says they’re closed on Sundays. Wtf? Then why on earth would you say the last day is the 9th when there is no one even there. I case the building, looking for some object to stick it in. Nothing. I end up trying to cram it under there door.

Now this all happened in like two hours. That’s a pretty sucky two hours. I most likely blew my chance at being one of the six people. And whose to blame. Oh, of course it’s me, I won’t dispute that at all. But this made me question something. Now I am a person who believes strongly in karma, destiny, fate, pretty much all the balancing forces of life. I believe that if you want something badly enough, the you should get it. Whenever something bad happens to me, I take it as a sign, that this is suppose to happen. Now I don’t believe that our futures are completely pre-destined, but I believe that we are given signs, opportunities, chances, and it is our job to interpret them, and act on them as we see fit. So when I was late, and when Read was closed, I thought to myself,

“Alright, this is suppose to happen for some reason. But this won’t matter because I want to go to the conference, I deserve to go, so I’ll get it.”

It was somewhat of a pep talk I guess, and it had me feeling quasi-better. But then I was thinking about it and I realized something. Is wanting something enough? Is thinking you deserve something sufficient? Absolutely not. Desire is nothing without effort. Entitlement doesn’t exist. It’s time I realize that.

peace.

the loneliest number

There are a lot of things I enjoy doing on my own, you may even call me a loner. It’s not because I don’t have friends, or because I don’t enjoy hanging out with said friends because I do. It’s just that many my friends don’t enjoy the things I do. When I am with a person, I feel almost obligated to make sure they have a good time. I’ll do any activity they want to do, whether it be driving around for hours or walking through a mall. Although these are not necessarily ways I like to spend my time, it makes them happy, and I like when people are happy.

But personally, I’d rather sketch, or photograph, or write, or simply walk. I like just being, just taking in everything there is, appreciating things simply because they’re there. I’m sure there are many people who also enjoy this stuff. But when I do something, I’m content with doing it for hours, or sometimes satisfied after fifteen minutes, it varies greatly. This is why I like doing things by myself, because I have the freedom to decide when I’m finished and don’t have to worry about pleasing anyone else, it’s really very selfish.

But I was reading Coates’ blog and he was talking about his trips to the Metropolitan museum of art. Coincidentally, I have been making consistent visits to our own museum of art, and have been thinking about some of the same things he was talking about. When I went to the Met, I started off in a group of friends, moving around the museum. But within five minutes I had broken away. I like to stop and look at the pieces, to really understand what it means. I’d spend several minutes at some. I couldn’t keep up with my groups pace so I went solo. I see some of the work there, and I wonder why more people can’t appreciate, or don’t enjoy things like this. How can they just walk by with little more than a glance? How can’t they feel the emotion that is screaming from the canvass?

But Coats makes a good point:

“I think--though I do not know--that maybe art touches who it's supposed to touch. Everyone won't see it as deeply as everyone else--whatever we take that to mean. Maybe they aren't even supposed to.”

it’s worth reading the entire post

peace

you can be the minority

So I was chillin with some friends a couple nights back. It was two of my girl friends and my guy friend. We were at his apartment just kickin it, talking, you know, shiiiiit. Jokingly my guy friend, Alex, compared our group to Charlie’s Angels. We laughed lightly, it was cute right. Then we began assigning parts, and guess who got to be Lucy Lu? Yeah, the black one. It’s not like I even said I wanted to be Lucy Liu, fuck that shit, I want to be Drew Barrymore. No, my friend told me that I was Lucy Liu. I find this interesting that I am automatically assumed to be Lucy Liu. Because she’s a minority that means I’m somehow closer in appearance or personality than my white friends? Black people and Chinese people look about as much alike as white people and chinese people, so wtf? Why can’t a be Drew Barrymore? I got to get me some more black friends.

Peace.

Farewell Old Friend

I just woke up. It’s almost three. I could have slept till five if I wanted. Why did I wake up so late you ask. Good question. Was it a party that kept me out? Kind sorta, not really. Was I doing my routine late Friday night drug deals? Not last night. It was for a friend who only has two days left, and I thought I owed him one last adventure.

My van, Leonard, is being junked on Monday. It’s like a death in the family.

I remember when I first got leonard. He was big, obnoxious green, worn, and a van. What kind of high school student wants to drive that? I hated being seen in that thing and refused to drive anywhere where that would be a possibility.

But that was until I realized what a treasure Leonard was. His back seat allowed ample room for sleeping and changing clothes, two activities I have done often in the confines of the beast. After orchestra concerts, when we all go out, or perhaps a crazy big night out, I can fit fourteen people back there, not legally of course, but fuck da po po. I have almost died in him, maneuvering through snow covered roads. Countless times my friends and I would get stuck in the snow banks of Kennedy doing donuts in their parking lot. People have plastered his windows with writings, that mean nothing, but everything to me. I’m a sentimental person. Not for objects really, but for emotions mostly. Every good memory I have stemmed from Leonard himself. He’s my buddy, he’s my friend. We’re pals.

Earlier this year, I decided to take a solo road trip, just me, leonard, and some fresh sheets of parchment. I was going to pack a small army duffel with, at max, five shirts and five shorts, possibly some undies, and hit the road, no direction necessary. For three weeks, it was going to be Leonard and me, bumming around the U.S. , totally chill. But then he got sick. I couldn’t drive him longer than fifteen minutes during the day. Our couples vacation was ruined.

And so to celebrate his life, and help me mourn his death, I decided to take a mini road trip. With a full tank of gas, last night, at 1:30, we left with a pillow, blanket, and an army bag with a book, a moleskin, my i-Pod, and a pen. I drove, for a good 2 hours, jamming to tunes, serenading Leonard with my angel’s voice. Then I got tired, so I pulled over into a Wal-Mart parking lot, parked my friend, and slept for two hours. I drove back home, early this morning, reflecting on the two years we’ve spent together. This post is a memorial to Leonard the van. May his legacy live on.

They say you never forget your first car. You never forget a friend either.

Peace.