A dream, an idea, a fear.

They came and took us all hostage. I don't know if it was just the one man or several, but what was most alarming was how easy it was to get us to cooperate. We were told there were too many of us. We were cluttering the earth. Whether this was happening just with our class or all over we weren't told. Honestly, we never thought about it, because you stop thinking about other people's problems when yours are immediate and your life is at stake. You switch into a survival mode that puts everything on a new perspective. It was similar to the Japanese book where a class of people was placed on an island and told they all had to kill each other if anyone was to survive in order to harden the Japanese youth and get them to respect authority. But this wasn't about authority. I don't know what it was about, really. I became a piece of the puzzle. I didn't have all the answers. I just wanted to survive. They had our class to weird drills to see who would live or die. They wanted to make it seem like it was chance who lived and who died, and they killed us in groups. The losers of the games were killed, and people who opposed the rules were killed, so we did our best to keep quiet and win. They separated us in groups, and when I did things like do-ci-do in a train of our schoolmates for 10 minutes, with fire in the corners and chains around our legs, I tried not to make eye contact with anyone. For some reason, the girls that I liked in school came to me as a source of support when everything was dark and nobody was listening. I was torn between my intense feelings for them, my heart twisted for them, and a coldness that I wanted to keep from everyone to keep from getting hurt when they were killed. I wasn't responsible for everyone around me dying, and very likely, I would die as well if I got caught doing something they didn't like, like make friends in the dark. They put us on a ship in the middle of the ocean, and that meant we were trapped. Men had guns and ran us like circus animals. One night, we were woken up to gun shots and lay awake for a long time wondering what it was. The next morning we were told that a couple of our classmates, losers by my reckoning, had tried to attack the men in power and had been shot. Honestly, I didn't take them for people that had any sort of initiative to do that. Maybe the men just came in and shot people at night sometimes if they didn't like them. Each day, a group of people who had lost the "game" of the day was killed. Perhaps 5-10 people a day, maybe more. After several days of this, I got to wondering: why weren't we rising up against them? Why were we complying? The danger was very real, but for some reason we figured we could make it through to the next day, and that was what was most important. The most disturbing thing for me was that I got it in my head that we were complying because they weren't killing people we cared about. I was worried about my friends dying, but they were still alive. It was as though the killers were making their point: there were too many of us. We were extras. A lot of us. We wouldn't be missed. Our class could do without the chaff. I couldn't name the names of anyone who was killed. Just one day they were with us, and the next day there were less people doing the games. Their absence was barely tangible. It was a dark feeling, a shadow. With the turmoil, emotional, the survival instinct shot into us, we couldn't even put a name to anyone who was killed. That's why we complied, because deep down we hadn't been hurt yet. All the games were a facade. The results didn't matter. Although it was made to seem random who was selected, it must have been bullshit. The men in charge knew who was going to die before hand, and only put us through those games for some sort of psychological effect on us. I don't think they intended to kill all of us. Most of us felt we were in danger but that if we kept our heads down we could survive this and go on to live our lives.

One Wrong Move

The one thing that distinguishes me from a murderer is that I have not committed any murders yet. One decision. One movement of the finger. A moment of madness. It may even be less than that. Surely, there are people in prison at this very moment who have been convicted of murders they did not commit. To society, they are murderers as well. In thought, a criminal and myself have no other distinctions. I'm sure I process similarly to many other men and women convicted of crimes. One day, they were citizens, the same as you and I. They had families, friends, Christmas celebrations and bills to pay. Then, one thing led to the next. A car was stolen, a bitter woman pressed charges after a drunken night, a policeman happened to catch you in the wrong place at the wrong time with drugs in the car. Now, jail. Employers look down on you. Family members don't talk about you in the same light. Are we not the same people we were the day before?

Perhaps I, two, ten or twenty years down the line, will become enraged at someone. Maybe they stole from me, hit my girl, or assaulted me. I will lose my restraint and furiously hit them with a bat. I've thought about how I would most likely murder someone, and it would almost certainly come in a moment of emotional fury with a blunt, nearby object. I have lived moments where I lost my temper. The rest of my life would be determined by the courts, my freedoms forfeit despite an entire life of being a good friend, worker, brother, uncle, son, husband. Forfeit because of one act. One moment.

I hate the laws. I hate the coldness of it all. I hate the interference from parties which care nothing for your emotional well-being and everything about politics and getting the job settled. Once, there was a time when men settled things between men. If a man raped or assaulted your daughter, he would be tracked down and killed, or at least had his legs broken, and that was that. Now, we are expected to sit quietly in our homes while oblivious officers instruct the criminal of his right to a lawyer and "fair" trial, where random people who have never met either party will decide what is "fair." We are powerless. The men who believe in an eye for an eye are punished for taking care of it themselves rather than sitting idly by. Why is it wrong to react according to your emotions when someone has wronged you or someone you love? Why is it that beating up a lying, thieving jerk is a crime at all, let alone one that could result in fifteen years in prison? Why do we have to prove it to a judge when we already know what is true from what we've seen from our own eyes? When we've lived the violations, why must we take it and explain it carefully and calmly, hoping that they will be punished as we see fit? It is not settling, to the victim, to have it taken care of by the police. Jail is rarely the right answer. Our punishments are uncreative and gentle when there are thousands of ways to hurt people, physically, mentally and emotionally. Why must I sit and deal with the pussification of the American justice system rather than cut out the meddling middle man and handle my own issues? Why aren't we allowed to take care of ourselves? Because it means they would lose power. They would lose money and influence. Because men in suits are afraid that deregulation means chaos. How does it feel to be a bear in a zoo? A bit like this, I would imagine. "Sure, they could roam free on their own, but what if they...! No!" say the zookeepers. "It's best to watch them from afar. Put them in a cage. We will feed them, and watch over them. That is what's best." But, it's not. It kills the beast within. It's murder.

Hi, I'm here to cause trouble

My mom and Karen just stopped by the house. I told her she wasn't welcome here and that my dad would call 911 if he ever sees her there, to which she said, "Oh, that's not a big deal." I don't hate her like I used to--distance calms feelings--but showing up here is disrespectful to my dad's and my wishes. Use a phone or the postal service, if you have something to deliver, (and she always sneakily calls it "something"--she never admits it's divorce papers). She just came to make him angry, anxious and stir up trouble, hopefully inciting him to physically push her off his property, then Karen would be the witness so they could use it against him in court and get more money out of him. After all the childish things she's put him through, just the thought of her gets my dad furious. When I told her she wasn't welcome and to drop off the paperwork at my sister's, she lingered on the porch steps carrying no papers in hand, saying useless chit-chat about internet technology and Karen's relationship. Normally, I'm a more forceful person, and if Karen wasn't there, I'd have been that way with my mother. I would have said, "You're not welcome here. Dad doesn't want you here. I don't want you here. It's disrespectful to everyone that you think you can just show up here, with that smile on your face, trying to ruin his night. Find something better to do with your time, because you can drop it off at Nicky's, where you know he visits several times a week, or mail it, and the fact that you know when he sees you here there will be police cars and you still linger is intolerable. Get back in your car, and don't come back." Then, I'd point at her car and hold my arm there, my jaw set. Something tells me she'll be back here, and the police cars will come, and the neighbors will peer out their windows at the flashing lights while yelling commences. Why can't my parents carry-out their divorce like normal people? Five years of this bullshit is a long time.

In Memorium

It should be said that at some point we're all going to die. I'm going to be resting under a gravestone, if they can find my body, and the same goes for you. I may die next year or forty years from now, you may die next month. Accidents happen. The thing is, nobody knows. What strikes me as odd is that we're supposed to ignore the fact that it could come sooner and plan for the future as though it will be there for us. If you've ever watched Dead Poet's Society, or read a book, you know the phrase "Carpe diem" which continues "quam minimum credula postero." It means, "Seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the future." We will not be famous, you or I. History books will not teach about us in schools. It will not matter to me, as I'll stop caring what the world does when I die, but while I live, it makes me feel small. No doubt, my ambition will die out as I age. Grandparents rejoice in the legacy that is their grandchildren, and all too many parents place their children as their number one priority in life, even above themselves, abandoning the possibility that greatness is in their future yet. Children serve as a checkpoint that we have accomplished something in our lives, that our life has not been in vain. Children mean something will continue as a result of our life. The frustrations and work they require along the way are nothing by comparison. I find it remarkable whenever I encounter somebody who says they do not want children, for it means they either have not placed a high value on their legacy, or they plan on doing things with themself that will stand on their own. It is human nature to desire kids, to fertilize them in your womb or place them in another's. To deny yourself of this living need is a mistake that will manifest itself through countless lonely nights as one's youth wears thin and death approaches. I would like to have kids sometime in the next 15-20 years. Until then, I will be satisfied fulfilling my own life to its fullest, building wealth, friends, knowledge, a reputation, and a slew of memories and relationships in my wake. Currently, I have little that could keep my dead self happy in the event of my sudden demise. A few saddened family members and friends are all that link my life with the future. It's not enough. I write these thoughts, setting finger to key, to solidify my worth in this world. It works in place of children should I die tomorrow. Only communicated thoughts have any value, and I would rather have a piece of me floating in the cyber-void than have all my thoughts disappear with me, a wisp of smoke. That is what writing is to me. It is the transformation of my self onto paper. Text lasts longer than organs or bones. Homer endures. Shakespeare endures. Everyone else is forgotten. So, while you may feel you're getting to know me uncomfortably well, I thank you for allowing me to communicate my thoughts, for giving value to words which have no meaning without someone to read them, for helping me continue my delusional legacy.

My Secret Paranoia and Compliments.

Seriously. I'm always worried that somebody is out to kill me. When I'm driving in my car, and I pass somebody, for a brief moment I wonder if they have a gun and will shoot me. I look both ways, twice, when I cross an intersection, because I'm convinced one of these days a drunk guy is going to fly through the red light into me at 100 miles an hour. When I was little, I feared somebody would break in my house at night and stab me. I always lock doors. I always keep the shades down. When I'm in a hotel or new room, I almost always consider what objects I will use for a weapon in the event that somebody breaks in with a gun or knife. When I enter a bank or large building, I stay close to bullet-proof objects in case there is a shootout. I don't know how I got it in my head, but since about age nine I've felt that the world was out to kill me when I wasn't paying attention. I hide behind people for a cushion in case a car drives through the building wall and hits me. They're subtle things, but I've done them regularly for most of my life. On the other hand, I realize that my fears are completely ridiculous. If anybody knew I always prepared myself for an attack, that'd be just one more thing to think I'm weird about, so believe me when I say I've never told anybody this. I've always secretly worried that I'm crazy, and that if a psychologist found out, they'd recommend medication. I've never been to a psychologist or counselor. I've never been on any prescription medication (except once for poison ivy six years ago), and I never even took an Advil until High School because 1) I couldn't physically swallow pills--my throat would gag, and 2) I was anti-medication, thinking one day I'd ingest a pill that was poisoned (of course, I said it was because my illness wasn't that bad/they tasted horrible/I wouldn't complain/don't worry about it).
Secret worries are part of my personality. I'm full of doubts. I'm skeptical. If somebody says I look handsome, rather than think they think I'm handsome, I think they're trying to be nice, or they're not a good judge of beauty. Gauging my attractiveness has always been difficult for me, for on the one hand I've dated seriously hot women, but on the other hand, women care less about looks than men and may have liked me for, say, my sense of humor. I can't fully believe compliments from girlfriends, friends or family, because they're probably just trying to be nice. When gay guys hit on me, I think, "what a nice thing to say!" but I can't believe compliments when there is an ulterior motive, like trying to get me in bed. For the most part, women ignore me, and this has convinced me that I'm mediocre looking. The one compliment that has stuck with me came from my best friend's girlfriend, who said that in all seriousness, I was one of the better looking guys on campus. Maybe by this, she meant I was in the upper 50th percentile, but it still cheers me up because she was sincere about it, and whenever I'm feeling down about my looks, I think of what she said. Normally, I would write this comment off, thinking she was trying to flirt with me, but she never lied and she wasn't trying to cheat with me. Anyway, she most likely doesn't remember saying it, but it's stayed with me all these years. It's taught me that a good compliment can be very meaningful to someone's life in the same way that middle school put-downs can. I need to work on giving away compliments. Smiles and laughter aren't necessarily enough. Historically, I've been sparse with giving compliments, worried I will seem like an ass-kisser, or that I'm trying to hit on them. I've just got to put that in the back of my mind and offer a compliment sometimes. Now, when my sister looks irregularly nice, I put away the silent voice that worries she'll think I'm into incest and say, "You look nice today." Mostly, I give away compliments to strangers though, because those are the most meaningful. There are so many negative people in the world; I feel every bit of positive charm I can bring to it helps. Laughter is contagious, and a smile from a stranger can perk up somebody's day. The same goes with compliments. Follow me around for a week and you'll probably hear me say "I don't say this to all the cashiers, but I love what you've done with your hair," "Excuse me, but you smell absolutely wonderful. What is that you're wearing?" and "Damn, how'd you fit that ass in them jeans?" But, the last one I'll only say when I'm alone, talking to myself. Then, I'll rub hot cocoa butter all over my body. Or, maybe I won't. I'll leave to your imagination.

An art expert.

This weekend, I travelled with my dad and his girlfriend to the city. We stayed in a hotel two nights, my dad ran a marathon, we drove to see one of my sisters for a day, we bought some of her artwork, then drove home. My sister Melissa is a very talented artist. Seriously. But, her main job is raising her three kids, aged 5, 10, and 15. On the side she plays on a volleyball team, coaches 16-year-old volleyball, leads Cub Scouts, drives her kids everywhere (viola/piano lessons, sports practice), helps them with homework, cooks, cleans, takes them to Church, takes her art to galleries, manages her website and, lastly, does amazing artwork. The other stuff is important too, the housewife/motherly stuff, but I'm mostly impressed with her art. Her recent pencil series, "organic escapes," is a seemless melding of roots, grass, caves, organs, body parts, trees, and lakes together. The detail in it can hold my attention for hours. We drove to a gallery to pick up her painting called "O.C.D.," Organic Color Design, which I intended to get, but the gallery manager had left early yesterday so we couldn't get to it. The three we bought are currently hanging as a centerpiece in the living room and they make me happy, not only because they elicit wonder, but because the mind that created it is related to me and therefore I may have some of that genius inside myself. I'm not an art expert, but I wish I was. Art isn't just something to look at, it's a feeling. Looking at a piece is like stopping to smell the roses. Although it was my dad's idea to buy some of her artwork, he went about it all wrong. He went about buying his daughter's art in an "I'll buy it but I won't pick it out because I don't care" way, so that he can take either the credit or the blame, rather than presenting his lack of involvement in the art selection as "I can't decide which piece I like best." Although she's an adult, it's still important to receive praise from her father, and he didn't ask questions or show interest with her artwork. Asking questions is extremely important. He left the choosing of what art to buy to me, so I delightedly sorted through her pictures and paintings like a boy in a toy store. Issues like this are where he and I differ. I actively seek to make people happy. I'm blunt with constructive suggestions, and I don't lie (for example, I don't say I like something if I don't), but I know how to get people to like me. My sister Missy is seventeen years older than I am and we see each other about once a year: I know that when dealing with someone you don't know that well, there are easy ways to keep a conversation going and also light up their face with pleasure. It is a fine art. First, find out what interests them. It may be art, music, sports, kids, a job, a project, movies, gossip, books, marriage, politics, the economy or anything. Next, ask them about the things that interest them. Third, come across as sincere: this means be sincere. With body language and eye contact, jokes and curiosity, it's easy to be likeable, no matter our differences. A person will not care if you are very different than them and cannot identify with their walk of life as long as you respect it. Obviously, people like to be thought of as interesting, so show interest. If they know you like them, they will more readily like you. People do not want a "yes man" to agree with everything they do--a differing opinion keeps things honest. Constant agreement leads to suspicion and thoughts of incincerity, which builds a silent tension and lessens respect. For example, if I don't like a meal, I will suggest how it could be better next time. My dad will say he likes it. Over time, my praise for the good meals is sought after and worth more than my dad's because my comments are always sincere, honest. I don't have my career set, but I still command a great deal of respect. My father is normally a very decisive person, but when it comes to dealing with people, he doesn't have it down like I do. He never asks opinions, but he asks my opinion. It feels as though I'm becoming the man of the house in my dad's stead, because I have the answers on how to behave in situations where he is unsure, from his role as a husband to parenting his children. It's an odd role reversal. When someone asks for advice, they secretly already know the answer they want to hear; they simply want it gift wrapped and presented to them properly. Surprise! It's common sense! Clouded issues are clear when you understand the important parts clearly. People already have their tendencies and beliefs stamped into them. Once uncertainty dawns, he/she simply needs to understand how this issue relates to his or her values. Guidance is easy once you understand their beliefs. Maybe I should be a life coach. Ha.

To lay or not to lay...

What's it like to be able to sleep in as late as you want? I'll tell you. It's awesome. (Self high five? Yes! *slap* Booyah!) Day after day, nothing beats the feeling of hearing my consciousness surface under covers and having no inclination to move. But, it would be nice if something did beat it into a small pulp. One of those old, "shit! shit! I'm late!"'s could do the trick, or, a "damnit, I've got a lot of shit to do. I need to get cracking." A "damn, I'm starving/hungover" or "I'm gunna murder those neighbors if they don't stfu." Instead, my neck hurts a little bit and I just kinda sit with my eyes open considering my dream, which may as often relive my video game experiences as it does my tv watching experiences. Josh told me to, so I spent last night watching the rest of Season One of How I Met Your Mother, (a captivatingly awesome, laugh out loud series that later makes me feel like shit for not mirroring their life at all career-wise, socially or relationship-wise), so my dream had something to do with those characters. Even the repeated doorbell rings didn't get me to move, because I figured only bad things could come of it. Just getting up, my hair usually looks like greasy shit, I'll rock stubble like a homeless person, my morning breath smells like morning breath, and since I usually fall asleep in whatever I wore yesterday, my clothes probably smell like "my house is too hot" sweat. Besides, I could think of four possible people at the door. 1) Somebody serving papers for my dad's divorce. 2) Girl scout's peddling cookies 3) Some neighbor stopping by to chat with my dad. 4) My mom, which would lead to my dad dialing 911 to seek murder protection, and a lot of useless drama, since she weighs about 105 pounds and isn't out to kill anybody but herself. If it was somebody we knew, they would shout something. Via voice recognition, we would answer the door. Instead, I lay like a mortally-wounded gazelle, waiting for someone else to answer the door so I could learn who it was ringing the doorbell once every couple minutes while my father showered. What a piece of shit. I know. Social encounters scare me about as much as committment. Neither puts me in a state of paralysis, but if allowed to choose for it or against it, I'd sit in the other room procrastinating my decision. I went back to sleep, because it was 8:15am, and I didn't wake up again until 11:45. I've never been a morning person. Never been a day person either. I like to stay up all night doing my useless routine with the light of my monitor lighting up my room. I'm with the hungover people on this one: daylight sucks. My best friend James called me back yesterday, after he was done coaching wrestling, just as Trueblood: the Last Vampire was starting in the living room and I was all situated to watch it with my dad and his girl in our three separate comfy chairs. We talked about random fun shit--wrestling, family, opinions, recommendations, careers, etc. When we wrapped up, I came back inside to watch the last ten minutes of the movie, which was slow and involved bad acting. I lacked the element of emotion due to my missing the entire movie, so when she killed her mother, I really didn't care. My dad has a different taste in movies, so we don't share that, and besides, he always falls asleep during them, even my favorite movies, so it's just aggravating. To his credit, he did take me to see 2012 a few days ago, which was much better than expected. The trailers lead me to believe it was just great effects and skimped on the plot, but it was solid. Anyway, old Sonatra-like Christmas Classics have been going for hours now, so I need to put on my headphones. I'm going to pretend I'm leaving to take a shower now, so I can put on some new clothes, but really I'm just going to dig into the next 22 episodes of How I met Your Mother. "High five?" "Sorry, I only give out high two's." *Peace*