Structured Thoughts In Random Order

Hello my pretties,

   Driving down one of the innumerable freeways in this city one day, I noticed how many people were in the left lane, speeding towards some ultimate and possibly mundane end, in a hurry to get to The Dollar Store or Old Navy, and for what, I ask? It was at this point that I realized, Holy S-h-i-t!, I was also in the left lane, going nowhere in particular, and speeding close to Mach I to get there. In a stunning moment of clarity that seems all too rare in me, I realized that I was a left-laner, a person always in a hurry when driving because, because...

   This took a while to work out, dear and anonymous friends. Many uncomfortable whiles, in fact, but that's kinda beside the point for now. No, the point is, I sped, I speed, I will speed, because I have a feeling deep inside of me that my life is incomplete, that I must hurry to wherever it is I'm going so that I won't miss even a little of it. I watch movies with a weird and unsettling intensity because I want to get everything out of it. I read books much too quickly because I want to glean the universal truths from them, pick up on a phrase that encapsulates the human condition, run across the epiphany of all epiphanies, the golden compass, the magic garden, the je ne se quois that can be defined, finally, to complete me and my life.

   It never happens, of course, but I still do all of these things in the hope that, one day, it will all come together in a beautiful symphony of logic and love and understanding and inner power, coupled with copious amounts of inner peace. I never cared all that much about happiness, just a little peace and wisdom. So, what's a poor country boy to do?

   Retreat! Retreat, I say, and damn the eternal why's of life. I usually cocoon myself in my sanctum sanctorum, my safest of all places: listening to music in my den. Yeah, I'm not hip enough to prattle on about the importance of the music of Animal Collective or TV On The Radio or Vampire Weekend; I revert to the music that I like, and many others like, such as Led Zeppelin, The Who, Counting Crows, etc. Sometimes I think that it's music that has The Answer, the last digit of pi, the fundamental theory of every g-o-d-d-a-m-n thing under the sun. In the end, I back off from that because, though music is magic, if you separate the lyrics from the music, you are usually left with something less than stellar, and certainly something less than what it needs to be.

   But, dear reader, why this feeling of missing something, this sense that I am incomplete and unworthy of my life so far? Is this natural or is this a herald of the slow and ugly slide into senility and bitterness, the muddy tunnel of the future gagging me with the slime of unseen, horrible beasts that don't want to kill me quickly but to make mine a lingering, let's have some dessert while he writhes in agony, kind of end? Is this suffering or is it growth? Is this the yin or the yang of my existence, an existence, by the way, that I can't take too seriously given the vastness of the universe and the propensity for every living thing to kick the bucket at some point in time? Why the f-u-c-k am I a left-laner???

   To explain it away as a part of the human condition, that damned cheeky thing that allows us to go to the moon before we solve even 1% of our problems on earth, is to nimbly evade the issue; yeah, I know we are always looking to new horizons, but that doesn't explain the fearful look back at old horizons. The human prospect doesn't quite fit the bill either, does it? Whether we are headed towards an eventual Armageddon or an eventual utopia doesn't concern my life in the here and now - it told me so while I was in the left lane speeding past grandmas and businessmen in suits with phones attached to their ears as they meander down the freeway in their semi-dirty SUV's. Truthfully, I feel like I am, right now, the decline and soon to be the fall of Rome. I feel like a piece of glacier ready to break off into an ice floe and to crash slowly, frigidly, into the Arctic Sea, soon to become part of the North Atlantic waters that are so beneficial to the Cod, the Halibut, the sea dog dependent on these fishies for his livelihood. Maybe, just maybe, this is my answer, much as I hate it.

   Maybe I am that guy, that guy that contributes more to the perpetuation of the species than that guy that betters the species. Terrible thought, but the evidence seems to point that way. I never wanted to be a rock star, never cared to be rich, never dreamed of fame in any manner; all I ever wanted to do was to live well, learn a lot, maybe write a book someday so that my name would live on a little longer than my body. Don't really care if it sells much, just that it gets its own ISBN number.

   Sure, maybe that's a f.u.c.k.e.d-up way to go about living, but there it is. I've had one great love in my life but she died way, way too young, and way, way too soon for me to accept it as a mere cycle of life thing; if the capricious and bitchy thing called Fate deems it OK, maybe I'll find another, but the prospects are dim. I'm at that age (the first prime number greater than 50, minus 2), that age where thoughts and values harden into dogma, that age where youth has been replaced by a careworn face that seems devoid of emotion, but there is emotion in there, I just choose now to keep it hidden for fear of...

   I don't really know! But I seem to have more fears about life and less fears about my life now, if that makes any sense at all. Still, that feeling is there, a drill sergeant whistling in my ear, so forcefully and commanding, saying that I'm not up to snuff, that whisper from an unknown woman, telling me with her sad eyes that I could be the one for her if I only saw what I needed to see, then she walks away, vanishing, in a mist that I could never follow her through. It's still there, that irritating buzz, a bumblebee of enigmatic ennui and melancholy, the first indication of Seasonal Affective Disorder that doesn't have a season, that piano sonata that echoes hauntingly down dark corridors and moonlit paths to nowhere, paths that I am not allowed to follow. It is hyacinth and jasmine in my troubled mind, a fevered whiff of promise that is just that - promise.

   In the end, I do what I always do: read to find an answer, write to wrestle away the demons, listen to music to soothe the wounds (no doubt self-inflicted, like a glam rocker from the 80's who wants even more attention than he/she already has), and try to find my Tao, my Te, my moment of Zen, my inner core, my molten lava of truth and beauty, my Yin and my Yang, playing together for the first time, my happy place, my safe space, my Singin'-In-The-Rain.

   And it's all OK, of course. The goal is secondary, my pretties. It's the tattoos on the gray matter that really matter, the grainy images of our life and where we were that matter, but where we go is the next page. There is always a next page, right?

   I guess that's what I need...



DentedSyke DentedSyke
56-60, M
1 Response Mar 14, 2009

I hope you find what you're looking for, it seems that maybe in your rush to seek the center of the earth that , could it be that it might just be in the right lane. Nah!