"I'm not really an angry person, I just keep finding myself in these situations"

My wife recently explained to me how it is she thinks. She traces all her thoughts and ideas back to relationships and personal experiences and interaction. When she has a story or a thought about something, it rides closely with someone she knows, what they have said or done or her thoughts even spring simply from how she feels about those relationships in her life. I find this amazing and altogether diametrically opposite of my process of thought.

My thoughts resemble more closely a desk with documents moving across it. I have realized in the past week that my thought process actually looks very much like my job. How this happened I am not sure. Did my job make my mind this way or vice versa, or do I just see similarity between the two to make myself feel like I know what I'm doing more than I actually do? These are not important questions because, for one thing, they're almost unanswerable and another, if I did answer them, that answer could potentially make my job situation quite awkward.

I think in terms of filing. Documents run through my mind. These documents could be representations of anything. Movies I've seen, books or other articles I've read, people I've seen, conversations had, anything. All these events as they pass get filed away in my mind, somewhere. I realize that I can't use them all at once nor are all of them usable at first look or alone as they come, but everything gets filed, nothing is passed by or written off as meaningless.
I think this may be why I like quiet so much, why I can be so silent much of the time. Any noise or talk disrupts my filing work. I can't become distracted because then I may move onto something else and that leaves a pile of unfiled documents sitting on the desk of my mind. If I leave a pile, then the next time I want to think through something, I would first have to dig through a pile of miscellaneous documents. This doesn't go over so well at work, nor does it in my mind.

This train of thought is also why I end up writing the way I do. I don't really have the desire to write all the time, everyday, jotting down every thought and feeling I may have. What I think happens is that at some point in this process something changes and this change causes a handful of my files to line up in some particular order, at which point, a blog comes flowing out. All of the sudden, a portion of all those documents I have been saving up just all make sense together and create a story or a picture. One leads to another, some answer others, one that didn't make sense before now does, another that I thought was monumental is now just a single line or fragment. It's interesting when this happens because in the event of this coordination occurring the need to write becomes the number one priority and I can become quite irritable the longer I have to wait to get it down.

This can create problems, say, if someone I live with has made dinner and it's waiting to be eaten. It's urgent, though. Just as I file away all my thoughts, I feel that when they line up, the thoughts in that bunch end up corrupting and sort of partially dissolving if I don't write them out. Times when I have waited, going to write it out at a later time it all comes out weird and messed up and I'm left shaking my head in irritation, feeling like I just wrote an important paper and the computer has gone and deleted it.

I suppose the real question then is what is it that causes these files to line the way they do when they do? I can answer this easily, but I can't produce it as easily. Irritation is what motivates my writing when it all comes down to it. That little thing that changes is simple, basic raw human emotion, and the cheapest kind at that, anger. I will be watching TV and some commercial will come on that just rubs me the wrong way, someone will be talking loud and about nothing on their phone on the train, the train won't come when it should. Or, as history shows it, the most potent irritation causer in my life, I have to deal with an organization (also a large part of my job).

There's nothing better than an organized public office to push that button in me that just makes me want to wish the human race right out of existence. I find myself empathizing with those psychos who are now in prison for walking through some office unloading round after round into staff members and authorized personal. Upon getting off the phone with most any staff members at the local court, after my immediate question, "why the hell did you even pick the phone up," dissipates, I can't help but wonder, how many "crazy" shooters were just trying to obtain some simple public record or perhaps a license renewal?

The college I attended allows alumni to make use of their fitness facilities for a small fee and the requirement that an alum must obtain a pass each month. At first look, this seems wonderful, how thoughtful of the school to do this. Don't get me wrong, I truly find this very thoughtful. Of course, upon attempting to reap these benefits as an alum, one finds themselves wondering whether all that is just a hoax and they really don't want us taking up space at their facilities.

In order to obtain an alum pass, one must go to the Alumni Office during business hours (8:30 am to 4:30 pm). Most of us who upon graduation went out and acquired full time jobs find it difficult to run such an errand during these hours. However, the gym we're obtaining the pass for in order to enter is open until 10 or 11pm most evenings. This immediately causes one to think logically. "If the gym is open so late, and the alumni office only during normal business hours, and most alumni, who work NORMAL business hours, want to access the gym AFTER said business hours, would it not make sense to distribute the alum cards at the GYM?" This thought is counteracted by the fact that at the gym, they do not have access to the alum lists needed in order to make sure you're kosher. In which I would AGAIN reply with simple logic...give them the list, give them some sort of access to some list. This is a college campus, make use of the local intranet.

Once you as an alum make it through those steps, probably by using half a sick day making up some story about seeing your doctor, other barriers exist. I desire access to this gym because they have racket ball courts. However, upon calling one day, I am told that they only allow people to reserve courts before 10 am the day they want the court. This is strange and unfortunate as it is now 11:30 am. I ask whether any of the courts at this time have been reserved, the answer is none. I plead to the worker to reserve one of the courts for me anyway, no such action may be done. Finally, logic kicks in again and I just throw out the question of why this policy is in place. Now at this point any reason would still irritate me, but it would have been a reason none the less. The worker on the other end of the line, however, proceeds to quickly and definitively tell me they do not have any idea why that is, "but you're not going to reserve me one" I retort, "no."

The files line up and I feel I have a bit more insight all of the sudden as to why people hate each other so much. Organizations all have a few things in common, to start, workers who don't want to be there, don't like or care about what they're doing, are more interested in finding ways to do as little as possible rather than doing what they have to do well and at the end of the day questioning nothing and large volumes of rules and regulations, most of which are outdated but still in practice, others that never made sense but have never been challenged probably because the individual who thought them up in the first place was some irritating control freak who was attempting to fill some familial void . Of course, with situations like mine with the gym or dealing with city workers, these are innocent and at the end of the day, really don't amount to much in the grand scheme of the human race. But what happens when these attitudes and actions are compounded, what happens when it's all added up into society as a whole? What happens when these same situations occur in politics and religion?

No wonder people run around killing others for thinking different than they do, no wonder we find it so easy to judge actions not our own. We're all working on inbred bad protocol. We're all willing to stand up for something we don't fully understand or know about because we're too scared or lazy or stupid to ask questions. We love our comfort and if eight hours a day, doing as little as possible, knowing better how to get rid of customers rather than truly help needs is affording us what we personally find comfortable, why do anything more?

Today I had a crazy idea that just might work. Usually my solutions to these situations, tongue and cheek heavily involved, have something to do with some kind of xenocide or someone at the very least getting the hell beat from them. However this idea is much cleaner. The first step would be for society as a whole to simply fire all those who suck at their jobs and/or didn't want to work anyways. Once fired, these individuals would be promptly put on unemployment. Meanwhile, all those still working would immediately receive major raises in pay, of course, at the same time, more would have to be taken out tax wise to balance out the deficit all those now on unemployment would now have created. This would end in those who actually come to work to work being able to get more done because all those they're working with and needing will be hard at work as well, while making around the same amount of money (more taxes as I said), but now there would be no more dealing with idiots who shouldn't have picked up the phone in the first place and ultimately just end up wasting your time.

I feel that this could work and I wish I would have had this thought about five years ago because I would have written something like this for my ACT essay portion when they slapped you with one of those overgeneralized questions about how we think society should run or what two things would make the world perfect. These questions are ultimately bogus because the ACT or SAT is the only time in life anyone is going to ask you this, the rest of life is the askers trying to get you to stop thinking about it and just take your lunch break already. Of course, we all know they take the good essays and implement them as public policy, which is, again, why I wish I would have thought of this sooner.

You're In "Sexy, Sexy, Sexy"

The epiphany season runs between January sixth and Mardi Gras. For most Americans this means nothing, but last year one of our friends introduced us to the vast celebration that is the epiphany season in Europe. In this season special cakes, which translate as "kings cakes," are brought to and consumed at as many parties as can be crammed into the days that run between epiphany and Mardi Gras. These cakes are special in that they contain within them an object, sometimes a plastic baby, other times an almond or cherry, that is representative of the baby Jesus.

The cake is consumed and whoever gets the "baby" is king and even gets to wear a crown for the night. That individual is also responsible for throwing the next party. This year was our second annual observation of epiphany. It came in handy too as Christmas proper was hectic and stressful. We were able to hold off on finding gifts for each other until the sixth. As was cited in earlier posts in this blog, extra days are a good thing for a slow shopper like me. Naturally, then, epiphany is a pretty cool thing.

By January fifth I knew exactly what I wanted to get my wife for Christmas and I forged out to attain the loot following work that day (yes I'm aware that was a Saturday, I had to work as my office merged with another). All the gifts were easy enough to attain and I even threw in a box of truffles as garnish. I was doing well dragging my slow shopper feet all through the stores when I came to the fated item on the list, the bra.

Normally, this would not be so bad, yes it is a male looking for a bra, but that can be handled with a little finesse and besides, I figure I'm married now and that should give me an air tight reason to be rifling through bras at the department store. However, I realized that I was still harboring a few bacheloresk thoughts and aside of all of this still more, my wife's favorite bras originate from none other than "Victoria's Secret."

This created the real dilemma. Before, seeking out the perfect bra could be done almost undetected with the correct placement and timing. In any given department store it would have been easy to mask my intentions. The plan would be simple. A safe, unquestionable beginning in the men's section, perhaps looking at pants, I may even try a pair on to further shape the illusion and throw off any seasoned personal shoppers who may have caught that, "looking for wife" glint in my eye on the way in. I would then slowly proceed toward the women's section, not directly or even with an interest in anything in particular, no, this would be played out as an accident.

I would work through the polos, to the ties and finally, while sizing up the perfect belt to go with that suit I have at home, I would get a glimpse of some female apparel. Nothing scandalous, just something. Perhaps the men's belt rack joins the women's midway. It could happen to any normal male searching for a belt, an innocent belt, functional in my case as they actually do hold my pants up (I realized the other week that I'm actually a 31'' and not 32'').

The sight of some womens accessory would undoubtedly cause me to think of my wife and then to think of what she may like. From that point it would be a hop skip and a jump to the bras where I could gaze at them from a safe distance nonchalantly snuggled between the women's blazer rack. Blazers are always a safe bet, they're more masculine than feminine from the start, and what more ironic cover to have while secretly searching for arguably one of the most feminine pieces of apparel?

However, this perfectly formulated, fool proof plan finds itself utterly obsolete as one stands before the shoplifting scanners of "Victoria's Secret." As I mentally prepared myself to venture into the store, I realized that not only had I never crossed the threshold of a "Victoria's Secret," but I don't ever recall looking directly at one when the store happened to be in sight. I was crossing this line, though, as I gazed into the store searching for an avenue which would take me across yet another line I'd never crossed, that being the threshold of the store itself.

I calmed myself by allowing a thought run through my mind that there would be other guys in the store and I wouldn't be alone. However, I was hard pressed to pick any out at the moment. Those males who were in the store, as I found out, were with a girl, all of them snuggled close behind their female counterparts so that I was even unable to stand near a couple with hopes that an onlooker may be confused as to which male the nearest female was with, and therefore give up wondering about it at all.

To make matters worse, the store was packed. If this wasn't difficult enough, though, it was post Christmas, which meant sales, which meant clearance, which constituted large bins of stock. I was about to walk into a room full of women shoulder deep in bras and panties. Suddenly, epiphany was not very cool, I, the slow shopper had gambled with my indecision of gift giving to buy more time and I had lost.

I was hit by a car while biking once. I let this thought drop through my mind like a chaser to lighten the blow, held my breath, picked out the far right hand corner and damn it, I walked. I made it to the corner without incident and to my grace, the corner was fully stocked with bras. I was scared, but I kept chanting in my mind like a mantra, "you're just a sweet husband doing this for his wife." This soothed me for a time until the fear got the best of me and I began to realize how I was dressed. As I mentioned before, it was a Saturday and I went into work to help the office move. Moving meant getting dirty, and the potential of getting dirty meant ultra casual, borderline grungy clothes. At this moment, I realized that I looked nothing like a sweet, lower middle class husband caring for his wife. I was somewhere between a "Nirvana" groupie and a Chicago bike messenger.

If I was taken for the messenger, I would be categorized as weird as the biking community at large, including the females, stereotypically does not spend its spare time shopping for underwear at "Victoria's Secret." On the other hand, the only "Nirvana" fans that go to VS are either A, mocking the store, or B, plain old perverts. I was in a lot of trouble.

It was then that a voice was thrown in my direction, "can I help you sir?" A floor clerk had picked me out and, though I should have just run at this point, surprisingly, I became bold. "Yes" I said with clarity. "I am looking for a bra for my wife." I did not realize it until now, but I held the, "looking for my wife" trump, which deflects feelings of, "we think you're weird." I got into it at this point, I explained that I wanted a bra that was suited for normal use, therefore comfortable, but was not simply plain. This bra needed to give the wearer comfort, while also making them feel pretty. I had done it, I was confronted and I turned it back around on them as a challenge.

"We have those, but not in this section," was the reply. "Yes, you're in the 'Sexy, Sexy, Sexy' section." This one broadsided me. I looked up and to my surprise that was the actual name. For a moment I was lost, "'Sexy' three times," I thought. What, is VC now attempting to utilize that old Hebraic literary device in which something is iterated three times to ultra emphasize a point. Was this supposed to be some sick allusion back to Isaiah's writing of the angels' chanting, "Holy, Holy, Holy?" I stopped, though. I figured the quickest way out was to find out where I needed to be, buy the bra and leave, I could always write a letter or something later.

Starving in Love

I have been witness to a sort of love that when truly exhibited is really not love at all. This sort of love is warped and skewed and consumed in insecurity. The beholder of this love believes that love is a finite commodity in which an abundance in one direction or place automatically constitutes the lack there of in another direction or place.

Love is something that must be grasped, fought for and won and then held on to with everything one has. Love must be sought out, taken and then defended and protected. Here, it is not that I would not stand up for my love for another or want to protect one that I do love, but I feel that in many cases chivalrous love tends toward a greater deal of hostility than I am willing to exhibit or comfortable with producing. I think actual love tends to stand on its own and be far less volatile than the fairytale knights or romance comedies would have us think.

Those that behold love as a finite commodity see it as something that must be hoarded once found. Once a source is uncovered it is to be cut off from all other potential outlets, all avenues by which that source does or may direct itself must be snuffed out or driven away. Love is not unlike a discovered mine of precious minerals in which the discoverer must spend, ironically, more time and effort protecting and isolating the bounty than actually enjoying or drawing any real pleasure or fulfillment from it.

One must isolate the source so that the finder can then have the love they have found all to the self for it is there that they think fulfillment lies. Ironically, this hoarded, isolated love will wither and die like a plant that has been hidden away in a safe. Hoarded love dissolves if taken and attempted to be kept. Isolated love boils down and steams away leaving behind nothing but a thick residue of jealousy and emptiness.

This love does not fill at all, but starves the holder. Those who seek love in this way and fashion and want it in this state only will search and feed on it perpetually and without satisfaction. This love creates hell for the holder as they perpetually seek, perpetually consume and perpetually starve, but never to death. One does not die on this starvation because it is a starvation of gluttony on nothing, and a lot of nothing cannot kill a man.

In truth, actual love is deadly. Actual love is infinite. An abundance of it in one place constitutes an abundance of it in the places surrounding. Actual love is to be given and never kept, not sought after and found, but learned and developed. Actual love fills when it is given away and satisfies when it reaches another not the self.

Actual love is not some stupid, random, twittering feeling one happens upon or catches. Love is something that is worked for and shown through sacrifice and sweat. Actual love is active not passive, moving not staying. Those who know actual love cannot rid themselves of it fast enough. Those who truly have this love also know the truth of it, they know that in the end, it will kill them.

Those who know actual love have felt the pierce of it, for it is sharp and direct, not dull and ambiguous. The degree of pungency is the strength of love. It is not a dull blade that tears apart that which it attempts to cut, it's not a flat spike that smashed what it tries to puncture, the pierce of it leaves just a small hole in the self, just a tiny prick one may not even feel at first, but a cut to the core none the less and one that causes the self to hemorrhage.

The novel, "Children at the Gate" comes to mind in the fact that the main character is hard as nails. He is impenetrable and has wrapped himself so tight that none can touch him. Being untouchable, however, constitutes a complete lack of feeling. To not be touched is to not feel, but in order to attain feeling one must be cut or broken, but once cut or broken one is then maimed and bleeding to death. At the close of the novel, the main character has experienced this very event and it is said that his heart is slowly bleeding.

Actual love, in this then, is something that comes on slowly and in time. Actual love does not happen in the course of one scene, one good chat, one moment that is somehow better than the rest, but it insists on being spread over all and everything. Actual love takes place and develops in the quantity of time and effort that is given. Quality is important as always. Negative actions over a long period of time will not produce admiration. However, when a quantity of time and effort exists, quality is stretched and flattened and a little ends up going a long way.

These days our society seems to be obsessed with quality filled moments. Quality vacations with the family once a year and super meaningful chats to kin that are intended to shape and fix character. Quality tends to scare me. I am not a quality person. My personality is not exhibited in moments, I cannot conjure memorable, wisdom filled speeches and when I feel I need to be saying something meaningful if a moment arises I usually just get hungry.

Quantity, however, I can do. Large amounts of time with another with nothing seeming to be said is a true recharger for me. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a smart conversation and still despise small talk, however, my deep conversations usually take anywhere from a few hours to days at a time. I think this is why children reside with their parents for at least eighteen years of their lives. This window is for all those out there that may not always say the right thing at the right time, but will definitely hang out in general silence if asked or needed knowing that somewhere in that passing, through various words said and actions witnessed, something, somewhere will click.