Intelligence and Language

The internet is both a source of great inspiration and great disappointment. To be able to research the history Brazilian Jiu Jitsu in one tab, where I can train in another, and book my flight to the Pan-Ams in a third is brilliant. To be exposed to the masses' inability to spell and use proper grammar is another thing entirely.
In days past, it would have made me angry. Now, I suppose I just feel disappointed and dumbfounded more than anything...
Seriously? "Relationship"? I'm pretty sure that one is a word you should be spelling right by the eight grade at the latest. I suppose not everyone is "good with words", but it makes me cringe a little to see "relationship" become "realashionship" and "spider" being spelled "spyder" by ninth graders. I mean, for heaven's sake, by high school you should at least be able to spell the words you use frequently when you speak! And with today's technology, if you aren't sure how to spell a word, the click of a button or five seconds of research will set your straight!
Perhaps some people just don't care as much as I do...those "math and science" people have their priorities organized a bit different than the "art and language" people...but it would be nice, even if you can't spell correctly, to try and form a semi-intelligent sentence every once in a while.
If anything, writing well at least makes you sound a little more credible. Or a little more together. Even if you aren't. And I suppose the ability to do really difficult math problems and spew scientific facts does, too. But writing is something done on a regular basis, whether it be a cover letter for a resume, or a post in a forum.

Sometimes the internet makes me want to retire and never look at it again. Sometimes I like it just enough to keep trying.
Now, I just wish there was a larger body of people spelling things correctly.

And, of course, its mostly just me...I can't say that anyone is less of a person because they can't spell well. Its my pet peeve, and I have a hard time letting it go without a momentary grimmace or a longwinded and empty complaint. There are definitely loads of intelligent people who can't spell to save their lives, but hey...give me an easy subraction problem and I'll get it wrong three times before finding the answer.

So who am I to talk?

The Past Is The Present Is The Future

I suppose that the pattern of life never can be learned...perhaps because it has no pattern. Life is so extremely unpredictable that no two scenarios will ever play out exactly the same. Several days before, my life was seemingly in mental and emotional shambles. Last night I fashioned a desperate entry concerning my relationship with Darren; how it is nearly inevitable that he will become bored with me and decide that I was a bad choice. I suppose much hasn't improved in that area, no thanks to my inherently self-deprecating nature.

But, an old friend wrote me yesterday night as well. I haven't heard from her in at least a year and last time we did, she was into some pretty bad stuff. So I was surprised to hear from her...partially surprised that she was still alive. Whenever we used to talk, I was excited that she still remembered me and called me a friend. But at the same time, there was always an underlying tone of sadness...I was scared for her and her life and where she would end up. Turns out that she is marrying her boyfriend of three years, moving to Hawaii, and starting life anew. Which makes me happy and nostalgic all at the same time.

Any time a friend contacts me from a previous era of my life, I can't help but remember the things we used to do when we were five, twelve, fourteen, etc.

So, it brings me relief from my own struggles to hear that she is doing well. And all I need now is a reprieve from my own head. I need to simply lay and think awhile about things unrelated to rent or my job or money completely. Though I have taken some very large steps backward, I think its not too late to save some face.

Days and Days and Days and Days...

Everything seems to be shifting to a different plane these days. As if when I began to let money mean so much, life somehow changed. I don't like this unsupported struggle. There is a vast difference between a struggle in empty space and a struggle with some faith. Currently, my struggle resides in the most expansive of voids, floating like an astronaut lost in the blanket of space.
Life is too much and not enough.
Because I've made it so.
Why is it that the most important things are the hardest to keep?

Change

Change is the ever present threat. Regardless of circumstance or preparation, Change charges blindly (yet with such great purpose) into the plans of man. He commands flawless tact, moving with grace and guile to win his prey, yet possesses the brute force and immovability of the will of God.
Though disruptive and chaotic, he is wise beyond reason and sits at God's right hand.

Change has taken an interest in me today. He has tied me to a pendulum and swings me to and fro, this way and that, commanding my direction as easily as the wind commands the grass. My mother came to visit, and it was a success. I have the money to go to the Pan-Ams and will be buying my plane ticket today. I was written up for the third time for cash-handling problems. Next time I screw up, there is a good chance I will be fired. Two of my shifts were taken away. There are still many more hours in the day...there is still much more time for Change to redirect my momentum entirely.

We will see.

Things To Come...

My mother comes into town tomorrow morning. 9:30 a.m., to be exact. Due to uncontrollable circumstances, she was not able to make her original flight, scheduled to come in tonight, and had to reschedule for tomorrow morning. However, I can't complain. I'm simply excited to see my mom! Its been six months since I've seen her in person, a few months since I've seen her face at all. Thanks to the miracle of Skype, I was able to "see" her once.

I wish I could say that there has been so much going on, I haven't had time to write. The truth is, I'm a "high-class writer" and lead myself to believe that I need certain circumstances in order to be able to write well. For example, I can't be standing up and writing, or typing on a keyboard with a stubborn period key. I find that sitting here, at my own kitchen table, in my own quiet apartment, with my own Tarquinius (my computer) is where I am able to write "best". Or so it would seem. Sadly, I am almost certain that I've made myself believe these things because I am having difficulty writing lately. It seems to be a repeating complaint of mine lately. Somewhere along the way in the last six months, I have forgotten how to write properly. Or write at all.

That fear of the blank page, the overwhelming thought of the infinite possibility of words that could find their way on to the paper...it is cripplingly present and disappointing as ever. When writing is all I really have, it is like severing my limbs from my body when I do not have the ability to write.

Perhaps the drought is nearing an end. My brain has had flickering moments of clarity, signs of life that have not appeared in quite a while. It seems that normal life has a knack for destroying one's ability to focus on anything other than paying rent and working.

Pish posh.

I can still live life the way it is intended to be lived, and rise above the common denominator of broken souls. Hopefully pull a few up, as well to join the ranks of the living.

March will be a month of writing for me. Every day, I will write something. A basic exercise, but hopefully a worthwhile one.

Anxiety Fills The Mushroom's Empty Space

Okay...the mushroom problem has been solved for the time being. After several days spent in mental turmoil over the continuing growth of flora in my truck, I was able to find a fix for the situation. Some little device called "Dri-Z-Air" from the local Fred Meyer has provided me with sanity...at least I hope so. Despite my slight annoyance at its ridiculous and painfully incorrect name, I am pleased with it thus far. By means unknown to me, it sucks the excess moisture from the air and deposits it into a small reservoir. The trick now is to keep it from spilling in my car, thus bringing me back to square one. Wish me luck.

Now I stand in my manfriend's "office", freshly showered and fatigued beyond belief, my brain working overtime to try and think the recent past through.
I feel like I need a vacation.
Work is dramatic. More so than it should be.
Money is a constant worry.
I should be reapplying for school soon, filling out the FAFSA, redoing scholarships, etc., etc....All the wonderful stuff I had so much fun with the first time around.

I suppose life can only be lived one day at a time. Tomorrow, my money may be gone, though I think I've saved up a bit. Tomorrow, my job may disappear, I may lose my apartment, and my truck may be totaled. Who knows. Maybe I'll be dead tomorrow.
I would rather these things not happen at all, but really...I'm not the boss am I?

I am beginning to understand now why people living in the city are largely so callus. Despite how nice I try to be, despite the good things I try to do for two or three people in a day, despite all the happiness I try to pour into the world...every time I walk down the street, all I see are grimaces and drunkards and crazies. People who couldn't change if they wanted to, people who could change but don't want to, and people who just don't give a damn. It really makes me wonder why I try at the end of the day. When I see all the same faces in my little neighborhood, and not one of them dares to recognize my face.
It would be nice for a period of time without so much stress...without worries and without voicemails to be returned.

I refuse to believe that this is what life is like. Call me naive, call me what you will, but life is more than this.

Habitats for Mushrooms...

Oh, its beginning to be a long life...I am a little closer to understanding the midlife crisis now. Realizing that every week is going to be the same is a little bit saddening...realizing that I will have one or two days off here and there with no real change is...disheartening.
Most of my current "crisis" is magnified by the fact that I found a mushroom growing in my car. A mushroom. WTF?! Mushrooms don't grow in cars. Its wrong. The more I think about it, the more unsettling it is. Every time I relive its discovery, I feel a little bit more disgusted. I hate fungus. Mushrooms outside are fine; pretty, in fact. Mushrooms in my truck...well, that's a different story entirely. Seriously, just knowing that mushrooms are the flowering part of a vast network of fungus is very, very disturbing. Then applying that knowledge to my CAR makes the whole thing...revolting. Simply revolting. There must be some gnarly chemical solution on the market that will kill every living cell of fungal matter in my truck and restore it to normalcy. I'm living in SEATTLE for crying out loud! If something like that doesn't exist, I'll make it exist. Because fungus WILL NOT eff with my car.
On a deeper level, this entire situation has resulted from a long-standing inability to accept the facts of any given problem and deal with them. I somehow believe that by simply turning a blind eye to an existing issue, it will go away. I am keenly aware of the fact that this logic makes no sense and makes matters worse. But I do it anyway.
When I got in my truck a week ago, I thought to myself, "Hhmm...my truck smells a tad bit musty. There's the possibility that it could be growing some mold. That's not good...that's probably going to be hard to deal with....ugh." So I tucked that information away in my mind, parked my truck, and forgot about it until the present. Then, getting in my truck today to move it, my nostrils were greeted by the same lovely scent...only a little more pungent this time. Not really wanting to, but having to out of sheer necessity, I looked  over my shoulder and took a general survey of the back half of my cab. Little wonderful spots of mold were growing pretty much all over the place. The mats on the carpet, the back seat belt, the carpeting on the floor...pretty much everything. It wasn't terrible, but it was enough to make me want to cry a little. Mold is a stubborn S.O.B. and I just want it FREAKING DEAD. Dead and dead. Not growing all over the inside of my poor truck. The final straw was the mushroom. I pushed my seat forward so I could at least try and clear some of it up. As I was cleaning some spots off the carpet, I noticed a little orange round looking thing. At first I thought I had dropped some food. But upon looking closer I realized that it was not food at all.
"Is that...a freaking...mushroom?!" my brain asked in disbelief.
I poked it, prodded it, tried to pick it up. When I tried to pick it up, it split in half to reveal the inside of a FREAKING MUSHROOM.
At first...I laughed. And then, as I had to try and dig the remains out of my carpet, I wasn't really laughing so much anymore. I was beginning to realize what I mentioned above; that it is the flowering part of a large network of fungal matter. NO. NONONO! That's bloody disgusting.
Now every time I think about it, I kind of want to pass out. Fungus growing on things other than the ground and any kind of nasty disease are really the only things that sincerely provoke my gag reflex.

So, due to this mushroom thing, my reactions to minor situations are slightly heightened and therefore slightly more irrational. Small problems in my life are turning into immovable obstacles.
I just need some sleep. And some protein. And some fruit....yes, fruit.