depressed ramblings

Why are we here?  Isn’t that the ONE question that everyone asks and may never be answered?  If you had the chance to find out the answer would you?  I don’t know if I would or not.  It may spawn other questions that I never thought to ask and who is to say I would even feel satisfied with the answer?  What if the answer was different for every person that asked the question?  As I write this on the eve of the possible first day of the Rapture I guess it is only natural to wonder if these questions might finally find an answer, but I don’t think tomorrow really will be the end of the world.  Plus if tomorrow is the end of the world then I don’t think anyone will read this and if you are reading this and May 21^st 2011 really was the start of the Rapture…sucks for you.

I used to consider myself a pretty confident successful guy, but the over the past few years those uplifting self examinations have been put through the ringer.  I am almost 36 years old and have faced some of the biggest failures of my life in such a short amount of time that they tend to overshadow any achievements.  I find myself thinking about where my parents were at my age or my friends and where their lives or careers are at and can’t help but think that maybe I wasted too much time working towards something that turned out to be nothing.  Maybe I do need some answers.  Maybe I need to have a different outlook on life or have different expectations for myself.  Perhaps I am completely unprepared for the way life has turned out, but whatever it is, it is kicking my ass right now.

Nothing in this life brings me more joy than to make someone laugh, especially if I have great respect for that person or persons.  I love my wife and my two daughters and it is really important for me to be a success in their eyes, but what do I consider to be a success?  I want to be a good provider and with the exception of being able to provide money at the moment I think I am doing an okay job.  I feel as if I am never satisfied with my contributions or accomplishments and am not sure why that is.  When I achieved my Bachelors degree last year I was probably the least impressed or proud of the accomplishment.  I felt more like it was something I should have taken care of much earlier in my life.  I may put way to much emphasis on the importance of having a job to fulfill a sense of pride, but I think that is what all this boils down to.  I hate being unemployed.  Sometimes I feel as if I would take ANY job whether it is something I know I would hate or not…at least I would be working and contributing to this fucked economy.

Like a lot of people today the economy does play a part in my family’s current situation, but I try not to place any direct blame upon it.  Whether that is right or wrong I like to take responsibility for where I am and not just say “well…the economy is in the tank so that is why I am where I am today.”  To an extent that is true.  It’s not necessarily the economy’s fault that I am out of work, but it sure plays a part in trying to find a new job.  The housing market didn't cause us to move out of our Town House, but it sure didn’t help us maintain a renter or even help us sell at a price near our asking.   Maybe I grew during a time where everything looked as if nothing could go wrong and I am just ill prepared for the times.  That may be true and may be a great excuse, but at the end of the day…excuses won’t pay the bills.  I’m just tired of waiting to find out where the money is going to come from and at the same time wondering what will go wrong next.

If you knew me 5 years ago you would never know I could be so pessimistic.  Everything always seemed to work out for me and to an extent I still believe that, it’s just harder for me to see how things will go.  I know I should stop trying to figure out how things are going to go and just trust that God will provide, but I can’t help it.  You may be reading this and not be a believer, but I am and I do truly believe that God has a plan for me and my family, but lately I feel as is God is just letting me slide to see how far I will go.  Maybe I don’t pray enough or do the right things enough and this is punishment for lack of involvement.  Who knows.  I am not one to ask for help so praying for things is not something I am used to doing.  That may sound stupid for a Christian to say that he doesn’t pray to God for “things”, but I never felt comfortable doing that.  I never felt worthy of anything God has for me.  My thoughts are starting to get a little more scattered now.  I am really surprised I wrote as much as I did.  I usually only wallow in self pity for a short period of time before snapping out of it and start to be more optimistic.  Maybe I just needed to get some of this out so I could look at it and see how pathetic it sounds.  As of right now there are 50 minutes left before the projected Rapture is to begin.  Like I stated above, I am a believer, but I also believe I will still be here come midnight.  Not still here because I was not chosen, but because I think the higher powers may not have their dates correct.

Let’s look at that for minute.  One of the biggest questions besides “Is there a God? Or Is Jesus real?” is “When will Jesus come back?”  I can’t help but be a little skeptical that Jesus would make an appointment for when he is coming.  I don’t remember reading in the bible after his resurrection him saying “See ya on May 21^st 2011”.  I would need something that specific and detailed to believe that He is coming back tomorrow.  The bible has been interpreted and translated so many times that it isn’t crazy to think that possibly somewhere along the way any hints of a date of a return may have been misinterpreted.  That is not to say that I do not believe that Jesus is NOT coming back, but just not tomorrow.  However, if he does make his return tomorrow I would be more than happy to ascend to Heaven with my family of believers.  And if He does come tomorrow and for some reason I don’t ascend to Heaven then I can’t help but be a little optimistic that maybe I will finally find a job.  How’s that for silver lining?

I should get back into stand-up comedy.  

Shredding

The fingers on my left hand look as if they have just been through a war and did not fare well.  Skin is flaking off each finger like they have been placed against a belt sander and were deprived of moisturizer.  The indentations on each finger tell me that I have not been practicing enough.  A true player does not have indentations, but rather calluses.  After this brief pause from practice I once again place my fingers back on the strings ready to put them through another torturous round of scales.  The strings at this point feel less like strings and more like rebar.  The heavier strings are coarse like the side of a quarter which causes the skin to flake away.  This however is not the cause of the pain.  The pain comes from the playing of the lighter thinner strings.  It is as if they know they have been neglected and are trying to get back at me for the weeks and months they have sat motionless.  I thought playing guitar was supposed to be fun not painful.

                My index, middle and ring fingers share the brunt of the abuse shown to them by the unforgiving guitar strings.  The pain is manageable with these three and allows me to play without stopping for several minutes.  I cannot say the same for my pinky finger.  The poor little finger that gets the least amount of use during many songs is usually reserved for the faster playing on the lighter strings.  These strings are pulled taught and require a fair amount of force to hold them down to produce any sound.  At times the pinky is no match for the relentless strings that immediately imbed themselves into the soft skin at the tip of the pinky.  I quickly stop again and inspect my smallest of fingers to reassure myself that I did not just slice it on the razor like string.  “You MotherF…!”  I have to stop myself from audibly swearing at my guitar.  My frustration is growing and I need to remind myself that my guitar is not a living organism with an attitude.  It is not pissed at me for not having played it in many days and is not purposely trying to draw blood from my fingers.  

                I lightly place my fingers back into position and the soreness from my pinky comes screaming back with the slightest touch of the strings.  The massiveness of the pain could only be described as a needle piercing the skin after it has been rubbed raw by the constant friction of wound nickel.  I guess this means that practice is over for the day as I do not want to further experience the shooting pains as they run up my finger.  How did my pinky finger become my Achilles heel of guitar playing?   How much continuous playing must be done to get past this stage of development?  Is the pain threshold of my smallest digit the wall between me and guitar God status?  I shall ponder these questions and others as I put my poor little pinky on ice.

Too tired...or lazy...or both!

I wanted to post something before too much time went by, but I ran out of time today so I decided to post a story I had written about a year ago for a class.  I hope you enjoy it.  It's entitled "The Final Question".

  

            I knew that I would be given the opportunity to eat whatever I wanted once this day had come.  It is something that I had thought about a few times throughout my life.  If I were to know when I would die, what would my last meal be?  I never actually thought I would know when or how I would die and they say most would not want to know if given the opportunity to find out.  I suspect most people would not expect to find themselves on death row.  I know I never thought I would be here, but here I sit.  I have been given the task to order form the last menu I will ever know.

            I am having trouble deciding what it is I want.  I stare at the bars that now hold me within my small five by ten foot home.  This room has been home to many before me and will house many after I am gone.  The paint is chipped on many of the bars which makes me wonder how they became that way.  Have there been others before me in this cell that have chipped the paint off?  Is there a tradition that I am unaware of to chip a little off as a way of showing I was here?  I try to think of as many questions as I can in hopes of prolonging my final decision.  How am I supposed to choose my last meal when I am not hungry?  I haven’t been hungry in weeks and I have become increasingly less hungry as the end of my time draws closer.           

            Knowing that this time would eventually come I have made mental notes of what I would like in the event I ever became hungry again.  I was never what one would consider a lover of food.  I wasn’t adventurous in my selections and would commonly order things I have had before.  Burger with fries, pizza, pasta, Chinese, a little fish, a club sandwich now and again.  Nothing too exotic or exciting.  And for this reason I would sometimes find it difficult to make a selection at a restaurant.  I would be torn between something that was a standard for me and another item that was equally boring.  Now that I am supposed to decide what will be my final meal I am stumped.

            A burger and fries always sounds good to me as does pizza.  I could order something that I haven’t had in years, but I cannot think of anything that sticks out.  Maybe New England clam chowder in a sourdough bowl.  Giving me a last taste of San Francisco.  Perhaps a nice pastrami sandwich from Johnnies in Culver City.  Can I be so specific?  It’s amazing how many tasty treats I can think of while at the same time none sound appetizing.  My time is running out and I am going to have to choose something quick.  What will they bring me if I fail to make a selection?  Will I starve or will they bring me the most commonly chosen final meal?  Hmmm…I wonder what that would be?

            I should have given this more thought.  While I sat in the courtroom listening to all the testimony surrounding my case I should have been thinking about this meal.  There was no reason to listen to the prosecution because there was no way I wasn’t going to be found guilty.  Despite the fact that I didn’t actually commit the crime that warranted my termination, I knew I was gonna end up here.  I may have been innocent of this particular crime, but I am guilty of so many others that I deserve to be sitting right where I am.  I still have the lawyers face burned in my memory when I told her that I did not want to appeal.  I smile every time I think about it. 

            I finally call the guard over and give him my order.  After I finish he just stands there with a puzzled look on his face.  Was I not clear?  Did I order something completely outlandish?  I wanted to say something witty like “let’s go, chop chop!  Time’s a wastin’!”  Instead I stare at him for a second and then sit down.  I take in my surroundings and think about all the movies I have seen that had prison scenes in them.  They all had it wrong.  The settings may be similar, but the feeling is so much worse.  I didn’t know you could feel cold like this.  Not the kind of cold you would feel during winter in Michigan or summer in San Francisco, but the type of cold you feel when you are completely alone.  The being alone part may be worse than death.  Maybe that is why I am almost looking forward to the end.  I won’t be alive anymore, but I won’t be alone anymore either.

            As I wait for my meal to arrive I try to keep my mind occupied.  I hope my family understands why I declined to see them yesterday.  The last time we were all together was during Christmas and that is how I wanted to remember them and how I wanted them to remember me.  I never looked at them during the trial.  I couldn’t.  I had to keep focused and not let my emotions get the better of me.  Having never talked to them I wonder if they think I am guilty too.  It is amazing how many questions will never find an answer making them irrelevant.

            My meal has arrived.  I am still not hungry, but I begin to eat anyway.  I begin to think more about my life.  I wondered “what if” for most of my life and have often wished to relive specific moments.  How would I have changed them and how would that have changed the overall outcome?  I am so lost in thought that I do not even realize that I am already halfway through my meal.  I knew choosing this was the right move.  When the guard delivered it he still had that puzzled look as if he was on a hidden camera show.  I didn’t acknowledge the look, but I did notice it.  I wonder if he noticed the slight smile I got from his bewilderment.  I like that I can still find humor in the most devastating circumstances.  Here I am waiting to be put to death and I am laughing inside because of a stupid ass prison guard.  I should ask if he wanted some of my last meal.  Would it be inappropriate to eat part of someone else’s last meal?  Would he have to say no just out of principle?  I can feel my mouth smiling through the chewing as I ponder these questions and I see the guard again staring at me.  He must think I’m crazy.

            The time has come.  This part of the process does seem more like a movie.  I never really saw the need for full body shackles in the movies and I still don’t see the need for them now.  Where the hell am I supposed to go?  There are four guards all armed with guns and I just ate.  Don’t think I am going to get very far if I made a run for it, but whatever.  I have images from Dead Man Walking and The Green Mile flashing in my head.  This seems so different.  All I can do is stare at the ground in front of me.  It is a hard gray colored section of floor.  I imagine it is cold.  All I hear is the shuffling of my feet and the sound of the chains knocking against each other with every step.

 Fear starts to creep in.  This is really happening.  This is not a movie.  I will not get up and go home when this is over.  I am fighting back tears now as I feel my bottom lip start to quiver.  I am placed against the table that is set vertical as the shackles are taken off.  I am looking about the room rapidly as if I am trying to find an escape.  There is no escape.  This is it.  I am strapped into the restraints and the table is tipped horizontal.  I was expecting to see windows or something allowing outsiders to witness this, but there is nothing.  Just two guards now and a medical examiner.  My arm is swabbed with alcohol which made me burst out an inappropriate laugh.  Why would they swab my arm?  Are they fearful that I might get an infection?  Couldn’t they use the same needle for every execution?  I think of more humorous questions as my anxiety increases.  The I.V. is inserted now and I am terrified.  The head guard walks up to me and asks if I have any final words.

Oh Shit!  I completely forgot about the final words.  I was so consumed with the fucking meal I forgot I had this too.  I stare at him as if I was just informed of a pop quiz for a subject that I had no knowledge of.  He stared back at me with raised eyebrows awaiting my response.  What do you say in a time like this?  Should I be profound?  Is there possibly something I could say that would get me out of this?  Has that ever happened?  Somehow through the million thoughts streaming through my mind like a stock ticker I find clarity.  My body relaxes and my mind stops.   I find the words that I want to say and know they are not appropriate.  I should say something profound, something insightful, something that these people will think upon by themselves on their way home and for the rest of their lives.  But I say nothing.  I close my eyes and wait for the darkness to consume me.  He asks me again, but I do not move.  I remain silent and still with my eyes closed. 

A moment passes and I begin to feel my body go heavy.  This is it.  It has begun.  Soon I will know what lies beyond this.  Will everything go black or will there in fact be a white light?  I am almost excited.  The ultimate question is about to find an answer.  My body becomes completely relaxed by the drugs and for a second I feel as if I am entering a dream.  My final thought is about to be produced and as I had planned it I taste the small bit of peanut butter and jelly that was wedged between my teeth from a few hours before.  I wanted my last meal to be something that would last me for the rest of my life and I was not disappointed.