Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Why I don't believe in Ghosts

I don't believe in ghosts I tell people. And for one simple, logical reason.

When I was five my family moved to Richmond. My parents had a house built a ways away in the county. You had to go 5 minutes down the road to reach a four way intersection with a stop sign.

And I lived their comfortably for most of my childhood until I graduated from college and eventually found a job in the D.C. area.

I believe I was still in college when my parents told me a story. An old, unclaimed graveyard discovered while the property was being developed. An undertaker discretely dispatched to the property to remove the remains.

And my parents never said a word to either me or my sister until we were old enough to not be seriously creeped out.

Think about this. Let this sink in. I lived in a house built over top a graveyard. Perhaps my bedroom was over the hollowed ground that once housed remains.

If their are ghosts, they would have haunted the fuck out of me and my family. Seriously, they would have seriously fucked us up. Televisions turning on for no reason. Objects flying through the air. Marks appearing on our bodies while we slept. If their is any reason to haunt the living shit out of a family its when they build a fucking house over top your place of rest.

So that's why I don't believe in ghosts.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Like Butterflies Amidst the Bright Lights

The moths look like butterflies
Amidst the bright lights
The massive crowds awe me
The green field makes me smile with its plushness
So many things to appreciate

When I remember
Will I look back
With regret?
To take it all in
I must gaze all around
I must close my eyes
I must inhale

My friend
You have been there for me
And we have shared great times
Which is why I gladly share this moment with you
I look around and smile
And the moths look like butterflies
Amidst the bright lights

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Elusive feelings

I went out to dinner and drinks with some friends last night. And I realized about midway through that I had completely forgotten about the parts of life that were stressing me out. And even the realization that I had forgotten about those things (and therefore was remembering those things) didn't bother me one bit. I was in a carefree zone. A zone I don't get to that much.

I have a really fun weekend planned for this weekend. And I have another really fun weekend planned the next weekend. And then I go skydiving the next weekend. So why can't I bring myself to be happy more often? I try to make these things make me happy. I tell my self that I have a good life. That I have much to be happy about. So why can't I fucking feel it? You elude me.

Sunday, August 8, 2010

The Shopping Cart: A Tale of Mystery and Suspense

Amidst the old brick buildings and the acorn trees lies a shopping cart.

The cart showed up outside my Arlington apartment complex about a month ago. Over the next few weeks, no one laid claim to the cart. In fact, it stayed in almost the exact spot, straddling the asphalt parking lot and the stone walkway to the complex.

"Harmless enough," I thought. Possibly used by a homeless person to shuttle his/her belongings along, and then discarded when a better cargo carrying device was discovered? A college student who thought it would be funny to steal something? Someone who didn't want to carry their groceries, and figured they'd just "borrow" a shopping cart?

As I pulled in to my apartment complex this evening I noticed the familiar sight of the shopping cart. I parked my car in an open space by the large dumpster that's used by my complex, and began unpacking my weekend. A glint of metal and plastic caught my eye and I glanced over at the dumpster.

"What is this?," I thought. A closer examination revealed a shocking discovery.


You know when the small town sheriff arrives at the horrifying conclusion that all the dead bodies showing up recently aren't just random one time crimes?

"We have a serial killer on our hands!," says the sheriff to the awaiting media.

"We have a serial shopping cart stealer!," I said to no one in particular.

A feeling of revulsion followed by careful thought followed.

"Our shopping cart stealer has progressed," I reasoned. His first victim was left upright and standing. His second and third were maliciously discarded at the base of the dumpster. Ohh how casual our serial shopping cart stealer is with the carts he takes! Woah to the clerks and night managers at Safeway and Giant who will never see their precious shopping carts again. Woah to the shoppers as they carry their groceries by hand, instead of with the convenience of the cart.

Our shopping cart stealer has shown that he is not afraid to rack up a body count. When will the next cart appear? Only he knows.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Ten year reunion

Ten years has given me lasting friendships that I count as my most valuable possessions. Ten years has given me a career that despite being difficult shows that I can rock with people. Ten years has given me confidence. Ten years has given me heartbreak. Ten years has been up and down.

A lot has changed in ten years. But sometimes I still feel like the shy, self conscious kid who kept his head down, tried to figure out where he fit in and just wanted high school to end. Have I changed? Have I changed enough? Was it me, or was it them?

I just hope that I can stay grounded with any memories or emotions that being around these people evokes. I hope that I'll run into at least one person who I can have a real conversation with. I hope I can keep my current life in perspective.

Why am I going? Because, honestly, what do I have to loose?

I'm about to go skydiving for a second time. I roll the dice, with death being a small but possible chance, and immense joy being the greater chance and reward.

With my reunion, the dice may be loaded, the odds may be against me, but what do I have to loose? One Saturday night spent in Richmond? Not the worst thing in the world.

Perspective man, perspective. More than optimism, more than a fake smile, more than dressy clothing, if I can keep things in perspective, I'll be golden.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Ambivalence and Contentment in Arlington

Hunter S. Thompson wrote Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas under the influence of hallucinogenic drugs and alcohol. I am writing this blog post under the influence of allergy medication and Diet Coke.

Thompson's cocktail made him write crazy pieces of prose. They blurred the line between fiction and reality. He took tripped out road trips, drank copious amounts of alcohol (while handling firearms) and founded Gonzo journalism.

My cocktail is making me sleepy and is dulling my mind. I will spend the rest of my afternoon watching episodes of the West Wing, reading, and putting together a DVD rack. Actually, I will tell myself that I will put together the DVD rack, but it will not actually happen. There-the lines between fiction and reality have been appropriately blurred.

That is all.