Think daily,
A Southpaw
I watched a squirrel for close to an hour the other night.
Of course, I should have been intensely studying for the math test that night, but this squirrel, it was more than a squirrel. It was…well, it’s hard to completely explain in a short number of words.
I’ll start from the beginning–
I was sitting at a table on the college campus, math book and notebook cracked open in front of me. Review mode was engaged–let’s put it that way; and as far as studying for math goes, I thought I was doing pretty well.
Now, to step away from the math–we already know I’m terrible at the concept–I want to introduce all of you to the man of the hour: the squirrel that hopped down from a tree to the right of me.
It’s not as if this was a mutant squirrel; no, it was your average, everyday, acorn-loving creature, nothing much to it. I could tell it had come out to scavenge when I first saw it–why, you ask? it was hunting beneath the various tables for scraps of wasted food.
The squirrel got lucky a few times, found two French fries, and, I think, a potato chip.
I wasn’t too interested in what it was eating, though.
Sidetrack a moment from the squirrel.
Picture: a set piece on which all these types of people are walking and acting out their lives, their personalities, within the restricted boundaries of whatever influence the public opinion has over our confidence.
One girl, two tables away from me, was chatting on a phone while studying for, possibly, the same math test. Truth be told, I didn’t check out that specific detail.
Another guy showed up during the middle of the squirrel’s charade–and take note, this guy is important in this story, ‘kay?–chomping down on a pink coated chocolate candy and pacing the ground before a bundle of spiring trees.
Dozens more people passed and went, walked and skated, talked and reflected. Classes were let out, and those students came through this set piece, only to go onto another one within an instant.
Why are they crucial? Why did I observe them so keenly?
Not a single one of these people acknowledged the squirrel’s existence.
The squirrel here is crawling over and under the intricacies of these tables, grabbing at crumbs; and, to them, it’s a ghost. The French fries disappeared, sure, but to where they went, no one would be the wiser.
I had my eyes fixed on the squirrel, and with each group that entered the set piece, I watched to see if any would take note of it. Surprisingly, as I said, it was as if the whole scene was happening underground, no lights, no sense of what or why was going on in the surroundings.
I had to laugh; of course, who wouldn’t in a situation like that.
Every time I kept thinking someone would point out the squirrel and admire its cuteness, my intuition was proven wrong. Sometimes it is–that I don’t deny; it’s pointless to assume I would have predicted any of the reactions.
Then I wondered…
Why was I so enamored with the squirrel in the first place?
The answer came to me when I saw the squirrel, fresh off its second fry, venture carefully towards the girl chatting on her phone. It would take a few bounds, stop, sniff the ground, and tread some more ground, its tail twitching with each movement.
It reached the girl…eventually–and what did the girl do but stare at it and stamp her feet.
The squirrel retreated, scared, unsure, wrecked in all of its emotional faculties. Had it been looking for food? A companion? Someone to give it a good petting? Dunno. All I know is that it ran from her.
At this point, we return to the guy eating his chocolate candy.
During the periods when I was unable to clearly observe the squirrel, my focus had been spent studying this dude. By all accounts, he looked simple enough, just enjoying his chocolate; he was the guy you’d pass on the street without a second thought–that is…until the group of girls walked by him.
A glance was all it took, and I recognized the panic in his eyes as they tracked the girls, this trio glued to their phones, disregarding the guy without a second thought.
He lowered the chocolate candy, moved to speak; although, by then, they were gone.
I winced.
The guy walked a few more minutes, lost to his thoughts–
During this painful moment, another class stormed down from the hill, jabbering, hopping on their skateboards and scooters; again, not one of them noticed the squirrel that, cowering beneath a table, dropped to its paws and hightailed it to the bundle of spiring trees near the recently heartbroken guy.
And guess what?
As the guy pondered and paced, he stopped a second, looked up; and he saw the squirrel, just stood there in an awe of sorts as the squirrel clamped itself to one of the trees and crawled up the trunk.
What else could I do than be mesmerized? Another of these bystanders had seen the invisible critter; now, it was as real as anything else in that small dining square.
Why do I tell you this story? Why do I waste your time with a little human observation?
To me, that most people did not see this squirrel says something about the state of humanity–of existing.
I forgot to mention earlier, but the whole time I was studying the squirrel, none of those people took a notice of me, either. Like the squirrel, I became a ghost for a short amount of time, free to wander, to act, to do, as I wished.
Maybe it’s ’cause I was silent. Maybe it’s ’cause I simply watched.
Maybe it’s ’cause, for one reason or another, I just didn’t blend.
I put faith in this assumption because of the one other person who saw the squirrel:
The guy who had recently been rejected by the trio of girls.
The both of us were not, by any stretch of the matter, different, per say; however, what if, since the majority of this small society had not stopped to acknowledge our being there, we were then able to acknowledge the presence of the squirrel?
Perhaps existing is more than simply being seen by others. Perhaps, as long as you yourself are confident in what you stand for, in what you think, or believe; then, perhaps, existing is a matter of whether or not you want to stand tall, or sit complacently with the masses.
Perhaps, at this moment, there’s a squirrel scampering at your feet for food, and you haven’t yet noticed it.
Think daily,
A Southpaw
I like to think of myself as a pretty intelligent dude. I graduated high school, for one; also, I ponder the deeper questions of the universe constantly, such classics as, “How long to cook macaroni and cheese?” and “Do dogs really love us, or are they more affectionate towards the food we give them?”
I’m on the average level of smart is what I would call it. Trust me, there’s no secret Will Hunting/Steve Jobs conspiracy going on behind closed doors. What I know is what I know, eh?
You getting me, folks?
Segway into college, and here we are at UCCS, one of the many centers of knowledge dotted across this gigantic blueberry of ours. Classes are long, packed; sometimes it doesn’t seem as if they have an ending–but, they do, trust me.
Now, this isn’t a complaint about college classes. Hear me out, I genuinely love this unstoppable access to knowledge that you can only find in a college campus; however, it’s some of the people in these college classes that have me confused, even lost, as to their motivations.
I know what you’re gonna say.
Well, why don’t you focus on your own life, not theirs?
Trust me. I am top priority…not in a creepy, arrogant way, but in–ah, forget it.
There are these types of people in my classes–I should say, specific types of people–that I observe when, yes, I should instead be listening to the lecture. You have to understand, though. I got a compulsion to watch people, to figure them out, and not in a stalkerish way, either.
For example, in my Politics class, there’s one dude who talks like he just walked out of a Brain Factory. One of his choice phrases is “pragmatically speaking;” and when he said it in class, I was thinking, well, hell, I forget what that means, but o-kay.
We are training to be scholars, after all, so give a guy a cheer, right?
Then there’s the people who, when an assignment is due–or, when we had to have read something–raise their heads and stare off into the abyss I like to call, The Oh-No-I-Just-Screwed-Up-Big-Time Abyss.
Four pages of math questions? Nope.
A diorama of the Crossing of the Delaware? No–and, for that matter, who’s doing dioramas in college?
I admit, I am in the Oh-No Abyss sometimes…more frequently in the past few days, but, that’s another story for another time.
Lastly, there is the smallest minority of college classes, the ones…who say nothing at all, have no expression, and take their notes like the dutiful students they are.
And I’m pulling your leg, in truth, because we’re all like that, at least I think so.
I have been known to sit and stare and note take–I mean, take notes; of course, all of what I just wrote when I am not drifting off into the treacherous bowels of my own mind and humming, to myself, the songs I heard on the radio that morning.
What’s a few Katy Perry ditties gonna hurt, huh?
The rest of the class is humming Katy Perry–I just know it; and if they say no, then they are all dirty liars.
And, oh, look at that, I created two new types of people in college classes–
Mind-Hogs and Pop Star Wannabes.
Ya do whatcha gotta do, man, ya do whatcha gotta do…
Think daily,
A Southpaw
Whoa, early bird much? I don’t think I’ve had a post this ahead of schedule in a few months, but you know what they say: the early bird gets the finger–uh, I mean the worm. Where on Earth did that come from?
Ahem.
College. A place. A person. A thing. A nou–
Let’s talk about college, shall we? All of us gathered around this digital fireplace? Good. And each of you have marshmallows, with some chocolate? Even better. Eat them now, or forever hold your appetite, ’cause, well, they’re digital.
I’ve been jabbering about college for a while, I realize. Most of you, methinks, are beginning to tire of this senseless insight into the life of one man–ooh, I like the sound of that–struggling to fight his way through the scourges of college education.
On this, you are in the right; or the left, if you’re blind in one eye for whatever random reason.
Why should I continue to assault all you fine people with College 101, when it is obviously the time to be talking of politics and space and how city dumps are hazardous to the environment?
Put simply, those topics bore me, and if a topic bores me, then I will not talk about it.
No, I’d rather converse about the ethics of dish sponges and question the amount of times a shark brushes its teeth per week. You know, common stuff; trust me, you’re not gonna find much deep thoughts here, folks.
For the moment, though, I’m covering college, because, why not?
Ah, but it is such an experience, such a realization, watching these bunches of people file past me on the sidewalk, never seeing me because their phones are literally snatching their faces and ramming them against their screens. That Phone Assault is a real problem, people; be sure to keep an eye out for rogue Androids.
I talk to some people, the rare few that can hear me and don’t stare directly at the ground as they walk from class to class. The dialogue is sparse, yet meaningful. Yes, an example of one of my more intellectually provoking ice-breakers is, “Hey, what’s your major, dude?”
They respond in a manner I liken to the awakening of the mind itself.
“Oh, Science,” or, “Eh, Engineering.”
Truly works of art in the realm of conversation that, as humans, we so rarely tread. Brilliance in a bottle, a favorite phrase of mine. Just picture a rubber ducky, imagine within there is a hidden midget genius, and only then will you wholly understand the phrase.
Yes, college is the centerpiece of the Outside World, or, The Lion’s Den. At every turn await strangers, lurking in the dark corners, lunging at you to ask where they might find the cafeteria…
I don’t know, man. I-I swear.
Then why, oh, why, is there a barbecue stain on your shirt sleeve?
I plead the Fifth!
[Evil Laughter track]
Oh, God! NOOOOOOO!
Whoah, guys, I think your marshmallows just shat themselves. Great! Now there’s chocolate cream all over the carpet! Clean it up, willya? I gotta finish this post here, see?
I feel the need to be formal, to write academically appropriate sentences, but, eh, screw it.
College–Woot-Woot.
That had less of a reaction than I thought it would.
Think daily,
A Southpaw
This is no joke, folks.
Close your blinds. Shut your windows–both of those reversed, or–ah, screw it.
Tune into the police blotters to hear the news, the deadly truths…
It’s like a horror movie, but real, so…not actually a movie; but never mind the specifics.
Oh no, he’s here! The fearful thing that haunts the cities and the streets–and the vending machines for reasons of constant hunger. It’s–ah, God, but it can’t be; it is the new adult in training!
The horror. Oh, the horror. Screams. More screams.
He has no number–
But all the adults have numbers! Look at Mr. 123, he–oh my God, Mr. 123 is gone and–uggghh!
He has no identifiable tag, or label–
This is getting to sound a lot like a package of meat…
What shall we do against so mysterious, so vast, a threat as this creature?
Silver bullets? Damn. He’s not a werewolf; and yet, he’s always dreamt of being one.
A cross. No. Not a vampire, either.
Books? But he loves them!
Bring out the secret weapon. Give him the ol’ College Try.
Look, all, and gaze in dumbfounded wonder as he struggles to surmount its obstacles. We send test after test in his path; still, he manages to clamber his way out onto the top. It’s incredible. It’s astounding. It’s really pissing the hell out of me…
Seriously, guys, can nothing we own stop this Teenage Frankenstein? He–He doesn’t even have pimples to pop, not that I would want to. Just look at his face: lost in the caverns of his own mind. He is completely distracted, you idiots!
Oh, well, forget it now. The adult’s already moved on, already gone to find another problem to cause him unbearable stress. Why anyone would choose to do so is beyond me, but, let the freakishly large adult child do his thing, I suppose.
But if he starts whining for a binkie, set off the nukes.
Think daily,
A Southpaw
P.S: Love Calvin and Hobbes
You guys know how Grunge has been making a comeback in recent years? The flannel is popping up in stores; kids are wearing more and more smiley face Nirvana t-shirts; and bands like Pearl Jam and Bush are gaining dozens of fans by the minute.
For me, Grunge is probably my favorite genre of music. Yeah, say what you want; but, hey, I am still the target audience for that stuff. I only wish I could go back in time to see Nirvana performing live. Oh, well…
You guys know what has not been making a comeback in recent years? Yep, that good friend people like to shove onto an iced over lake…Disco. Under normal circumstances, I would say that’s for a good reason–all those colorful pantsuits are unsettling–however, I had a change of heart when I was listening to K.C and the Sunshine Band sing Shake, Shake, Shake (Shake Your Booty) while driving to college.
While it is odd–well, odd is being polite, Disco has a positive feel to it, ya know? You can listen to September on any occasion and have your spirits boosted; that, or any song by the Bee Gees. They just make you feel good.
Now, remember how I mentioned Grunge? Well, Grunge, in a way, is the alter ego of Disco. When listening to Grunge, I don’t exactly feel as positive as when listening to Disco , but that’s not really the point of Grunge.
I listen to Grunge if I need to reflect, and I mean deep reflections.
It’s hard to reflect with Disco if most of the lyrics are about jiggling your bahookie.
Still, in such a darkening world, I feel the need for some old fashioned bahookie jiggling, so long as pantsuits don’t become a fashion trend again. Disco provides the strange light that glows just enough to illuminate a dancing pad.
One more thing I want to add, as well, it’d be great to see a Saturday Night Fever revival–
What?
You say John Travolta is too old?
How dare you!
Think daily,
A Southpaw
There was once a piano–well, more of a decked out keyboard–and a boy who wished to play that piano. Blah-De-Blah-De-Blah. That intro’s kinda boring to me, let me retry:
In the last week or so, I have been trying my hand(s) at the piano, in the off chance that a change of mindset will trigger solutions for a problem in my second novel; however, it is also therapeutic, in a way.
Letting your fingers dance along the keys, one-two-three, three-two-one. Timing perfectly the exact moment when you snap the pedal with your toes. It’s oddly interactive; and, I say oddly, but really, is it not crazy that a bunch of strings and keys can produce such interesting effects?
In no stretch of the imagination am I a professional. I don’t even think I qualify for a rank amateur. I’m just…playin’, man…playin’ the good songs. Sometimes, though, there are those moments: the Oh-My-God-I-Am-The-Reincarnation-Of-Beethoven moment, then the Oh-My-God-I-Totally-Suck-At-This moment.
I am working little by little on this nifty piano suite from a game known as Heavy Rain. It is a beautiful composition by the late Normand Corbeil, and, though the melody is simple to learn, the tempo and the notes are murder.
There’ll be a quarter note, quarter note, then a whole note; and then a note that looks as if a fountain pen has vomited all over the sheet music. What do they feed those guys? String Beans?
Eh-heh. I hope you got that…
Now, let’s not forget I am still learning, so these notes are slowly but surely making sense in my mind. It’s like I’m carving a new section in the Foreign Languages section of my brain, one entitled Sheet Music. The excavation is taking its time, but it is paving a path, so don’t knock me for that.
It also takes your mind off things, you know? When I’m practicing a song at the piano, much the same as writing, all of my previous worries disappear for the time, only to resurface in droves after the composition, or paragraph, has ended. Hey, you can’t beat ’em all.
Hopefully, some of you can relate to what I am saying. Music touches us in ways stronger than all other forms of art. It pierces your heart instantaneously, rather than build to a climax as in a novel; or the serenity in a beautiful painting.
It can be anything: Frightening. Exciting. Chill-Inducing. Heart-Breaking.
All of those emotions accomplished in the movement of a few keys–a few pitter patters to form a melody.
Beautiful.
What else is there to say?
I got a piano suite calling my name, what about you?
Think daily,
A Southpaw
Life–well, it’s a cheesecake, isn’t it? I’m not talking a single piece of cheesecake, no; in fact, I mean a pie of cheesecake. See, you can say you love every flavor in one of those creamy things, but we all know you’re lying. No one, no one likes all those pieces. There’s always the singularity–the missing link, if you would, that we all wish would get the hell out of Dodge, you know?
Life is interesting for me. It has been interesting for me. I work a pretty fair job in the field of manual labor. I’m a regular blue collar, sweeping brooms and wiping out toilets. It’s meh, to be truthful–and if there is one thing I have learned from this job, it is the sometimes nasty truth.
Drugs, for example, are nowhere on my to-do list. Day in and day out, I see people ravaged by constant drug use. Their faces are old, older than their age; and in their eyes is a haze that never seems to dissipate. I can see the blankness in some of their faces, and it is hard to watch at times.
These folks do this for fun, mind you; and, hell, perhaps it’s to find an escape. But, for me to know what it will do to them in the long run…it can be heartbreaking to see someone throw away their potential like that.
I speak from no experience; and, yes, I might also be speaking from a safer perspective, but I am innocent, after all.
I come from a small town where the craziest thing I have ever witnessed is a bleeding lady taken away on a stretcher after her husband’s psycho ex-girlfriend drove her motorcycle into the back of their car. Before this job, before this peek into another life, that was the craziest crap.
I have seen stuff since then. People who absolutely loathe their lives. Temper tantrums that can get way out of proportion. Worms swimming in some worker’s shit, and let me tell you, that was in two different Porta-Potties.
It is disgusting, but at the same time eye-opening. Would I have experienced this bit of life, this slice of cheesecake, if I had not taken this job? Would I be less of an innocent man than I am now? Would I even be writing this post?
The answers aren’t clear. When are they?
Life is a lot larger, a lot nastier. There are tendrils where I used to see sunshine. Adults can be total assholes, immature for that matter; or, they can be some of the best of the best.
A cheesecake? How about a loaded die? I’m serious. You don’t get to choose what happens in this world. The die is rolled–the numbers are chosen, and you either deal with the unfair, or you get out and do the best you can to force those numbers into your favor.
Win-win, or a lose-lose. No way of telling until you’re standing right in front of it. By then, too, the smell can be so bad, you aren’t sure you want to test your luck.
I say do it, but do it wisely. If you’re dumb when it comes to making those important decisions, you’re going to get landed with a nightmare, one of which you have to climb out of yourself to reach those sweet dreams.
Be smart out there, guys. It will pay off.
Think daily,
A Southpaw
Blogging, put simply, is spewing out thoughts onto an electronic page. You’re constantly puking and puking until the contents of your stomach are thrown across the Inter-web.
And, yeah, that sounds super disgusting; but don’t any of you find it interesting that, as humans, we crave intimacy? Personal this and personal that–and we need more realism!
A man dies in a car crash, and the video is uploaded to Youtube. Here, I’ll figure this one out for you. This video detailing the gruesome death of some innocent man who never wanted his death shown around the world receives one million views in under five hours.
Another man get his legs chewed off by a shark. Four million views.
What the hell is it with us humans that we can’t bear not to look at the grotesque and the downright sick events that happen in this collective culture? Are we…secret sadists hiding in a closet, or…barbarians who forgot to leave the Stone Age?
No. It’s not that simple. Humans do crave the strange and the scary; it gives us a freaky adrenaline, and it makes us consider how close we are to our own unfortunate demises.
God damn, dude. It pisses me off, for some reason; but, if I’m honest, I do the exact same things. Each of us has, inside us, a desire to witness the unusual–it’s as if a roller coaster built of corpses is being unveiled, but the tickets to see it are speedily selling out. What else is there to do than stand behind the fences and gape in awe, or horror?
Human nature…human nature…
Again and again and again and again, I hear those words. It’s human nature to want to see someone die? It’s human nature to watch massive earthquakes devastate entire cities? Why? I ask everyone, why?
I can’t say screw human nature, ’cause I’m human–at least I think so. I complain about all this stuff, and yet I have no verifiable reason to do so. I’m like a broken-winged duck floating aimlessly in the middle of a gaggle of snickering swans.
My Gosh, am I still going? Most of you are likely bored by now–driven out of your friggin’ minds from weariness. I wouldn’t blame you. It can be dry…for some.
Ah, boy, who knows, though, maybe this meant a lot to you, and maybe it was a bunch of blabber that splattered against the wrong wall; either way, it’s how I feel. It’s how I choose to express this troublesome mind of mine, when a topic of the strangest subject approaches from this forever horizon–whatever the hell that means.
Think daily,
A Southpaw
God, let me tell ya: a car is a precious damn thing. They’re like Faberge Eggs with wheels, especially if they’re a rare kind. You get a single scratch on a car–any car–and it can cost you somewhere between 100 to 200 dollars; and that is me just estimating.
I unfortunately did not just leave a single scratch on a car; rather, I was pulling out of the parking lot of a Baskin-Robbins, and I happened to scratch the rear end of a car with the front bumper of mine.
By the way, I dented the bumper and scratched the hell out of this guy’s paint. I cringed at seeing it, even thinking about it makes me all wiggly inside.
It was not one of my finer moments.
I do still wish, however, to point out that the parking space I was leaving was on an incline, and, there were cars blocking my view of both the left and right sides of the road, in and out of which cars were driving.
It was not a well-structured parking lot.
That is my defense. Now, I choose to plead the Fifth.
You can’t do that.
What?
You already revealed information, so…you can’t plead the Fifth.
The hell? Fine. I plead the Matrix.
No one is taking you seriously.
Geez, dude, if a lady can plead that it was all the Matrix’s fault after she killed someone, then shouldn’t I be able to for scratching a car? The balances, man. Weigh those balances.
You can’t just use a fictional universe as an excuse.
The balances have spoken. Ah, no more–if I hear one more thing out of your imaginary little mouth, I will overrule the judge.
I’m leaving.
All right! Great! Didn’t need that dumbass anyway. I have a whole list of people just waiting to help me get through this horrific car-scratching incident. Therapists. Psychiatrists. Mechanics. Butchers. Bakers. Candlestick Makers.
UUUGGGGHHH! Why do I have to be such a terrible driver? I passed the test, does that mean nothing to you, you disgusting Automobile Gods? Okay, maybe I punched too many people in Slugbug, but, please, be reasonable!
You know what, since you don’t feel like talking, I’m gonna go punch some more people in Slugbug. Oh, and one other thing, I’ve always thought you guys were crap in comparison to the Ten-Speed Gods.
Hey, that’s an idea! I’ll just ride a bike from now on!
Ring-a-ding-ding, baby.
Think daily,
A Southpaw
Thoughts of A Southpaw 