Ramble On....

Just a mild-mannered (ha!) collection of fragments and snippets that have been winding around my brain for a few days now. Keeping them on hand for possible later inclusion into other works of art/garbage.

I don't wanna be the one whining along with the mindless lyrics - I want to be the one who grabs life by the balls and writes her own lyrics; full of meaning, sound and words that express feelings millions of angsty teenagers can't quite seem to commit to paper. Hell - do teenagers even know what paper is anymore? I hear it all the time: "I'm so sad...I don't remember what it's like to feel." The problem is, you never really learned to begin with. Hop off of your computer, your cell phone, your IJunk and your whateverthefuck and grab a pen and just start writing. You'd be amazed how much you feel when you just put the ink on the page and get it over with...

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He walked in with a death sentence hanging over his head. You'd never know it by looking at him, but he was a tough, vibrant dog - full of life and energy in his day. Today was not his day and he was here to die.

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I'm always on the lookout for that Humane Society Worker Jackpot(tm). That golden ticket to actually changing the world. I'll keep my eyes peeled as I'm working my way along the winding country roads and rural routes in drowsy little hamlets all over the county, just looking for that box of unwanted, discarded puppies or kittens. The sad thing is, years of doing the same bloody, painful, mind-numbing work have taught me one thing: People aren't kind enough to give their unwanted kittens and puppies even the courtesy of a cardboard box. No, people are much more cruel than that. They trade away their eco-friendly three-times recycled cardboard for a plastic bag. A plastic bag. Something that costs less than 10 cents to manufacture and no thought at all to throwing out. These people who are so keen on saving mother nature and curing the planet of all her ills don't even see fit to give these animals a fighting chance. Instead, they write that unwanted litter off as just one more loss, tossing them out the windows of their green little hybrids, zooming along these lonely country roads at 100 miles per hour. And you wonder why I've lost faith in the human race.

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It isn't the blood, the guts or the gore that bother me. It's that unmistakable, undeniable smell of death. It clings to your hair and skin, hiding fast behind a veil of slick, green disinfectant. The smell of total obliteration that even the stiffest drink and strongest shower can't wash away. It burrows in tight beneath your fingernails, digging in its claws, the pungent aroma of rot that seemingly begins even before death and lingers on long after. And it sticks with you, searing images on the front of your eyeballs that can't be undone. Some days I wonder if I didn't pick the wrong fucking profession.
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We're not given the courtesy of flashing red lights to indicate that we are doing something important, that we are on our way to save lives. Instead, we're consigned to late-night runs on major highways, driving down forgotten routes hoping to God or anyone who is listening that we'll make it to the clinic on time. And hoping we're not noticed - not noticed by the stars, the gods, the heavens above and most of all, unnoticed by the state highway patrol who don't see the cause as just or noble. To them, we're not doing anything important. We're not saving lives. Around here, in little old middle america, we're just another schmuck doing 30 over the speed limit at 4 AM. We're watching the clock as they write the ticket, hoping they'll just save the roadside lecture and wrist slap for another time: To them, it's just another dog. But we know different: to us, it's an old friend come home at the worst of times in the worst of shapes. An old friend begging for help. And we're the only ones who listen.
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Sometimes I feel like giving up, giving in. And then I realize: I've got nothing left to give. I've given it all away. I give it all up every day for others who have even less than I do and I spread myself so thin that it's a wonder I don't rip into two more often. How can you give up, give in, when you've got nothing left to give? You can't. So you do the only logical thing: Keep going.

Free write, August 30, 2010

In the off chance that you're reading this, the world looks funny today. Green looks like red and yellow looks like green. And in the off chance you're hearing me, the sound of your voice reminds me of a pickle. It's sour and briny with just a hint of tart, the perfect beginning to a late afternoon meal consisting of sour cream and nachos with a pitcher of tea that's been brewing all day to wash down the acrid words. And in the off chance you're not listening, I'm not hearing you quite correctly because everything sounds like it's underwater and you're muffled and funny and not quite right but I love you anyway. And in the off chance you see me, consider carefully that you just don't look the same. Your ears are too big for your head and your head is too big for your neck but the whole thing is dwarfed by the rest of your body so it doesn't really matter anyway because your ears are proportionate with your torso but not the rest of your head which is too tiny to fit anyway so it never looks like it quite belongs, kind of like you and me because we're never sure we quite belong so we sit and we think and we plod along the edge of a ballfield or the public square, wondering if we should be here or go because we never feel like we quite belong but for different reasons, you and me, we feel both awkward and entitled. You feel different like you don't belong because you do belong here - you've belonged here all your life and know the ins and outs of the system, the basic hustle and bustle of the everyday life of the general Nelsonville native. I feel like a big fish swimming around in a tiny plastic bag - both too big for the bag and the small supply of water that's been dumped uncerimoniously in here for me to swim around in but also like i might suffocate to death very slowly if someone doesn't let me out of this damned plastic bag soon. I feel like a goldfish because my memory is failing me, baby. I can't quite seem to remember - is it me or is it you? Do you remember the first night we met? You said you'd never met anyone quite like me. I'm telling you now, darling. You'd be hard pressed to find anyone quite like me because I'm a genetic abnormality, an abberation that never quite should have happened and doubtless will happen again. I'm more than one but less than nothing and everything around me seems to suffer in the process. It really is just better if you put me out of your mind, out of my mind, and cease thinking about me altogether because when people get involved, people get hurt and when people get hurt it's usually my fault even though I don't mean for it to happen, I'm just off like that. And even now, when I'm trying to write, have BEEN trying to write because writing is what pays the bills, even now as I try to write and keep my INTERNAL EDITOR out of it all, I can't quite seem to manage. I tell myself to just keep typing, just keep going, just keep writing but I find myself going back to fix glaring mistakes in the words, fix the words that aren't right because I edit as I go. But the problem is I keep miswriting words because my brain moves faster than my fingers and I can barely keep up with it - if my mind starts plodding along at a soothing 1000000 billion million gazillion miles an hour, I can't stop it, can't shut it down, but also can't keep up with my fingers. I leave out words, letters, I get sloppy and the meaning is changed. And it's all about the meaning, right? So if I leave off the words at the end of a paragraph, forget the articles and helper words and leave off the letters at the ends of words, does it really all still mean the same? That's why I get pissed off when you half-ass your way through everything and everything still manages to be okay - because I can't just skip parts and leave them out and have everything be okay - it bugs me and irritates me and I end up ripping it all apart to do over again 100 percent, but you take shortcuts and everything's alright - just ask little red riding hood how taking shortcuts ends up.It isn't good man, and one of these days it's gonna kill you. If I don't first from the frustration of it all. Does doing a good job matter anymore? Does doing things right, taking your time, putting yourself into the work, putting pride in your work and actually WORKING matter anymore? Or is it half-ass slacker city where the bums rule the show and those of us who actually give a toss about anything get slobbered on because we're the ones in the wrong? Tell me, why don't you?