Blow and Morning Brilliance

‘Oh my gato’ how the energies are painted in tiny specks across a spiraling reality: how minuscule the projection appears through my weary lenses looking out from within a  nightlife capsule; the sniffles and sneezes, the dollar-menu gazes and gourmet hollowness of this place is spawned from an oath to commit an act of epic togetherness.

It is this element of absurdity that links the faded frequencies of gone people; we’ve done this before, we do it again, distance is a trophy best honored by recurring sips of powdered air.

There are warts on the morning horizon, craters on the face of dawn pop and leak fluids that unveil a recent history of conscious massacre, one fueled by an overabundance of mind-altering goodies.

‘Quick’, I think. ‘Lets clean it up before the aliens arrive. I don’t want the obvious remnants of an intentional mutilation ceremony to taint the preliminary impressions of my possible saviors’.

Oh well. I shrug my thoughts and lean into myself: an olive tree is pointing a finger at me and I grin: ‘okay, okay, I’ll play my part’, says I in a whine. I collect my frigid form and manifest a smile when all I most easily want is to play with the party people. Regaining a sense of stillness I remember the impermanence of it all and sentence myself to detention, surrendering the responsibility of playing straight.

While life seems to be descending to a fine point for the partakers of illusory escape, I am with absolute presence and awareness, in a dress fit for a clown, laughing at the process and counting the seconds until I can gracefully walk away; I am free to feel the frequencies of a morning sun without the burden of having to pop her pimples.

In the same way that I am attracted to the wrong type of men, I am attracted to the wrong types of jobs, being thrown out on the street at the end of one relationship only to rush into the arms of another of the same nature, though wearing a different mask. I continuously enter into commitments with partners of similar characteristics, allowing myself to be carried off by the hopeless fantasy that this time, it would be different. It is different, for a while: new coworkers, new uniform, and a new route to work. But the newness wears off, and the ‘high’ associated with feelings of accomplishment and approval of having been newly elected employee is overshadowed by unhappiness. The actuality of gloom and grief is distorted to suit my social goal of success and respect from my working class peers. Why do we allow ourselves to commit to that which contributes to our feelings of despair and worthlessness? Why, despite all the evidence, do we apply for the same position at a varying venue, expecting dramatically different emotional results?

It’s easy to practice repetition, to remain in a comfortable place of familiarity and routine, and some of us subconsciously bargain our happiness and individuality for security and support. It’s easy to stay at a job you hate, if the price is right, and you’ve adopted the mantra ‘well, it’s not that bad’.  Sometimes, we compare ourselves to others, preaching to our comrades at the happy hour lounge in between hours of miserable labor, that in the least, we have a job. So how much of ourselves are we willing to bargain in the rapture of fear? Fear of the future, of losing our luxuries: fear of having to choose something different? Some of us keep the same jobs for all our lives, and are happy doing so, thriving in an unchanging environment of sameness. Some of us drive ourselves mad when we unintentionally suppress our curiosity and inherent sense of adventure because we are taught to value seniority over spontaneity in our employment careers. We confine ourselves to that which is merely ‘good enough’, that job which suffices our monetary requirements but that weakens our malnourished creative spirit. We die within the walls of the cells we build, and all because we are afraid to step away from comfort long enough to find something truly fitting.

We live everyday in the shadow of the classic American dream, waiting for something to happen to us, for some reward for time served and taxes paid that would validate working an unsatisfying job. We see life as a series of mundane moments made worthwhile by defining events: graduation, marriage, kids. However, we often find ourselves unfulfilled in light of these achievements, disappointed when they fail to provide us with the stamina to continue on our dead-end paths. After a certain point, the fruits of our labor are hardly worthy of celebration: surmounting stress, health problems, and financial debt, to name a few, all made possible by the sheer will to survive our habitual behavior.

After retirement, most Americans are wise enough to throw in the towel, fed up enough to stunt the continuation of a consistent life. They finally pursue the dreams of their childhood, which long before came second to the need to settle into a steady income. Living in a warm and sunny place, traveling the world by boat or RV, or simply shedding the layers of a stagnant existence and adopting healthier alternatives are some ways we express our natural instinct to stimulate our own personal growth. We revive our wild inhibitions and wonder why we put it off for so long.

After the fifth employment rejection in my twenty-something years on earth, I’ve decided I will practice bravery rather than prepare for the next job interview. I will peel myself from the sticky trap of redundancy and venture into open waters, that I may explore a very different avenue of career possibilities. I may fail, I may succeed: but I have not the energy to feign interest in an empty dependence. Just like at the fateful end of a relationship with a man, I will pick myself up, embrace independence from the bondage of a settled existence, and for the first time in my life, learn the lessons which have been in front of me from the very start. If you’re unhappy at work, only you have the power to promote change. Take a moment to shake hands with your inner awareness, and assess whether the relationship within which you actively contribute is stimulating to your personal well-being. If not, be brave enough to admit that perhaps your emotional health is unworthy of such work related torture; be the first to boldly walk away. And, instead of suffering through the embarrassment and nerve wrecking experience of being fired, release your fears and listen to yourself: let the unconditional love of your spiritual guide illuminate the path to freedom before it’s too late.

Halfway to Half Dome

Like satin veils of white and gray, streams of water coat the flat surface of majestic hillsides of Yosemite National Park, scaling hundreds of feet to feed the violent rapids below. At the Pines Campgrounds, people build their temporary homes between the immense heights of conifer trees in a valley which displays the subtle striations of color on the surrounding faces of granite cliffs, sharing this land with a variety of birds and rambunctious ground squirrels. A lazy stretch of the Merced River flows besides this outdoor civilization, and the perpetual motion of water meeting rock create a soothing elixir of sound and an environment ideal for relaxation and meditation. The rustic pathways that comprise the perimeter of the camp site individually offer a unique perspective of Yosemite’s terrain, some seeming desolate and wild ,others populated by dozens of smiling tourists eager for a photo opportunity. Once the sun has slipped behind the peaks of the majestic mountains, an aura of tranquility overcomes the recreation area as darkness creeps, and all is at rest aside from a few voices in the distance, the crackling of pit fires scattered across the landscape, and shadows of fellow campers illuminated by the glow of the moon.