Blue In Green

Seeing that I will be “moving” to New York under more permanent circumstances in the immediate future, I suppose it hasn’t really sunk in. That is, until today. Perhaps, it seems as though my finding a job is somewhat anti-climatic. Although I’ve always wanted to get further away than Fairfield, CT, where I went for undergrad, I have some reservations about leaving Rhode Island. Not so much for Warwick, in particular, but more so Narragansett, the beach house, and familiar waters. I went there today, unexpectedly, as I had to get my laptop serviced in South County. If you’re familiar with the area, and the Rhode Island logic of making the “trip” worth it, even though it’s only 20 minutes away without traffic, of course I had to keep driving to Route 108. That’s where the beach house. Yes, the one alluded to in “Indian Rock Farm Road” and “Boston Whaler Blues” http://leaningtowerofsuburbia.blogspot.com/

I drove down the private dirt road, keeping it under 20 per request of the signs telling me to “Slow Down You Move Too Fast” and “Watch Out For Playing Children and Crossing Animals.” In the summer months, the road is dry from the heat and dusty from the elevated traffic. Today, perhaps as an after effect of the winter snows and subsequent melts, the road was quite smooth, although wet, and quiet when not bumpy. As today was overcast, the sky served as an appropriate backdrop for the gloom of leafless trees, dead foliage, absent grape vines, and pushed-over eel grass. I can remember as a child we would go down there as a family during the winter months, even if just once during the off season. There used to be a small deli, next to a small house and farm, where we would buy a rotisserie chicken or two on the way down Route 4. My parents and grandparents would also speculate that the family who ran the farm owned the deli. Either way, the deli is no longer there but the small white-almost-stucco color square building remains as, I would assume from the sign, a place that sells “ROSES.”

We would pick up fallen branches and sometime kick the dead seaweed that the tide dragged up on the lawn into the woods. I can remember peeing in an empty rust-ridden black and yellow Chock Full O’Nuts can, even though my brother and I had the necessary equipment to go behind the tool shed. The steps up to the deck would creek, the third one up, the first one down. The faded two-by-four railings often matched the color of the sky. From the outside, some people might be instilled with an eerie sense of absence the winter months bring to a seasonal tourist town. Not to me, it’s so much more than that.

We’d make our way into the house and it would be freezing. More often than not, we’d have to bring in some plastic chairs from outside to sit on because the couch cushions were put away in trash bags and taped up so the mice would not ruin them. Long before my grandparents invested in a gas stove, we would make a fire inside the black iron stove with kindling and the driest pieces of driftwood we could find, often browsing through the newspapers left in the summer months for just that purpose, before twisting them in knots and adding them to the fire. There we’d sit, typically without a table and sometimes unfolding the aluminum foil the chickens came as drop cloths for the thin beige carpet.

Even then, and despite the temperature difference between the area closest to the wood burning stove and the porch, I would just want to look through the windows out to the access road that leads to Galilee, the ferries, and Great Island. I can remember being scolded for wanting to lift the screens up to get the best possible view through fogged up panes of glass. That same window, the one closest to the back door to the deck, holds with it a memory of being started by a praying mantis and the window falling on my thumbnail as a result. Oftentimes, when I catch myself biting that fingernail, I remember how long it too to grow back that year. In a weird way, maybe that’s why I like biting them so much.

Today was different, as I felt quite alone. Two swans were out in the middle of the pond—too far off for me to see them clearly, but surely they were swans. There were no deer on the drive in. It’s not uncommon to see at least one, especially at this time of year. The ospreys, too, were missing. The water was still, even though there was a slight breeze, contributing calm to my pondering. Even in the on-and-off cool drizzle of mid-March, I had an almost uncontrollable urge to quahog. I even took a casual jog back to where I parked my car to check what types of clothes or blankets I had to console my would-be shivers and stink of salt pond muck. Last summer alone and this is not a boast, as I simply love getting quahogs, I must have gotten over 1,000 with my bare hands and feet. I love doing it and, as a process, it’s quite hard to describe. It’s as if my hunter-gatherer instincts kick in, I set a goal, and I’m in the water for hours. As kids, my grandparents and parents would try, unsuccessfully, to wave us in. During low tides, particularly after a full-moon, we were able to walk straight across the pond with the water never going past our chests, onion and potato sacks half full with clams, in one hand, and the other holding our bathing suits up, as we’d often stuff the pockets with other mud-gems such as conches, green-glass Coca-Cola bottles, and arrowheads.

These thoughts in mind, I strolled the shore looking at deer and coyote tracks in the sand. Picking up an occasional suspected arrowhead and skipping it into the blue-in-green water after it failed the quality control inspection. I was mad at myself for not having my digital camera in the car but managed to take several pictures of the pond, the shore, and what little wake there was. My younger sister and I have had many conversations about making enough money to be able to afford keeping the beach house around, in hopes that our kids might be able to commit similar experiences to memory. I would be lying if I told you that I don’t think about this nearly everyday.

Scary Teen Dating Movie

There I sat with scissors-
of all things,
thinking they wouldn't penetrate
my skin to the vein.
Not unlike that punk chick
in Empire Records
who shaved her head
and made an attempt at her wrist
using a pink Lady Bic.

Predictable,

Life is now scripted like that
the placement of a Counting Crows song
in a sex scene of Cruel Intentions.

Colorblind,

my wrist comes undone,
like the pants of those twenty-somethings
playing high school seniors.

Cold Feet, Courage, and Risk

I’m home in Rhode Island for the first time in six weeks. I suppose that amount of time isn’t too great compared to months away at school or years away in the military. Fortunately, I hope I will never experience the latter. As I sit and type, I’m drinking a glass of tap water which is quite delicious and refreshing compared to the tap water in New York. I’ve noticed a distinct taste in the ice cubes as well. Although my family is a mere fraction of Irish descent, the house is filled with the scent of corned beef, cabbage, and soda bread—not one of my favorite meals. But, after all, it is something that I will always associate with being at my parents’ house. The smell of the sheets on my own bed and the way they are tucked under the mattress in a way that only a mother can do without effort. In high school, especially on a cool almost spring day, I would purposely leave the windows open in my room to air out the stench of winter, smoky clothes, and my brother’s laundry which is, more often than not, strewn about the cold faded hardwood floor. More than that, for me, there is nothing more comfortable than getting into bed and under the sheets without socks on, wrestling with the sheets a little bit, and laying there with cold sheets on my feet. I know this isn't normal--but this is me, the real Jimmy.

Out in the kitchen, I can hear one of the black labs playing with a rawhide bone and rather than annoying it is somewhat soothing to know exactly the source that unique noise is coming from. The house is always noisy, whether it’s 5am or 11pm. There are sounds that I am so used to, even if they are, at times, bothersome.

Another few days will pass and I will head back to New York. It has been quite an interesting experience traveling back and forth for almost eight months, although I would never wish the circumstances of my extended vacation from full-time work on myself or anyone. Looking back over the past several months, I feel I wasted so much time applying for jobs, researching on the Internet, procrastinating, feeling the urge to clear the visited pages history, and meticulously organizing the folders and files on the Mac desktop. Not once did I just go to the beach, watch the surf, and write. Not once did I exercise in my basement gym, also called “the dungeon.” Although, I have spent countless hours going for walks, playing with Jack the seven pound wonder, and worrying myself to death about finding employment, I have managed to realize quite a bit about myself and the person I am trying to be.

I have managed to set up some blogs, including this one, for my poetry, random thoughts, ponderings, digressions, rants, and social commentary but I feel I have neglected this and other resources in all that time out of work. Perhaps, I am being too critical of myself. For the past few months, I have been trying see the positive side of things. A couple of weeks ago, I had yet another job interview in NYC. This time, it was for a position at an advertising agency. The interview, I felt, went fairly well and I was looking forward to hearing back from the company. Rather than taking the F or V uptown to Penn, I decided to walk, seeing that it was only 11 blocks or so. Naturally, I was thinking. And, as I tend to do, I was questioning what it is I really want out of life (which may or may not have influenced my writing the previous blog). Due to my decision to walk to the train station to catch a train back to Long Island, I managed to miss the train by 3 minutes. I thought to myself, no big deal, I will just get a coffee. Starbucks, yada yada yada, $4 later. Much better than my delicious, although overpriced, latte was the insightful quote printed on the recycled cardboard cup, “Failure's hard, but success is far more dangerous. If you're successful at the wrong thing, the mix of praise and money and opportunity can lock you in forever.” This quote is from a book written by Po Bronson What Should I Do With My Life?. Of course, I didn’t know the title of the book till I went “home” to Google the quote and author. Although I did attempt purchasing this book at two stores, I have yet to buy and read the book. Nonetheless, I found it so intriguing and fitting to my current predicament. It turns out that this book is not incredibly old but pretty damn old; recent enough to be in print but old enough to not be available in stores. Although I have done some research regarding commentary on, and reviews of, the book, I feel the title of the book speaks volumes on its own.

What should I do with my life? What should anyone do with their life? Either way, why? What are your motivations? More importantly, what are my motivations and desires? Do my desires stand to count for anything anymore? Why do I torment myself with all of these questions and why all the time? Essentially, and quite matter-of-factly, we question things in an attempt to determine or understand things about ourselves and the choices we make, have made, and will make. As I mentioned, I looked into the book, without purchasing it. A section of the book I’ve become particularly interested in reading concerns “Courage and Risk.” Certainly, these two things are tied to one another in many obvious and not-so-obvious ways. To make some sense of the point I am trying to make, I wanted to share some lines from this section of the book.
“You can make decisions to pad your wallet. You can make decisions to maintain proper appearances. You can make decisions because they're safe or predictable. You can make decisions because it'll keep your parents off your back. You can make decisions simply to delay making harder decisions.”

In particular, and especially, when we are “young adults” (whatever that means) we are forced to make decisions e.g. work while in high school, get good grades, apply to colleges near home, apply to colleges far from home, choose a school, choose friends, choose a major, and choose a career? We are often asked to make decisions that are not necessarily well-informed or guided in any particular way. But once you graduate college, it is very much up to you. Now, I’m not just addressing this because I experienced a very long period of unemployment after receiving my Master’s and losing my job, but more so because Po Bronson wrote this book at an early age, previous to 25 years of age, I believe. This book is so interesting because Bronson is asking himself the same question as he asked the individuals he profiled for this book. “What should I do with my life?” Now, Bronson is a bestselling author and I would speculate that he was few doubts about what he has done with his life.

I have not achieved a great realization about myself because of my research on this book. (As I mentioned, I have intentions to, but have not yet read this book). Over the past few months, however, I have been writing two books. More so, I am writing two books because someone took a chance on me and someone saw that I had potential and the inherent ability necessary to perform such a task. Whether any of that is true, I am actually quite happy. Have I neglected writing what I want as a result? Yes. Although unemployed, I must admit that I am the happiest and most positive I have been in many years; perhaps, even prior to my undergraduate studies. I have not yet returned to “full-time” work or the “9 to 5 turned 8 to 7 grind,” and do not resent anyone for the situation I have had to face everyday for nearly eight months. Even if I find my “dream job,” whatever that may be, I feel I will always, in one way or another, be looking for something to say “I do…” Along with Bronson's words and other sources, I have realized that for once I am happy and, I feel, it’s because I feel I’ve not only found, but already knew, what I wanted to do with my life.

Delicious Strife

I ask my God daily as He’s
Testing me constantly
For what deeper purpose do I serve if not to survive through pain and disappointment?
Testing me, I know I’m not alone
For I have strife and trials for He wishes for me to continue to a better day
He tests me as I’m assigned tasks and expectations.

She tests me
As I count my blessings
I note my residing angel for she protects and inspires me
She tests me and pulls me into a reality otherwise hard to swallow
This, I’ve been given then
It is love, I find
Given to me to pass along, I gather.

They test me
With false hope, saying,
“Perhaps you’ll like the rain elsewhere,
For it never changes or calms.”
Far beyond the tingling sensation in delicious strife
We’ll find even heaven’s peace may not be as so desired.

040804

I lay awake as the full moon glows light on my face,
I’ve been here before, an almost all too familiar place.
So dark and curious the sky, blue-black entrapping the star,
Those midnight spotlights seem so distant so far.

I awake seems two hours slept
Before the sun rose I heard the lonely song,
Beckoning in my thoughts of promises left kept.
From the start I knew the source, a bird where his lyrics belong
Lacked I slept, for things must be reassured,
Reminding me of the things past endured.

The anxiety renews, as surely does the morning sun.
I listen to the sounds, as the bird becomes one with a choir,
Of all things I dream and have kept unsung,
I’m alone again for choral observers silence and retire.

Toenail Clippings and Bellybutton Lint

The dryer creates its pilly wool sweaters,
as the faulty zipper covers only
the part you don’t want zipped.
Not unlike the deodorant that stains your undershirt
rendering you a perspiring Smurf.
Flaky hair gel dried up looks like dandruff
on the shoulder of a thirteen hour day.
The sweat in your brown shoes smells of
the booze you drank last night
coming out to haunt your newly found sobriety.
It all tastes good in some peculiar way,
as you pick the lint from your bellybutton
and wonder how it gets there.
While the toenail stuck in your teeth
sadly only marks acquired flexibility.

Counterfeit

It’s been almost two years
but it seems like last month
although I don’t remember
that expensive week of partying
I knew you were all there.
Perhaps not afraid, as I was,
about what the world would
make of me.

It’s been quite a while
since Greg broke my leg,
JJ had optimism about parking,
Alison’s dad bought us drinks,
Billy borrowed the maroon shitbox
to take to the Gap,
that random guy started up his
tow truck and fixed Cesca’s car
at 3 in the morning,
Beth used the couch inappropriately
and likewise Fal in addition to the
floor, wall, poster, and garbage can.
But that was my fault
‘cause I locked the door.

Too many times
I’ve chosen to be passive
and not dwell, for once,
on what we all were,
what we once had,
and the naïve egotism
that ran through our veins
not knowing what would
happen after we crossed
that counterfeit stage.

But there you are
and here I am—
What to make of it
I’m not sure.
The least I can do is make
sure you all know
that I think about
every wasted morning
became afternoon slept-in
and thought maybe
I should’ve been awake,
slowed down and enjoyed
the life everyone else
was living.

What are you/we really working for?

When was the last time someone asked you where your drive comes from? What are your motivations? What makes you who you are when compared to everyone else? Do these things matter to you? What matters? What makes a difference in your life? My response is Me. Taking everything into consideration, the most rational response, as there are no definite answers to these types of questions, is Me. Despite everything I have experienced in life and everything that I have learned through K-12 and six years of "higher" education, I have come to the realization that none of it really matters unless you use it all to your advantage. Being unemployed for seven months, I have come to many realizations about myself, the world in which I live but am barely part, and the capitalistic system under which we are governed, live by, and die by. The reason I ask what it is that makes you who you are is because I am constantly searching; searching for something that will make some sense now and benefit me in the long run.

I have come to grips with ambition, motivations, nature vs. nurture, what my "higher" education has taught me, in addition to what the educational system has no taught me. It comes down to where I will be and how I will favor in years beyond the next decade. Have I not done what I was told, in terms of doing what is right, getting good grades, and being above average in everything that I do, including education? Where does any of this put me? What I am coming to realize more and more each day is that I must learn and function in such a way that I am ambivalent to the "normal" or "typical" way of doing things. In an ever-changing world and socioeconomic marketplace, I realize that it is not up to what your parents have taught you and told you do. Life, simplified, of course, is very much what you make of it. Some leave high school thinking they will join the armed forces to find camaraderie and some promise of upward mobility, a pension, excellent benefits, and an early retirement in inactive duty. Others pursue college and university-level studies, hoping to join the masses in receiving a similar package to what the military offers--stability, and the opportunity to grow.

As time passes, however, no matter what your profession is, and no matter how long you did, or did not, go to school for, individuals are no longer "safe" in their plans. As not to delve completely into the state of our economic situation, I foresee that many will anticipate, acknowledge, should welcome, and, furthermore, realize that change needs to take place. To echo Gandhi, perhaps people are awakening to the realization that we must first "Be the change [we] want to see in the world." As I see it, as do many others, we must realize this in our own ways through the trials and tribulations we experience on our own course or path to...what, really? What are we all working for? Sure, survival, to make a paycheck, to pay our bills, to contribute to our slumping and barely nonexistent 401Ks, to pay for those who, in some way or another, cannot provide enough for themselves. But, not matter the situation, profession, passion, or pursuit, we are working for money. Think about all of these things, as, perhaps, many of us never have before.

As I've recently been involved in writing books on success and how to make money, I am, more and more, thinking about all of these elements. We cannot escape capitalism; and, I feel, we must embrace it. I could continue typing with many thoughts on these elements which play an integral role, in not only our daily lives, but also the system we are a part and love, in some ways, yet are slaves to.

Even as a "cafeteria Catholic," I have always thought of things in terms of Marxism. Some of you, who may be more familiar with philosophy and literary theory, perhaps would label this way of thinking as "New Marxism." Perhaps, I realize and acknowledge all of the above, but that doesn't necessarily mean I, or we, have to accept it. Capitalism, as I see it, is not going anywhere anytime soon. However, the way we contribute to, think about, and counteract with this manmade construct should be in a manner that is well-informed and calculated. No matter your current education level, profession, or sought-after education level and professional field, we must all ask ourselves "What am I really working for?"

More to come...

I didn't hit the Jackpot

As you may, or may not, know, the Mega Millions lottery jackpot was up to $212 Million for last night's drawing. In Rhode Island, where I'm originally from, we don't have the Mega Millions but we do have Powerball. Yes, Powerball, as in the lottery talked about and sought after by the cast of Friends one season--they had to drive to Connecticut, I believe, to buy tickets. Anyhow, I never really buy tickets. In fact, I will typically only buy one ticket for $1 if the jackpot is over, say, $50M. Not that my chances improve but I figure that somehow my $1 is more worth it. Well, I've been in New York on and off for several months now with no Powerball. Although, I only throw my money way, and very little at one time, every so often, I actually missed playing Powerball now and then.

Over the past couple of weeks, I've purchased a ticket for the Tuesday and Friday drawings. I was particularly enthralled to buy two tickets, yes only 2, for last night's drawing because the jackpot was so high. Needless to say, I did hit the jackpot, I didn't win a quarter million, one hundred thousand, a few hundred, or even my $2 back. Not winning is not necessarily my problem because, honestly, I think the chances of winning are about 1 in 300 million, or something like that. Since I have been out of full-time work for such a long time, I often have trouble sleeping. More often than not, and especially for someone in my situation, money has certainly been something that is constantly on my mind. Last night, in particular, perhaps due to my stubborn, romanticized mind, I fell in-and-out of sleep thinking I had actually won the lottery.

I began to think about who I would call first and couldn't decide. Since I've always been so conscious about money, saving money, and the potential for growth, I looked through my cell phone contacts to find my grandfather's broker/financial advisor, who I've spoke with twice in my lifetime, I believe. Not that he would be the first call, but he would certainly be on the list. Just imagine winning. It would be insane. Even in my altered cognitive state, I couldn't even make up my mind about who to call. I began to think about telling my mother she didn't have to work insane hours as a nurse anymore. I could pay for my younger sister's graduate school and eliminate my older sister's and younger brother's school debt. I could buy my parents a house away from the town that has so many bad memories. I could provide a life for my parents comfortable enough for my grandparents to not worry about my mother. I singlehandedly could change the course of the lives of people around me, and not just my family.

I would give my girlfriend's mother some money for letting me stay at her house and come and go for the past six months. My girlfriend, Beth, and I would be off to the "Miracle Mile" to have a custom engagement ring made at Tiffany's. I would do everything and anything I could to make the people around me happy. Happiness doesn't come with money, believe me I know. It can come and it can go just as easily but it doesn't make you happy. Having money, however, can eliminate the worry that comes with financial hardship and woes. Thinking ahead, even in a hypothetical situation, as I tend to do, I would foresee that money, especially a large amount of money, would bring additional worries.

With all the negatives put aside, I think I would forge ahead, keep looking for an ideal "dream job" and keep my plans the same--get a job in a creative field that would make me happy, invest in new media and entertainment ventures, start a publishing company, etc. I'm not, however, trying to say that I wouldn't change the car I drive. Although, my 2002 Prizm has been pretty reliable and has taken me many places, it would certainly have to go.

Cheers!

Batman cereal, Flintstone Vitamins, and other aversions

What ever happened to Batman cereal? It had a very distinct and, for me, memorable taste, smell, weird yellow coloring. In fact, I believe these are the reasons behind me remembering some random cereal I ate, maybe a few times at most, some 15 years ago. Do you remember Batman cereal, with those little yellow Batman symbols? Cereal, like many things tied to youth and memory, is a funny thing, especially when you get into a discussion about all the "not good for you or your kids" cereals. We all know that these cereals are marketed to children, a target audience for who cavities and sugar intake should already be a concern. That, however, it not at all the point of this post. I digress and it's a wonderful thing. The tangent is one of the many elements of class lectures and discussions which got me through six years of college. And, frankly, who am I to leave the tangent method of discourse to university professors, medical professionals, lawyers, etc.

The more I write, be it poetry, non-fiction, blogs, etc, the more I realize that my memory, as well who I am, is very much tied to my childhood experiences--scents, smells, tastes. Which sense is strongest? Certainly, there are taste aversions in which we simultaneously have something unique and distinct tempt our taste buds into taking us on a trip down a, perhaps, not-so-pleasant memory lane. Vinegar and mayonnaise are two that totally disgust me here. Perhaps it is the talk about drinking vinegar as a cure for colds and other types of home remedies, or it very well could be those bottles of Heinz Malt Vinegar found on the tables of many sports bars, delis, and other eateries. I cannot stand it being near me or even on my side of the table for all that matter. Mayonnaise, mayo, or, whatever you want to call it has an especially disgusting place in my memory. Even to this day, my grandmother and mother use mayonnaise to rub into the finishes of a scratches piece of antique furniture. I have very distinct memories of the two of them walking around the living and dining room at my grandparent's house with a jar of mayonnaise. Plain and simple, an open jar of mayonnaise, mayo on a knife in the sink, mayo on a sandwich, on a spoon, anywhere, grosses me out.

There are of course interesting smells like, for example, Flintstone vitamins. Now I know someone remembers the smell of these chewable treats! I do not remember protesting to take my Flintstone vitamin even once as a kid. I don't so much remember the taste of these chewable Freds, Barneys, and Dinos, but I do remember the smell of the vitamin itself. I suppose the scent increased in strength with the childproof tops sealing the goodness inside. Which is ironic, in a way, because you want your children to take their vitamins yet they are packaged in such a way that you have to open the containers of them. Anyhow, the smell of these vitamins is an everyday experience for me in such a weird way. I have managed to find a deodorant, Old Spice Pure Sport, and a body wash, of the same scent, to smell exactly like the Flintstone vitamins. Please, if you do remember the smell of these vitamins you must take yourself to CVS, Target, etc. to smell this scent. It is very much the same. The vitamins on the other hand can still be found on store shelves, and yes, I did look for them one day out of curiosity. On the contrary, the smell of sycamore trees is repulsive. You walk outside and it's mid-June, kind of hot outside and the humidity hits you in the face. But if you grew up, and or live, in New England and the Northeast states, chances are you have experienced the smell of the "sick-a-more" tree. I'm sure the name of the tree is no coincidence. Seriously, I don't think I could point you out a tree in a park or on a random street that is a sycamore tree. But I would guarantee to you that I would be able to point out a vicinity based on the smell. Seriously, it smelled like someone sneezed. And, yes, sneezes have smells too. If you are one of those unfortunate few who have experienced the smell of a sneeze (another person's sneeze) in your travels or daily excursions, I sincerely apologize because that is a raunchy smell in itself!

And, then there are sounds. This could include voices, music, song lyrics, beats, the sound of cleats on a metal stadium bleacher, the bounce of a basketball, a car horn, that "awhooogaaa" noise, a buzzer at a sporting event, a megaphone, a burp. All of these things we have stored in our wonderful brains. But if you look into your mind hard enough, you might just be able to tie each one of these sounds, and many more, to specific instances or experiences. That, is what I love doing. And for centuries people have had discourse over this phenomenon of aversions. It is our mind's way of tying pieces together. I personally feel that I am fortunate to have within my a curiosity to seek out the reasons for things. As someone who writes, and at least, thinks that he is creative, I find myself attributing to inanimate and, perhaps otherwise, insignificant things, significance. I just thought I would share.

Cheers!