Fiery Crash

Written March 9, 2006

[Background: In the airport terminal, enduring a maintenance delay. On my way to London to visit a guy with whom I'd been talking to online for a year.]

I can see the rain coming down through the large windows that surround me. The odds of dying in a plane crash are almost the same as winning the lottery, and yet, the mention of a delayed flight creates a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. A 1-year-old nearby is happily trying to make friends with all others who wait as her mother works to try to maintain her attention. Cute little Molly, it seems. The girl across the way obnoxiously devours her tortilla chips as she blabs on her cell to some boy named Josh and works away on a crossword puzzle. Something about her really annoys me. Most everyone sits as I do, laptop flipped open, headphones in place, trying to pass the time. I’m writing to keep my mind from drifting off to the drama stories it so often loves to weave. “Local Woman Attempts to Live Vicariously but dies tragically”…”The Price of Love”…”Dreamy British Boy awaits American Girl: Fate intervenes”. I’d make a nice cover story for the papers. And so I half-nervously glance around at those who surround me and wonder if they might be the people I die alongside. Then, I pray I’m not sitting next to the annoying girl when it all goes down or next to Molly but for different reasons.

Isn’t it funny how a small little part of you almost seems to want this tragic death, just for others to be able to pass on the irony of it all. There’s always some twist, some out of character or out of habit action that can be used to explain tragedy away. Dying just isn’t so bad if it makes for a good story.

And wouldn’t those last moments be grand. You know it’s all going to end and you weave your story of how it all came to be. You savor that last smirk & chuckle as you tip your hat to the forces and whisper, “Nice one.”

Who are you and what am I?

Frigid, we march along our planned courses. Get the diploma, then the degree, and then that great job. But what next? Some plans have expiration dates, but I didn't pay attention.

I'm rarely completely certain about anything at all. (How's that for ambiguity?) I thought I'd end up in a bank. Instead, I became yearbook editor at my HS my senior year and became possessed with the idea of being a graphic designer. Me, the girl that struggled with stick figures, never took an art class that wasn't required, and wore plaid button down shirts & jeans everyday for 6 years. See, this is what happens when people tell me I'm good at something--I let them choose my life for me. I mean, I think I actually do enjoy that type of work, but I'm never really sure what in life I actually enjoy. I'm like a trained monkey, wired to do what it takes for a treat. I lived for recognition.

Soon, I will have been out of college for as long as I was in. Scary. Life's checkpoints seem to be flying by. Eight years ago I was plotting this grand career I would have as a graphic designer in Chicago. I don't even like big cities, but I liked the idea of working in a fancy building with a salary to match. I could show everyone how successful I could be. Ah-ha, look at me!

I was in two art classes my first semester of college. Traditional art classes. They expected me to draw things realistically. Come on, I can only do this stuff on computers--drag the lines about & such. What had I gotten myself in to? You know, I had no idea if my choice school even had a good program. It was just the easy choice. My mom went there and the previous yearbook editor was going there for graphic design. Obviously, it would make sense to follow in her shoes.

I was such a coward. It worked out to some degree. A real art school would have torn me to pieces. I enjoyed my classes, but noticed life drawing coming up on the roster. I would not be forced to draw a nude homeless person. No, sir. I decided I was bored with what I was doing anyway, so I found a new major. It was close but more on computers. Within a semester, I was receiving praise as a web programmer. You didn't miss a step, I went from graphic design to web programming. Well, with all this praise, this job must be my calling.

Four years ago I was making big plans for my life as a web developer. I could work for Amazon or Google or anything. And gosh, did web programmers make so much more than graphic designers. I was going to be living the high life. I think I really did enjoy the work. I went through a few different positions, constantly getting called to work somewhere else. I received praise at every job I took.

Two years ago, I decided web programming was eating away at my soul. How could I ever live a real life if I were always sitting behind a computer? I'm not a naturally social person. I'm like a two-year-old that can be plopped in front of some moving pictures and be perfectly entertained. I was convinced however that web programming had made me that way--deep down I was a social butterfly waiting to emerge!

A writer. That's what I'm supposed to be. English & COM professors have praised me since elementary. Ah-ha, this talent has been hiding there all along. I had just gotten distracted. I took on writing assignments at work. But it's the damnedest thing, I live in a constant state of writer's block. I'd write and re-write and so on, so forth. I was horrible. I felt I never found the right words. My mentor seemed to always have the perfect ones. He'd take my drawn out thoughts and make them beautifully simple. I couldn't be horrible, though, because this was what I was meant to be. I'd received too much recognition for it not to be.

That is how a web developer starts sending out resumes for copywriting jobs. That is how the girl that had life effortlessly unfold new avenues & exits sits here as an unemployed writer wannabe, blogging about her inability to discover who she is and why she's here at 11pm on a Saturday night.

I have basically cut myself off from the rest of the world for a month. I've only gotten praise for quitting a job that made me miserable. We certainly have spoiled ourselves. My job brought in a nice income, kept a roof over my head, and I quit because it made me unhappy. Ancestors are laughing at us all right now. Taunting, calling us "lazy quitters." I think that should make me feel some level of guilt. I don't have a family, so it makes this all less dramatic, but does it make the selfishness of the act hold less value? I've never experienced poverty. I was praised for cutting off my only source of income. It's no wonder there is a generation gap. Look at us not being thankful for those before us without such liberties and choices. In a way, I envy them. Although I'm certain it was no kind of paradise, the prospect of choosing a job being dictated by how much I hoped to eat that night does carry a certain appeal. It means it's okay if I don't know what I want to do with my life. It's okay if I'm not always sure what actually makes me happy. I wouldn't know what I was missing, and really, that is the hardest part. I'm so fully aware of all the potential that exists to love life & my career, if only I had an inkling of what it should be.

Boots Too Big

A newborn boy, nicknamed Dick the Bruiser,
became quite a charmer to outwit any accuser.
Never a stranger, he offered a smile & laugh
to anyone, who might cross his path.

Hiding atop refrigerators
and cutting phone cords currently in use,
he’d do anything to get your attention—
some things too mischievous to mention.

His two older sisters, he followed
wherever they would go.
Three partners in crime—
they found mischief all the time.

A natural born salesman,
he was from the start,
figuring his own commission
for each & every expedition.

He might try to sell you the hat
that sat upon your head.
Or sometimes drop a clue,
that you may need a “Lax Mint” or two.

Trading scale models in for the real deal,
his carpet fields now turn a true yield.
No longer atop the upside-down pail,
he manages just fine in wind, rain, or hail.

A little boy in boots too big,
a shadow of his father.
Five generations on the farm—
forging a proud legacy together.

Oh, the woes—
at the many bets that were lost,
when this little boy revealed,
what a dependable young man he would yield.

The Days on 1100 E

Written March 2007.

Foreword

I live my life by the web. My first computer was a Commodore 64. Black screen. Green text. Really big floppy disks. That was it. And yet, I fell in love with learning how to make it compute. I think that was in 4th grade. I've been addicted ever since. By the time of Windows 3.1, the world of the outdoors was becoming a distant memory. I offer these stories, not as literary masterpieces, but glimpses in to an amazing computer-less childhood. Yes, it's possible. We look back on the 40s & 50s with such nostalgia and admiration of simpler times, but the reality is, I'm already looking back to the early 80s with that same since of loss & adoration.

Introduction

There were no straight roads where I grew up. Well, none any more than a half mile long. They were all laid out at right angles, following property lines more than good sense. The land was flat and so my road was visible for miles down the way, except when the corn stalks reached their full potential in late summer. In those days, my Mom limited our biking distance to the first sharp turn. On around the second bend was the entrance to the long driveway that lead to the farm where my grandparents lived. We could see the silhouette of the whole farm from our living room window. The series of bins, sheds, & augers held such wonder for me, as if they were my own Versailles. I remember the excitement when we were finally given permission to ride our bikes all the way there. Of course, we'd done it several times before, but it was nice not having to lie about it.

It's queer that as children we have a certain affinity for remembering the details and as adults, a nostalgia for recalling them. That strip of road, old 1100 E, was the central part of the best adventures of my life.

Adventure One

The ice was still thick & firm beneath my feet. The sun had long since set, but the floodlights on the corner of the house cast a strong but eerie light over the frontyard. It must have been below zero, but my brother, sister, & I were determined to make the most of this spring ice storm. The hills in our yard were not steep by any means, but a slick sheet of ice helped to compensate. We tried every object possible to maximize the experience, even our bikes, once we confirmed Mom was clear of any windows to see us. It can be assumed that attempt did not go well. Logic never was an answer to childhood curiosity.

...

How I Forgot Jack B. Paul

Written July 07.

Introduction

Death Notice

Paul, Jack B., 78, white male. Last known address: 245 N. Delaware. Any info, please call 317-327-****.

It's Sunday morning, a mild-weathered summer day for Indiana. July 4 festivities are off to an early start, like most holiday celebrations in the Midwest. It is those things one can always count upon happening around here. Christmas lights up before the Thanksgiving turkey is carved and illegal fireworks filling the sky for the weeks leading up to and following July 4. I grumble about both of them, but I realize days wouldn't feel quite the same in their absence. So much of life consists of all the stuff we think we would be better off without. It's funny, really. There wouldn't be much left if all those things were erased from the picture. There'd be no context. The existence of the bad is what makes the good, good.

But what does that have to do with Jack B. Paul? Nothing really. I like to imagine, though, that Jack knew all about this life. He had the wife that hassled him about going to get a Christmas tree. He muttered to himself down the aisles of Wal-Mart, expressing his annoyance with making the holiday such a spectacle. But every year, he hung the lights. He trimmed the tree. He said grace at dinner. At his age, he knew there were some battles he would never win. But July 4--that holiday was all his. His wife cringed each time his Budlight bottle became a launching pad. She held her breath when he went diving in to the ditch after a roman candle placed in the road fell on its side. I like to believe that they drove each other crazy, but at the end of the day, couldn't imagine a much better life. I suppose that's the romantic in me. But truly, I like to imagine that despite everything, Jack had a pretty good, albeit ordinary little life.

So why on this morning, while flipping through the Sunday paper, did I come across, not an obituary, but a death notice for Jack B. Paul? Was there really so little known or so few that knew Jack that a proper obituary would have gone unread? What happened to his wife, so worried about getting the Christmas tree up on time? To his neighbor that sometimes got his mail? To his friends that spent so many evenings drinking on his porch? I can't imagine what went so terribly wrong in Jack Paul's life that left him so alone.

Jack's death notice was alongside the story of a 20-year-old girl whose "life was cut too short". The death of someone so young is truly a tragedy. In 5 more years, she could have been where I am now, sitting here typing this story. But tragedies happen everyday. We cry. We dispute the fairness. And then, we forget. But not with Jack. He experienced the feeling of being forgotten so many years before. Save for maybe some nurses, there was no one left to forget him.

The details of Jack's life are not so important. We all forgot people the same way. We lose interest. We stop trying. But mainly, we just stop caring.

Therefore, the question becomes not 'How did we forget Jack Paul?', but rather, 'Why did we stop caring?'.

Chapter 1

I have receipts for every purchase I've made in the last 7 years. I can tell you what classes I took each semester in college, including the building & room number. But if you were to ask me the last name of my college roommate or to provide some information about any of my so-called college friends, I'd have to get back to you. I prefer to believe my brain was not programmed to retain information such as this, rather than the only other reason, that I just didn't care enough to remember.

I get sudden flashes of people I once knew. I remember how and where I met them, but not often their names or why we no longer talk. Were it not for random occurrences that spark these memories, I'm sure I would happily go along forgetting they ever existed. What I hope to discover is what happened so early in my life that made it so easy for me to stop caring about people. I have such mixed views about my childhood: versions from my parents, teachers, friends, and myself. I suppose they all hold some value. Observations such as this are never black & white.

...