Where Our Society Puts Importance

Anticipation is a difficult feeling. But what’s more difficult than anticipation is the anticipation of a variable response. I can’t tell you what I’m waiting for, not exactly, but it has to do with a job I want extremely bad. It’s a position that needs to be filled by May 2nd. I applied at the beginning of this month, have been in touch with the people in charge of the hiring, but I still feel like I’m walking on fishing hooks–or at least one is stuck in my chest somewhere, and every once in a while when I think about the position, it gives a little jerk.

It’s interesting–because yesterday I wrote about the constant fulfillment we seek, and this job is no different. It would fulfill a desire I have. And then I’d just construct a new desire. So why do I think this job, this position, would make me any happier?

Well, besides taking a lot of financial stress out of my life (though I’d fill that with a different stress), it’s because the position is one that would put me in a position to help other people directly. Now, there’s this idea that if people are left to their own devices and don’t have jobs but still have enough to live, they won’t do anything. They’ll just sleep late and sit on their couches like mindless zombies. But that’s not true at all. Most people are the happiest when they feel the are contributing to a society, a culture, or a community in an integral way. Think about Bill Gates. He has more money than he could ever want or need. Does he just sit on his couch? No he goes out and has done wonderful things with the Gates Foundation. Okay, I think I know what you’ll say, “Not everyone has the resources of Bill Gates,” and that’s true. But that doesn’t mean that people with less can’t make a difference in other’s lives. For example: If I didn’t have to worry about money I could spend more time on my creative writing. I’d maybe start a creative writing community group for teens. I could spend my time mentoring young adults, and help give them a voice, while also continuing to make art that influences people in, I hope, a positive manner. The crazy thing is, I wouldn’t be paid for that, what I am paid for (right now) is making coffee for people at a convention center. This points it a crazy, crazy realism in our society: There is more money, more value put on making coffee for people, than there is put on youth and education from someone who isn’t part of an educational institution. But how many people have something to teach. A valuable skill, a passion that, if they could share it would be SO much more beneficial to society than making coffee, or working retail, or. . . whatever. But helping people because you love something isn’t monetarily rewarded in this country. Instead, fulfilling peoples impulses to buy, to eat, and to fill their time with petty fulfillment is. Blurg. I think there is a better way to do things.

What if you didn’t have to worry about money? If you could do whatever you wanted in order to help others? What would you do? No, I’m actually interested. Let me know. . . please?

6/21/15 What I See

–A pale woman with bright red lips and a ponytail. She looks like she might belong in an indy film about the meaning of life.

–A guy in a black graphic tee who should probably be playing video games or developing them. He stands with his head thrust slight thrust forward.

–A long metal reading lamp that is snakey and can be adjusted over ones book. The snake part of it has rungs. The top of it is a metal half-orb with holes in its backside.

–A large shelf built into the wall is painted black. The things on the shelf are things that aren’t usually on shelves. Or books are. But the Top-KIK motor oil isn’t. Neither is the gas station handle. Purely decorative.

–A man in a trucker hat, longs sleeve, brick patagonia, and shorts just walked in. He’s more notable by the french bulldog he has on the leash. It is brindle–not sure how that works. His wife is in spandex pants with the number 12 on them. They clash horribly with her sweat-shirt in which a small babe is edged, pressed chest to chest with her. She is taller than her husband. Noteable. The baby is looking at me. Its face is long and rather ugly with pouting cheeks and droopy eyes. It is not a handsome baby. It looks confused–but most babies do, so that’s not surprising. They left.

–Two of the most exquisitely butch lesbians just walked in. One may have been transgendered. We had a nice talk about dogs and how much fun it is to see two dogs meet each other for the first time.

5/1/15 Coffee and Crazy

Some people aren’t meant for this world. Or that is they’re stuck in between this one and another. You can imagine how difficult that would be for anyone.

There was a man on street corner talking to himself the other day, minding his own business. I watched from the safety of a coffee shop as the man sipped his own coffee out of a paper cup. People walking by him gave him room. They didn’t know what to do.

Above the sky was azure, but down here we were only insane. All of us, in some ways. The barista’s behind me made coffee after coffee. Americano. Latte. Doppio. Extra milk. Soy. Americano. And it started around 7 am and would continue until 7 pm. This was an ordinary day. The only man who understood that this was wrong–or perhaps, the only man who felt that this was a waste was the crazy man outside.

I watched as two police officers approached him. I was unsure whether they had been called or if they had just happened by. I suspect the former, but really I couldn’t see what they might do. This man wasn’t breaking the law, and he certainly wasn’t dangerous–or it didn’t look like it. He was just standing on that street corner talk to himself. What he was saying I couldn’t tell.

At my computer I usually use my headphones, but for some reason I took them out that day. I have a difficult time focusing if I hear other people talking. Maybe because they all seem insane to me. Or they are just projections of these things we call self. Though I don’t know why any part me would like an mocha.

“Hey, how are you doing today?” I heard the blonde barista ask. She had a big smile and wasn’t naturally blonde–hardly anyone was around Seattle. I would be if I got more sunlight, but with as much gray in the sky as green on the trees there wasn’t much chance of that.

“Mocha, extra chocolate,” said a man’s voice.

Outside the cops had taken the crazy man across the street and were patting him down by their cruiser.

“Would you like anything else with that?”

The woman next to me ruffled her paper. She was fat and smelled faintly of cats even though the place itself smelled more like coffee–she was gross.

“Take you out for some drinks?” asked the man.

I was determined not to turn around. I waited to hear what she would say.


Just then someone turned on the grinder. The blonde’s words were lost in a violent crushing and shopping of beans.

I didn’t turn around. I sat with the cat smelling lady watching the police cuff the crazy man outside. They had emptied his pockets. There had been nothing in there except lint–it seemed, now they pushed his head down and he ducked into the back of the patrol car. Across the room and behind me the man who had asked the girl for drinks took a seat. He stayed. Maybe because she said yes. But then his coffee was made and he got up and when he left I couldn’t understand what he was feeling.