Roll in the Dirt

So exhausted. I’m a good husband and waited up for the wifey to come home from a bachelorette party. Nothing like women and plastic, penis pacifiers masquerading as party favors. Oops, the secret is out.

Ok, the job that I was hoping for, and thought I didn’t get… I got. I’m proud of me, and so are the tiny sparrows that lie in the dirt of Bryant Park. Somehow, discussing my shift requirements and possible salary hike with the HR peeps, although nerve-racking – I’m usually a fairly composed person out in the world, but when it comes to this job I get like a 13-year-old talking to a girl for the first time – was massaged away by watching the little birds sit on green, park chairs, drop to the gravel pathway, and hop with other palm-sized, billowy buddies. It’s so Zen following these animals in their semi-natural state, a park within a city, taking me away from the horns, grumbling engines, sirens, and falling construction equipment booms. Although, those booms are pretty scary, and then I remember where I am. But then I look at the little, feathery cuties and I’m okay .

Look to the birds. Their little world, centered within landscaped shrubbery and fragrant flowers, stops time for me and reminds me that I’m a part of the big picture. Some big, ugly mug is out there in space and beyond time, looking at us little ants go, thinking, “they’re such little cuties. I just wanna squish ‘em all” . Some are squished and some squish themselves, but eventually the earth becomes re-landscaped by a passing contractor, a comet or meteor, and the little ant farm has to start from scratch. The roach farm will still be there though, but there not as cute as us.

Reading Ghostwritten by David Mitchell and watching Heroes last night got me thinking on the Universal level. Are we in control of our lives or are we pre-determined to be squished when crossing the street? Maybe both .

Sure, we all think that at one time or another, but I am the only one who has the answer. Just stare at a little birdie and you forget the question. I’m sure you can stare at a little baby too, which I’ve done recently with my niece, and that is the same feeling. She cried and cried and cried…at first. But then she got used to it. After that, I was infinite.

Ok, so there are a lot of different things you can do to forget the question. Go for a run, stare at the Grand Canyon, have sex, eat an egg pizza at Otto’s. All things, if they’re good, that help you to experience the moment and “forget about life for a while” [Billy Joel]. Maybe forgetting is the wrong word. That’s when you can simply be. I don’t know, sew a sweater, saw a branch, smell the breeze as the leaves fall and the chimneys light up.

All the things that you want, all the goals, the almost-haves, the weighing-you-downs, are keeping you almost squished all day long, which adds up to weeks, months, and years of squish, unless you push the squoosh away to freedom. Ah, freedom. Free as a bird on chair in the grass in Bryant Park in New York City. He doesn’t fly south for the winter, I’ve seen him, so is he free? Can he choose to leave or is he just a New Yorker who loves this city? Snowbirds with thick feathers can make it through the Arctic gusts along the Hudson, between the buildings, even as small as a sparrow.What if I choose to shoo him away? I, the outside, unforeseen force, affecting the sparrow’s life in a traumatic way. He doesn’t know why, he doesn’t understand how, and I’m sure it never becomes a question in his mind. But if it happened to you, you would surely ask why? Why? Why?

Birds don’t have it that good. They don’t own property, cars, insurance, Social Security, they don’t pay taxes for government programs and services. No stability, for that matter. Birdbrains rolling around in the gravel and dirt, that’s what they are. But Woodstock was a bird and a festival of love and muddied, dirty people rolling around. That was so fun they did it three times in 30 years.

This is going nowhere.

I felt remorse yesterday when I completed the novel, separation anxiety from Wife after quality time came to an end due to the work week, and emptiness from not having worked on that Monday. I feel hope for the new job and potential of a dream job.

Holding me back from writing more eloquently is feeling powerless and pointless in what I’m writing. Who’s going to read this? Can I really get paid to blog one day? How easy is it to set up a real blog, that looks nice? Find the best deal for web hosting, transfer the few blog entries, learn how to design the website, understand the software. All I want is for the writing to be read from a cool Domain name, not jonsalkin.com, in a community of writers.

If I keep writing, taking control of my actions, then one day, something beyond my control will take over and set me into motion. That’s what I was looking for in the bird. Something so fragile, yet in control of its life, up to a point. That’s what I am right now, fragile and rolling around in the dirt.

Ay, naku! Clear the head. Take a breath, or vice versa. Sanitize and soften my hands with Purell, just cause it’s there… and I can. Now I’m softer, and fragile-er. Look at the baby pictures of the women whose cubicle I’m covering. Funny looking kid. Attempt to close the imaginary door of the office behind me because I can hear every word of their phone call, which is drowning out my own, tired thoughts, not allowing them to surface.

“…this is how I recommend handling it… you and Mike make a phone call to the bankers and get it listed.. and whoever you decide, should be along for the whole ride, and it’s easy… bring ‘em along on this one… what he’s going to do is write a whole semi-conductor slant…this is the listing hedge clause… I wonder if we need to go to equity…”

Ay, the ringing in my ears, trying to gain control over the situation, as outside forces inflict their soundwaves upon me. Must overcome it. Must hop around the Great Garden and roll around in the dirt. Ah, yes… dirty.