hyenahell

So there's this new kid at work. Everyone hates him. He's not quite sixteen, which in and of itself is problem enough, as you might imagine. But he has a sarcastic and contemtuous demeanor not becoming of his age, coupled with no social grace or tact to speak of. I believe this might come from being home-schooled, as I have found to be the case with nearly every home-schooled individual I've encountered. As horrid and demoralizing as school can be in one's formative years, there's something to be said for socialization. In any case, this kid is without tact, and I've yet to discern whether it's because he's simply clueless as to the standards of proper social interaction, or if he's just an asshole- I suspect it might be a little of both in this instance. Regardless of the reason or cause, the bottom line is that he's intolerably rude and disrespectful to practically everyone he works with.

Yesterday I had the misfortune to spend most of my eight hour shift with this kid. I don't know, there's something about him that makes my skin crawl. Around noonish, there was a lull in business, and he was running his mouth- talking to another worker, asking him about his life, etc., ad nausium. I tried to look busy. He asked me some question as to what kind of art I was studying, then cut himself short, and redireted the question, asking if I was still in school. (I remember he'd asked my age earlier in the week, which irked me to no end. Perhaps I'm just upright, but I firmly believe that age and weight, along with religious and political leanings, are things which, unless they are offered up in conversation freely, one should never inquire after.) I told him I wasn't in school, and he immediately asked, "Well, then, what do you do?"

Now, I hate this question with a passion. Mostly I hate it because the things I do can be seperated into two categories: "shit that everyone else does", and "shit that only some people do". The former category doesn't really need elaboration, and to do so would be pointless and boring; and the latter involves more explanation than I care to give in casual conversation or mindless fucking small talk. So I told him what I tell everyone when I don't want to share the detailed workings of my private life. I told him, "I work". He just looked at me a moment, then stammered, "Well, that's not very- I mean, it's not- That just sounds like you don't really have much direction,".

I believe at this point I informed him that, in the real world, that's what adults do- they go to work, they make payments towards utterly boring things like insurance and such, and- He interupted me. "Well, I mean, there's really no purpose to that, is there? I mean, there's no direction. What I mean, you know- are you just going to work at Starbucks for the rest of your life? Where's your life going, anyway?"

Oh my. "Where's your life going, anyway?" From a 15-year-old, no less. I mean, this is the kind of question that I should only being hearing from my father, to tell you the truth. And even he's delicate about the matter. I was astounded- I mean, gee, I've never really considered the fact that working at a coffee shop for seven bucks an hour with a bunch of highschool kids might not be the most driven or ambitious thing I could do. And my word, I'd never thought about the fact that, now that I have a college degree, perhaps I should try to better my standing, or engage in some uplifting or enlightening pursuits. I'd never fucking considered that my life might be lacking "direction"- this was shocking news, to say the least. A revelation! Perhaps a catalyst- I mean, I simply needed someone to tell me this, that's all! And now I can just get my act together and hell, the world will be my oyster.

"Where's your life going, anyway?"

I just looked at the kid, and said, coldly- "That's really none of your business," -and walked away.

I love my family. Love them dreadfully. I'll say that, first and foremost.

Now, my mother's only connection with what most of us would call "reality", for the past ten years or so, has been forged largely through gardening magazines and NPR. If she doesn't hear about something on NPR, I assure you, for all intents and purposes, it does not exist. So she hears some story about child molestors using MySpace for their predetory needs. So she calls me to consult about this "MySpace", and I tell her I have a profile on there. Of course, she then must be assured that I was not in fact setting myself up to gt my throat slit by some internet rapist- "Ma, I only talk to people I already know, and honestly, don't you think I'm a bit old for the molesting crowd?".

Now, my mother has a habit, as many mothers do, of immediately sharing any and everything I tell her with the next 47 people she comes into contact with. I'm quite sure her grocer knows when I have a yeast infection, or who I lost my viginity to, or what my GPA was my third semester of college. So she tells my brother's girlfriend that I am on MySpace. My brother's girlfriend, being between the age of 16 and 25, of course also has a MySpace page, and promptly adds me, and forces my brother to do the same. All well and good, as I adore my brother and his girlfriend.

So my brother's girlfriend reads some of my blogs, and informs my father that several are quite funny, prompting him to look me up on the ol' MySpace as well.

The next thing I know, I have seventeen missed calls from my folks and a frantic text message to "Please, when you can, give me a call". So I do, and with haste, even though it's quite late at night. Whenever my parents call me past eight in the evening, I assume it's because someone is dead. Hell, whenever my parents call me after speaking with me the previous day, I assume it's because someone is dead. And confidentially, every time I answer the phone at all, I half-suspect someone to be dead. It's Jules' fault, really- or not so much her fault as her death was the cause of this bizarre quirk of mine.

Apparently he hadn't read any of the funny or ammusing blogs. He just read this one:

I've come to believe that it's Spring. I can't be sure, as I haven't experienced the transition from Winter to Spring in six years or so. But the dogwoods, redbuds, and pear trees are in bloom, little flowers are popping up everywhere, all the young girls at work have cut their hair shorter, and it has been considerably and consistently warmer. I think these are good signs.

But I can't sense Spring's arrival in the subtle changes in the air, or the nuances of a cool, quiet morning. I can't feel it coming. My bones don't itch or throb with the notion, and my body doesn't tell me a damned thing. It's the cognitive part of my mind at work here, nothing more. There are no signs or symbols, no omens or whispers from the realm of the unseen. There is nothing but the surface of things, here, at least for me. No mystery, no ghosts, no sense of belonging to a common, albeit confounded, fabric of being. I miss being in tune with these things, with the unconscious part of reckoning that neither possesses nor desires reason and order.

And it seems increasingly that my unconscious has taken a indefinite hiatus. Abandoned me, perhaps. I am just disconnected, that's all. And nothing here speaks to me. Not the ground beneath my feet nor the angles of architecture, not the horizon, not the gathering of bodies in any place or time, not the changes in the light, not the stars above. I suspect it's my fucking problem, and not an inherent deficiency of my geographic location.

But there is one thing here that does speak to me. The highway at night, abandoned and foreboding, stretching out or winding through miles of absolutely nothing- flood plains, farm land, flat expanses that could be either, and all of it the same, indistinguishable and discreet. And driving on the highway one passes signs, of course, heralding the approach of exits to towns, communities, other roads that go nowhere as well. And I imagine a map, I imagine it as I would a river with a thousand tributaries, branching out forever, nearly. All those names on the signs of places I've never been and would never go- why should I? And in those places are entire worlds- full of people, stories, families, homes, and such- unknown to me and unknowable. And the anonymity creates parity- hundreds, thousands, millions of these towns, all over the world- all towns you pass on the highway at night, and keep driving. A sense of isolation, overwhelming and enveloping. That's all I feel.

And it strikes me particularly now, with Spring coming on. (Yesterday, as an aside, was the Ides of March.) It bothers me immensely that I can't look at the life crawling up from the ground and feel hope. No, strike that; "bother" isn't the word. It sickens me.

I never remember feeling this way before.

And I hadn't intended for this to be as lengthy or as whining as it turned out. Apologies for all who stumbled through the mess, and promises of something largely more entertaining and informative in blogs to come.

So he wanted to check on me, because he had, and I quote, "envisioned you lying in a fetal position in a dark room somewhere making autistic noises". Oh, how I love my dad. I assured him I do very little of the sort, and asked him, "Dad. Honestly. Have you not read anything I've written from age 12 to the present? It's all like that. I'm a gloomy fucking individual. You know that." He replied that he just hadn't read anything that "dark" in a very long time, and apologized, promising to never read my blogs as long as he lived, as it made him feel, and again, I quote, "like I was digging through your underwear drawer". "You mean like I was in middle school, and you'd snuck into my room to read my diary?" "Yeah, kind of like that. I felt dirty."

I then explained to him at length that while I wasn't entirely happy with my life, I certainly was not considering anything rash, nor was I in the depths of an unmanagable depression, and that by writing or making art, I was able to deal with the aspects of my life that I'm unhappy with more effectively than say, curling up in a fetal position.

This after my mother confessed to me this Christmas that she'd only recently stopped worrying about my having a schizophrenic break with reality. Yeah, good to hear my folks believe in my ability to cling tooth and nail to the shreds of my sanity, right? To give them credit, though, it was only five years ago that they got the call that I'd been hospitalized (in that kind of hospital) so I supose they've cause to worry. And they're parents, after all, and that's what parents do.

As I've said before, I'm sure, I've gotten involved in a rollerderby team starting up in Greenville. It's been good for me, by and large. I'm a highly competetive person, having played sports in high school, and haven't really had an outlet for that facet of my personality in a good while. You can find the team's page here. And, here are some pictures, along with further proof that I really cannot refrain from making stupid faces or otherwise looking D-U-M-B in front of a camera:





Third Practice; Team shots.



Striking a pose.



And me skating at the first practice.

We haven't had practice this week, on account of spring break (most of the girls are in college). But we start up again this coming week. Unfortunately it's going to be a while before we have any bouts. But we will be at the Carolina Roller Girls' bout in Ralleigh on April 9th. Or, more imprtantly, I will be there. So if you're out and about, don't hesitate to whack me upside the head and issue a friendly greeting.