Inspiration?

[blueerica]

Some laundry baskets
Nine to five
Oil change needed
Ice cube trays to fill
Taxes already done
All that homework
Go to the grocery store
Intimidating to look at my credit card statement
Library fines, that are way overdue
Bills, bills,
Obligations.

[blueerica]

Today, while reading a magazine during my obligatory 30-minutes of cardio on the elliptical machine, I came upon a Mahatma Gandhi quote in the From the Editor page.

“Live as if to die tomorrow. Learn as if to live forever.”

While we all have obligations in our lives, from the mundane and standard, to the difficult and trying, I know it is easy to neglect our obligations to ourselves.

Everyday chores aside, here is my alternate list of obligations:

Be kind to myself.
Pursue a career that I want, not a career that I am stuck with.
Make time for friends, family, and good times.
Keep negativity away from me, and harsh judgments at arm’s lengths.
Indulge in the arts I have shrunk away from.
Immerse myself in the waters of many cultures.
Pursue passions meaningful to me, and leave other pursuits behind.
And again,
Be kind to myself.

Tomorrow, I should keep track of how many times I tell myself no, that I can’t, that it won’t work, and that I’ll fail. I hesitate from the most insipid things, and ultimately, I’ve come to realize, that this anxiety and ultimately, immobilization comes from my fear of failure, which is irrational. I fear confrontation, I fear not being accepted, I fear so so much, and ignore the obligation I have to myself. I help others when they need it, but me? They can fail; I can’t. Though I fail every day.

There has been much greatness achieved by those who went against greater odds than I can imagine. How insignificant my problems are compared to the vastness of the world. What a speck (a fleck!) I am!

Further into the magazine was an article on those who stayed in and came to Thailand after the tsunami last year. Families lost, homes, livelihoods, pain, and suffering. And here I am, in plush southern California wasting away each day. Each day could be my last. Every time a breeze goes by… could be a sensation I never get to feel again, and I should treat it as such. So, I’m trying to teach myself a new lesson on the sanctity of life, not only of others’, but the sanctity of myself.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

Originally Posted by blueerica

Be kind to myself.
Pursue a career that I want, not a career that I am stuck with.
Make time for friends, family, and good times.
Keep negativity away from me, and harsh judgments at arm’s lengths.
Indulge in the arts I have shrunk away from.
Immerse myself in the waters of many cultures.
Pursue passions meaningful to me, and leave other pursuits behind.
And again,
Be kind to myself.

All noble pursuits, love.

I'd mojo you some more, but I've got to mojo others first.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

I get up on time, because I don't want to rush.
I take a shower, because I feel better clean.
I eat a healthy breakfast, because I'll have more energy.
I dress neatly, because I want to be viewed as a professional.
I leave on time, because I don't want to get stressed over traffic.

I say good morning to those I see, because it is one.

I work hard. It makes me feel worthwhile. I ask the boss for money to make the place look better because it'll affect how much kids care. I reorganize to make things flow better, thereby making access easier for students.

I shop for a gift at lunch because I have a birthday to attend this weekend. I email a friend because I know they'll smile while reading it. I write something poetic because my brain needs the exercise.

I come up with new ways to do things because inefficiency drives me crazy. I cut through bureaucracy and talk to the higher-ups to impress people and fix problems. I smile at patrons and make conversation because it makes people more comfortable. I explain things carefully so that there's no confusion, which means a happier public, which means more support for public services.

I do chores at home because I can't afford a maid.

I wash the kitchen floor because I hate when I get crumbs on my bare feet. I do laundry because I want to wear my favorite outfit again. I sort through my crap because I want room to store new crap. I clean the toilet because it grosses me out. I tidy files on my computer so I can find that embarrassing photo when I need it.

I put my jacket and shoes away because I don't want them in the way.
I make dinner because it's cheaper than going out, and better for you.
I wash the dishes because a clean kitchen is healthier.
I brush my teeth because I want to keep them.
I set my alarm so I will be on time tomorrow.
I go to bed on time so I won't be tired.

Obligations? Nah.

My only obligation is to myself.

[€uroMeinke]

It was an obligation. You know what obligations are – those things you never really want to do, but feel you have to do just the same. Sometimes they’re the things you do because its “the right thing to do” and while you should want to do those things, you never really do.

My mother’s become one of those obligations, though I’m not sure how. Mind you, I love my mom, and she’s still healthy, living on her own. There was a time when every visit was filled with delightful tales of her immigrant past. I loved to listen to her stories and loved to bring people to listen to them. I’m not sure why that changed.

Perhaps I’ve heard all the stories and have grown bored with their retelling. Perhaps it’s because she’s abandoned those stories and replaced them with stories about her cat. Perhaps it’s because my mother has seemed to stop living with purpose, and has turned instead to waiting to die.

So the guilt sets in. Is it my fault? If I called or visited more often would it make a difference in her life? The Obligation grows – and I wonder when I last talked to her, last week? Oh, maybe last month? She told me about going shopping, the sex lives of my nieces, the latest antics of her cat, as well as the cats of my sister, my cousin, and aunt who live in Switzerland. Then I feigned interest while surfing the internet. “uh-huh,” I said - repeatedly.

I should feel guilty, as well as shame for even confessing this. Yet it’s still an obligation. Dinner, on a day that isn’t even Mother’s Day. I’ll go even though I don’t want to. I’ll go because it’s the right things to do. I’ll go because maybe it will make a difference in her life, so she can stop the business of dieing. But it remains, an obligation.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Alrighty. You want random, you got it.

Write something that has to do with this.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

This will be fun.

[blueerica]

Barry Wayne Winslow was born on a sticky Saturday afternoon, April 14th, 1962, to Jean and Robert Winslow. He was a big Lynyrd Skynyrd fan, but sweet home stopped being Alabama a long time ago. He was done with Grove Hill, he was done with the farm, and he was done with Pa. That was the last fvckin’ black eye he was takin’ from that bastard.

It was a hot, balmy June morning, and school was out for summer. He abandoned the farm, and took his 3-speed over to Nora’s Truck Stop. There wasn’t much to do in that god-forsaken town, Barry learned, except for workin’ on the farm, or going to the poolroom at Nora’s. He chose the latter on a regular basis. Barry started going there last summer, and Jimbo would always let him have some beers while playing pool with the truckers that would stop off there, or at least he did when Nora wasn’t around. His favorite regular there was Tom Ratley, otherwise known as Big T, and today, Barry was hoping Big T would give him a ticket straight the fvck out of Grove Hill, or at least to Mobile.

All day, he racked ‘em up. Stranger after stranger. Not a familiar face. 4 o’clock, then 5 o’clock, 6. 7 and then 8 o’clock in the evening came by, but nothing. When would Big T show up? With the room empty, Barry took some of the powdery blue chalk, and etched his name across the dirty white bathroom door. ****! How long was this going to take?!

Sweaty-browed Jimbo wiped his hands on the small white apron he strapped across his groin, and grunted, “What the fvck you still doin’ here?” Hell if Barry knew.

Fifteen minutes of listening to AM radio later, bright lights shone in through the window, accompanied by a familiar low growl. Chug-chug-click, and off went the engines, and out with the lights. The crunchy sound of gravel under heavy footsteps, and the creak of the old screen door being thrown open went along with Big T, as he strolled into Nora’s.

“How you doin’, kid?” asked Tom. “You look like you been run over.”

Barry’s worn-out eyes searched for a bit of hope, and lit up with a spark and half a smile. “I’m so glad you’re here, Big T.” “Remember couple ‘a weeks ago, you asked if I ever wanted to ride-along with you on a run in your rig?”

“Yeah…?”

“Well, Pa says I can take a few weeks off from the farm, seein’ as I did so good in school this year and all. Plus I did extra work at the farm to get us ahead.”

“You sure about this?”

“Heck yeah!” Barry shouted, a little too loudly. He stammered, “Sorry for shoutin’ there T, but can I please come with ya? You know I’ve wanted to come along for a long while now.”

“You should know, that this run’s gonna be a big one. I’m goin’ all the way to Detroit. You sure your dad said it was okay?”

Barry nodded. Detroit sounded wonderful. So foreign. I bet everyone’s all so cool. Then Barry remembered that it’s supposed to get real cold up north, and he might need a jacket. And a few other things. He wasn’t ever coming back.

“Hey T, you think I got enough time to run home and grab some clothes n’ stuff?”

“Sure, I’ll grab some grub. Jimbo, gimme my usual.”

Barry burst out the front door with ease, his heart racing all the way until he came to the Winslow mailbox at the end of the driveway. Quietly, he took to the grass, the gravel and dirt might wake the animals. Barry paused to consider his bedroom upstairs, and what would be the best way of getting up there.

As he came to the tall oak tree that went to the ledge near his window, Sugar’s sweet eyes came out from the shadows. Barry motioned the big brown lab over, and pet her on the head. Putting his right index finger to his mouth, he quietly, shhh’d her, hoping and praying her excited little tail would be the extent of things.

As Barry climbed the tree, he thought his muscles might fail him. As he started to slip, Sug whimpered. Barry regained his composure and sent down another Shh. He sat upon the lowest branch. Only a little more to go, just a little higher, just a little bit over. As the branch thinned, Barry’s faith in his plans wavered in the gentle breeze that blew by. Just a few more minutes and he’ll be out of this hot, sticky hellhole forever!

Perched upon his ledge, he steadied himself. Paint chipped away as his windows squeaked open. He stumbled inside his moonlit bedroom, crawled around, found his school bag, emptied it out, picked up his jacket, grabbed a pile of clothes from the floor, and jammed it all inside. With one leg out the window, he took one last look around, and thought goodbye.

Barry reached for the branch extending itself toward him, hopped over onto it, and in the quick-slowness one observes when in peril, the branch cracked, snapped, and both he and the limb came crashing to the hard ground. Sugar started barking, chickens were stirred, horses neighing, and a light turned on in Ma & Pa’s room. Their window slammed upward as Barry rolled toward the shadows of the house.

Oh, please don’t let him see me… Please, he thought in exasperation.

He heard his Pa mutter something, and the window again slammed shut. The lights dimmed.

Sugar came up and nuzzled Barry while he waited with a tear in his eyes.

“You be a good girl,” he whispered.

Barry stood, his body sore, but tall. He dusted himself off, found his dirt-covered bag, threw it over his shoulder, and tip-toeing away on the grass, Sug followed him.

He turned and whispered, “Hey – Stay. Good girl.” And she did.

Barry ran, down the gravel road, passing the fields, barns, mailboxes, and with the wind in his hair he ran. Barry ran, and kept running – far away from Grove Hill.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

"I can’t believe they’re closing it down.”

Stan was lining up his shot carefully, one eye shut. No break in his concentration for Jim’s statement. The cue slid easily on his arched finger, back and forth, as he gauged the strength needed for this shot.

“I’ve been coming here since I was 13,” continued Jim, twisting and untwisting his cue absentmindedly. “Sal used to let me in even though I was underage, though he never sold me liquor. Just let me play at this table. When I was 15 I ditched my last class o’ the day too often to come here and the office called my parents.” He shook his head and smiled at the memory.

Stan took into account the slight angle of the aged table and poked at the cue ball. Four ball slipped into a corner pocket, easy as you please.

The old jukebox had given out perhaps 3 years back. It sat sullenly in a corner, still plugged in. The tiny color TV sitting above the old bar whined in the background; volume too low for anyone to understand, picture too fuzzy for anyone to watch. Only other noise was the vehicles on the Interstate going 70. One dirty field worker sat taking his whisky lunch on a barstool, and he made no sound at all. Barkeep was hanging halfway out the back door, smoking a cigarette and watching traffic.

Stan smiled his lopsided grin and stretched his back. Jim’s far-off look caught his eye and brought him out of his momentary triumph.

“Look, you know how it is. They’re fixing up this street. Don’t want an old bar with a screwed-up pool table and walls with the word “fvck” on it next to the new ice-cream shop, now do they?” Stan’s voice was gruff and sharp.

Jim kept quiet and Stan scoped out his next shot. Long shot for the corner which would be hard to get later, or the sure pretty little thing into the side right next door?

“Ten, corner” murmured Stan and let fly.

Instincts failed him and the ten hit the bumper.

“Sh!t.” Said simply, a state of fact. Stan had a seat on a hard plastic orange chair and gulped Rolling Rock. No use in standing, Jim would clean him out now. Fvcker always won.

Instead of looking at the table, Jim looked at Stan.

“’S different for you. I grew up here. This piece of sh!t place is a part of this town. See that, on the wall there, next to your head? Where it says ‘Small Block Chevy’?” Jim pointed to Stan’s right, and Stan obligingly turned to look. “My friend Carlo wrote that. Was obsessed with his car. I could point out 50 more things on this wall to you. It may not be pretty, but this crap on the walls, this is history.”

Stan looked at him, mouth held shut. Isn’t much you can do when a man’s feeling his sense of belonging, he thought. Poor guy never went anywhere but here. Hell, he’s still here. I may be here now, but least I been other places.

Jim seemed to have more to say, so Stan let him say it.

“D’ya ever see those pictures that cavemen drew inside of caves? Sure, they’re pictures of animals and crap, and people today think they’re about spirits and voodoo and what all, but I tell you what – ain’t nothing spiritual ‘bout it. Not at all. It’s just some people with a wall to draw on. What makes them ancient places any better than ours?”

Stan looked at the floor, considering the ancient dirt and beer stains.

Sated for the moment, Jim considered the table. A few seconds later the three had found a home in a side pocket. He was deciding on his next tactic when Stan spoke.

“It’s progress. No use in whinin’ ‘bout it. Didya think this place would be here forever? That they’d mount these filthy walls in a museum? Man, you’re crazy. They’re gonna come in here, paint these walls clean, make this a fancy coffee shop, and that’s that. And let me tell you something, ain’t a moment too soon. This place smells like sh!t to me.”

Jim didn’t respond. He moved slowly from his frozen position…lined up his shot…let the cue slide.

He missed.

[Prudence]

blueerica and CP -- you guys both rock. Totally and completely rock.