Friday, December 30, 2011

self

Self by Josh Miller


A specialization in marketing, you can type any word such as lonely, desperate, sad or woman and get the same results. Oh yeah, American too. Yet I still wonder if any of those fit? It would seem a lie actually, but who would want to lie when marketing themselves? We are defining ourselves, aren't we? Yes, we all are.

So lonely. I don't know. I mean yeah, I guess. I am as lonely or alone as anyone else out there. But this is the funny part, alone doesn't feel like what I thought lonely felt like. It feels necessary, like if humans didn't get alone time, whether in their car driving to work, walking in a field, hunting, fishing, cleaning house, writing, training for a marathon or any of the other things you and me do when we are alone then we may spontaneously burst into flying waves of energy. What? Yes, no alone time means apocalypse without the zombies. Or wait, maybe I'm a zombie. Cool.

Desperate? Um. Hmm. To make a living? Yes. I want to figure out how to do this and  make money which means I need to get good so I am practicing like a fiend, which sorta seems like desperate. What does fiend mean? It means I need a drug which is called success. Anything we do in marketing or the sell of any item is justify what it means to us. On a scale of American success as far as I can tell, I am pretty humble in my wantings. Right now I am trying to figure out exactly how humble I am. Desperate humble, maybe? Okay.

Sad. Yes. Definitely. I have to talk myself out of being sad sometimes. I hear from some person about another person who is going through a really awful, awful time. I hear of what I can only believe to be a deeper desperation and I recognize it and it breaks my heart. Then I pray. Then I go to humor and glue that baby back together 'cause it's like Rick says, If we could feel all the desperation and sadness of the world we couldn't take it. I think he's right. Sadness exists in a huge way. My heart beats it along with happiness. My blood is red.

Woman. Yeah. I am a true woman, but it's funny what even that means now. For the first time in a really long time I don't crave a man. I am forty one years to this Earth (almost forty-two huh, Kim) and in a physical stage of my existence which can be best described as menopausal. And it rocks in a bluesy way. I am finding other things to do besides crave a man. Maybe it's photography or maybe it's writing. It's at least that I totally get my rocks off doing something other than sex. So yeah, woman with a menopausal twist. Take that, dating sites. There is that one guy who looks awesome and is an artist and smiles a whole lot and he has a camera and the music is playing and she is awesome too and yeah, that looks like fun but I like him and I am not her so I come here and it's good. It is good being a woman. Here, now.

American? We are born to our lands. I claim it with love and respect. I know that people have died and are currently fighting for that name and the freedoms it represents of which I thoroughly enjoy. Cue Lee Greenwood's version of Proud to be an American. I am connected to my son and my family by that name. I see so much good in it in the faces around me. The pictures are American pictures. All of them.


I thought I was supposed to be offended the night he said that but now I realize how brilliant he was. He knows him and he knows me and so do I.


Grateful on the Eve of New Year's Eve.


2 comments:

Anonymous said...

June 1890 - For me life might well continue being isolated. Those whom I have been most attached to - I never descried them otherwise than through a looking glass, by a dark reason. And yet there is a reason for there occasionally being more harmony in my work now. Painting is something in itself. Last year I read in some book or other that writing a book or painting a picture was like having a child. This I will not accept as applicable to me - I have always thought that the latter was the more natural and the best - so I say, only if it were so, only if it were the same. This is the very reason why at times I exert myself to the utmost, thought it happens to be this very work that is least understood, and for me it is the only link between the past and the present.

Vincent Van Gogh

Shea Goff said...

That is beautiful.

Theo Van Gogh