My Beard

     If you don't already know, I have a beard. I suppose it would be more accurate to call the particular portion I'm referring to as a goatee. This section of my beard is quite large; you could even call it iconic in a way. By this I mean that I'm known for it. My friends have invented wild stories about my beard, about the things it's done, and the things it does. If half of these stories were true, my beard would be twice the man I'll ever be. It has a persona all it's own, and honestly, it's got me jealous. It's the first thing most people notice about me, and is the source of about the only thing a stranger will ask me or say to me. I field beard compliments and questions from all sorts of people. There are some who are curious as to how long it's grown, or how it feels, or how I maintain it. There are some who are impressed by it; these are the folks who can't grow one. There are some who are repulsed by it; these folks lack “Y” chromosomes. The point is that my beard is all sorts of things to all sorts of people, including me.

     It lives on for any number of reasons. For starters, I suppose it's a distraction. If people ask me about my beard, they're not asking about me, and I can remain comfortably anonymous. It's also an icebreaker. It's really very effective at starting conversations. Let's not forget that it's memorable. Who could remember poor, boring Cecil? Not nearly as many as could remember that guy from that place whose beard was so long he could eat it. More than that, it's about control. The longer it grew, the longer I felt some pathetic sort of power. It's one of those things that you either love or hate; you're forced to pick a side. And whether you were pro-beard or anti-beard, I controlled what happened. It's more than that too, but it's main function has been the divide it creates between me and the rest of the world.

     This beard has always been anti-establishment. This beard has always resisted compromise. This beard has always loved metal tunes, saucy foods, cigarette smoke, Phillip Seymour Hoffman films, windy days, computer games, and good times. But this beard has always been separating me from everyone else. Has always been holding me back, and holding me up. It's always told the world that I refused to join the nameless, faceless void. As long as I had the beard I could boldly claim to be a man apart. I'm certainly not a rebel, I've got no cause to fight for, and sorry James Dean, but rebellion without a cause is conformity. No, it just says that I wanna see how far I can make it doing it my own way.

    Lately, I've been considering shaving. I'd be plunging head first into a swirling mass of rule-followers and order-takers. People with sensible priorities, more than two pairs of jeans, resumes, favorite colors, collectibles, and formal socks. I won't go so far as to say I'll fully emulate them. I won't put on a tie, and I'll never ever opt for a seat in the non-smoking section. Perhaps my incorruptible and unchanging view of how the world should work should focus a bit more on how it actually does. It's not that I've changed my mind on anything, but it's awful lonely up here on my indefensibly high moral ground. I've been so pissed lately that I have to clench my jaws all day in fear that this knot of rage squirming in my throat will turn into a brood of vipers, and escape as I exhale, and rain down on all the people I stand unfairly in judgment of. So, maybe if I eliminate everything that stands between me and the rest of humanity I'll get somewhere.

Writer's Block (Workshop Essay)

     Day One: I suppose it began as an over-passionate thought burned through and fizzled out before I could ever put fingers to keyboard. An overwhelming motivation to create the perfect piece for public presentation and consumption. I think I stepped out of the car after my trip to the movies ready to write up a storm; to churn up the unseasonably warm waters of imagination and creativity. But other mundane duties got in my way, such as cooking dinner. By time I could actually get my hands on my keyboard, I was too tired. I had no energy left to write. Looking back on it, I can appreciate the irony of how it began.

     Day Two: I wasn't really symptomatic yet, just a minor bout of memory loss, and a growing sense of impending doom. I had all but forgotten the images of the once flaming phrases turned to ash in my head. “It's Tuesday” I thought, “Will I get this paper in on time?” I thought I had the gist of it down, but come Tuesday night, my fingers failed to sew the seeds of thought, and the paper became an issue for Wednesday.

     Day Three: By Wednesday, it was full blown writer's block. The essay loomed like a lonely, vinegar-filled rain cloud over my day, soaking everything I touched with a sort of sourness. While things like depression and boredom began to stir, anger and a full-body irritation were the two most prevalent symptoms. The deadline for getting the essay in on time had already passed, which, compounded with my writer's block, made me irritable all day. Wednesday night came along and I tried the Essay once more, and once more a failure. I went to bed with a bleak outlook for Thursday.

     Day Four: Thursday greeted me with what seemed like relief from some of my symptoms. I was up and about, going to class and being productive. I had completely placed my Essay on the back burner because other things of import had to be done. But as my productivity waned, my symptoms came back to me stronger than before. The depressive feeling of the unfinished work returned, and by time I sat down to write again, my symptoms included paralysis and blindness. My fingers couldn't move across the keyboard. They were cramped up swimmers who couldn't kick their legs to stay afloat in a sea of untyped words. And as hard as I would stare at that computer screen, I couldn't see a word. Not one word typed, or even a threat of a word anywhere on the horizon.

     Day Five: Friday came with a frenzied feeling of desperation. Everything I looked at, or everything that happened was taken in by me through a sort of filter. Before I could really process any information, I first asked myself, “Can I blog about this?” Everything from my trip to Wal-Mart, to the massive collection of junk that sits around my laptop under went this same scrutiny. Unlike days past, my limbs seemed to come to life, a second wind of sorts. I went into a scavenging mode, trying to salvage parts of ideas from everything and anything. By now I had been sitting in front of my computer for so long I was experiencing lower back pain. Friday night came and I began to dry heave. My body tried to purge itself of all of the ideas jumbled up within, but nothing came out. I couldn't regurgitate a single idea onto paper. I Fell asleep Friday night without a single word typed.

     Day Six: Saturday began right where Friday left off, but it appeared as if I had passed through the worst of it. As the day crept on I began to feel idea flare-ups. Thoughts would come in clusters, “Write about this, Blog about that.” My mind flung out ideas like clay pigeons, only to shoot them all down, one by one, at the apex of their flight, but this was at least progress. I'm still in the throws of writer's block, but instead of those feelings of desperation or inertness, I began to feel relief. I hadn't cured what ailed me, but I started to treat the symptoms. It was the simplest, but only available solution to my problem: To write about how I had nothing to write about. I had used this before to treat my writer's block, so I decided to turn to it again. Writer's block could probably be considered an an auto-immune disease, where your mind attacks it's own ideas, crippling itself.

Time to Eat

     Time is not so innocuous or inconspicuous as it boasts. This crafty chrono-criminal is accredited as possessing an uncanny ability to both creep along so slow that it lulls you to sleep, and to take flight so suddenly that it leaves you clueless as to where it's gone. The hands of Time may be a dexterous pair, but they leave tiny fingerprints on everything they touch: Dust. Dust, like bruises or scars, marks not the presence of a thing, but the former presence. Dust is the evidence that Time has acted on us and the things around us. It collects on our floors, behind our electronics, on the surface of the Moon, in the depths of the sea, and in the belly of our vacuum cleaners (one of the great devourers of our Time!) But to me, it's presence is the most telling in those places void of life. If dust is made up of particles of atmosphere, traces of soil, remains of dead skin, volcanic eruptions, pollution, textile fibers, animal hairs, and so on, then the massive compilation of it in a shed you've not entered for two years becomes much more telling. It's been tagged, as if Time is a part of some gang marking it's territory. But it's not so much the dust itself that interests me, it's the dust mites.

     On the surface, the fact that the term “Mite” is an anagram of “Time” is intriguing to me, but only in relation to the mite's relationship with Time's chief crop, dust. The dust mite lives all over, and there are actually three species of this intriguing critter, all of which live off of dust. When I think about all the dust mites eating the remnants of Time, I think about the past, and how it would be impossible to go back, since the mites have devoured it. I can't go back to this or that mistake, because the mites have devoured it. I can't return to this or that opportunity, because the mites have devoured it. Mites, just like the dust they sustain themselves on, are agents of Time. It's difficult to put into words the strange connection I feel between mites and Time, but there's something oddly wonderful about several species thriving on our past.

Cease and Desist

     There comes a time when bat signals, conch shells, fire alarms, and rape whistles just won't do. We're in trouble, and in light of this fact, I've decided to start a new segment on my blog. An ongoing list, because I really love lists, of things that need to stop, or I just generally find to be ridiculous or possibly harmful. We'll call this list “Cease and Desist”. It's pretty simple, in the courtroom of my blog, I'll hand down completely official Cease and Desist orders to these harmful practices, or ideas. Sort of a catch-all for everything I dislike. I'll start with a few today, and add more as we go.

     To the people who put words on clothing: You've officially been ordered to Cease and Desist. A friend and I walked into a nearby Bill Gray's restaurant to enjoy some delicious hamburgers and some riveting conversation when we were encountered by an intriguing site. The young lady in front of us had on a particularly short pair of shorts with the word “Relentless” scrawled across the back. My friend turns to me, having confirmed that I too have spotted this odd adjective and says, “Not exactly the most flattering word to describe that part of the body.” Of course, he probably said something along those lines, and not those exact words, but I'm not a historian, and in my courtroom, paraphrasals are as good as quotes. We couldn't let the conversation rest there though, we had to pursue it, relentlessly you might even say. We prophesied that in the coming years we'd see these textile-titles on all parts of clothing that pertained to body parts. Each shirt would come with adjectives on the sleeves describing the wearer's arms, while the front boldly proclaimed something about the chest, and the back of the shirt suggested to it's readers some unique quality about the back, and so on. So, in order to save us from this heinous fate, I hereby decree that this practice must Cease and Desist.

     To Black Holes: You've officially been ordered to Cease and Desist. You may or may not be out there. You may or may not be inescapable. You may or may not change the very principles of matter and physics and so on. But one thing you certainly are not is relevant to me. You make no sense to me, since as far as I'm concerned, you're just the creation of scientists who now claim that you break the rules of science that have called you into being. I demand, Black Holes, that you tell me just why people even talk about you? You are unmeasurable, incalculable, and unreachable. Yet, people, educated people, sit around and discuss you. There is just no way that you'll ever be relevant to me, and if somehow, you really do manage to break all the rules and swallow me up like Pac-man devours those little white dots, I'd be ripped apart by the forces within you before I ever knew what happened. At least, theoretically. So Black Holes, I hereby decree that you must Cease and Desist.