I just want to live: A late night rant

I don't believe in in first impressions.  Not in the since of making the first encounter lasting or memorable or positive, but in the since of just walking into the room like someone squeeze lemon juice down my butt crack.  I've never been the type schmooze.  I hang out with my wang out and to hell with anyone that doesn't care for it.  There's seven billion people in the world.  I'm not the only one they can talk to.

I've had one or two friends that look at me a tad peculiar due to my taste in music, women, and use of language, both poetic and profane.  For the most part they've learned to deal with it.  But I doubt they truly understand it, or that they want to.  Well this is their lucky day (and yours)...

10 years I've lived in this pit called the bible belt, and the one constant I've had to deal with (besides incurably religious friends and family) is death.  In the past decade I've been to an average of one funeral a year.  Among the first were my grandmother and the youngest of my older sisters, the one I grew up with.  Over the next few years it was uncles and cousins and finished out with my mom and my dad.  When you have to stomach THAT MUCH loss, when you're knocked back that many times, you can either wolf down your meds, ball up in a corner and die (a thought that still crosses my mind at least once a day) OR you can get up and live.  Pull yourself out of bet, and find another reason to ride this bitch until the wheels fall off.  And that's pretty much what I've doing the past several months.  No time stamp, no apologies, no fucks given.  Fuck what friends have to say about it, fuck what family has to say about it, fuck the bros, fuck the girlfriend.  And that cunt of a waitress on the other side of the room who can't keep her nose out of the conversation, along with the simp nigga next to you that co-signs on her bullshit and laughs in your face on YOUR FUCKING BIRTHDAY, fuck them too.

It's really that simple.  Not the most cogent thing I've had to say, but it's honest.  I feel like that's all I can give lately.

Gotta walk it like I talk it...

From my personal journal...

January 27, 2015

It's amazing, you find clarity of mind in the strangest places.  Halfway through my work shift I realize I've been talking the talk, now I have to walk my walk.  I hate capitalism.  I mean HATE it.  Like getting teeth pulled, like squash, like child abuse, like religion.  I fucking hate it.  Even with the Obama administration doing what it could to pull us from the brink over the past 6-7 years, it remains so rabid and unrestrained.  We're not encouraged to go out and make friends, we're told to network.  We view human beings as commodities, or utilities to be manipulated and disposed of once they have no more viability to us.  And this is the irony of being me; misanthrope that I am, having little to no hope left in my own species, I still don't like viewing people in that light.

Apologies if you were looking for something long-winded and profound.  Just a little flash rant. 

Another random thought...after a not so random question

A website that helps individuals dealing with grief and loss asked:  Is there something you shared with your loved one that you still carry with you moving forward through grief?

For my sister it was our love of primetime television.  The 90's we watched Martin, In Living Color, Def Comedy Jam and a slew of other TV shows that gave us memorable sketches, one-liners and inside jokes.  My dad and I didn't have a whole lot in common, but one of my more consistent memories was he and I sitting on the stoop outside our duplex and talking about bits and pieces of his childhood; conversations I can scarcely recall.  We'd also do a lot of people watching.  My mom just liked having me around.  A lot of our laughs came from watching old Looney Tunes shows with characters such as Yosemite Sam and Foghorn Leghorn (we would always see who did the best impressions). We also handled the grocery shopping together.  We walk in and I'd take one end of the store grabbing the bread, milk, eggs, etc., while she took the other.

No long rant or point;  Just felt like putting this one out there.  Same question to anyone that reads this.

--Ryan

I think I was always afraid of success...

That moment you realize some of your friends are slowly becoming a thing you despise.  In this case, greedy capitalist.  It doesn't surprise me one bit. After all, greed is good.  Especially in the black community, which can scarcely be called community frankly.  (Disclaimer:  This blog isn't on some pro black shit, or 'fuck them otha' niggas' shit, I'm just remarking on something I've observed over a stretch of time).  How many of us work 12, 14, 18 hour days making money for some super rich asshole in the hope of one day becoming a super rich asshole, or at least a moderately rich asshole?  How many of us have aspirations of becoming the next Bill Gates, or Jay Z or whoever the hell, and break our face and put on errs just so friends and family can tout us as such?...How many of us go to college or grad school, or pursue a career and life under the pressure of being 'the smart one', 'the talented one', 'the one that made it out' or 'never got in trouble?'  That isn’t to say such accomplishments should be downplayed, dismissed or otherwise unappreciated.

Truth be told I am slightly afraid success.  I was afraid of it academically, when it seemed the only thing my family had to say whenever they saw me was "When ya graduratin'", "You got a degree cuz, you can make dat money nah!" or something equally presumptuous. And I was afraid of it financially, with prosperity often breeding jealousy and with leeches coming out of the woodwork.  I wouldn’t know who I could trust, especially among family.  In their defense they were genuinely happy for me and my accomplishments, but I couldn't help feeling like little more than a circus monkey.  A well-trained animal attraction that my parents wanted to parade about and brag on, saying all these wonderful things in public,  and then telling me how stupid and lazy they thought I was behind closed doors.  

It didn't help when my mother would make declaratives or requests in the form of inane questions, in that way southern black women have: "Don't you wanna take care of mommy when you start makin' money?"  Money again.  That's what it was all about after all.  A job, a car, a house, wife, kids, and keeping the man off your back.  All that good shit...forget doing what you love, no money in that.  Forget the anxiety that walks hand in hand with the excitement of graduation (not too many of my people been to school, so I can’t blame them for not knowing what that’s like), forget the depression that starts to creep up, knowing this will be the last time you and some of the best friends you've ever had will be in the same room together...you 'bout go get that guap.   Don't even trip about them student loans, you gon' be stackin' that bread.  Just go get a piece of paper, get ready to devote your life to greed (yours or someone else's), and oh, try to ignore that the Bush administration wrecked the economy something fierce and there are very few dignified jobs left.  Plus you live in the bible belt and you were born to a family of reprobates and jesus-freaks that hold on to their ignorance like Whitney when she's down to her last crack rock.  So no mom, couldn't have taken care you.

Ok, back from that detour (this rant is turning out longer than I expected).  I've never been real keen on money for money's sake.  It's a tool, a resource meant to make life a little bit easier.  You want food, or a place to stay, quid pro quo.  Simple as that.  That's all a job ever was to me when I was a kid, my parents left home, did whatever for about 8 or 9 hours respectively, and came back home, got paid friday.  It seemed simple enough until I started college.  As an undergrad in the early 2000s I was bombarded with all this blather about resumes and networking and marketing yourself.  There was something very...impersonal about the whole process I guess.  This was the beginning of what would become YEARS of cognitive dissonance in regards to seeking employment.  Making myself presentable and sweating bullets, wondering if I said or did the wrong thing...this shit was like dating!

It took me very long time to reconcile with my parents invectives, to come to the realization that I was not lazy, I simply knew what I wanted. I didn't want a 9 to 5  that would consume my day, my life, my spirit.  Punch in, do what I'm told, get ready to punch out, get dragged back for 5 more hours, punch out, go home, sleep for 4 hours and repeat. For what? To pay for an apartment I barely spend any time in? To live off processed foods and coffee 7 days a week? Being business minded, clean cut and coloring inside the lines has its upside, but me, I was and I AM just a guy who likes to draw and all I’ve wanted was to make my living doing that. But I am starting to realize that am an island...unless you look through a lens that has dollar signs etched all over it, to them you are blind.  Virtually without worth.  You are laughable.  My roommate is one of the most awesome people in existence but listening to him talk about money and budgets every time we see each other is beginning to stick in my craw....

This thing really got away from me.  It felt good to get so much of this off my chest but I don't think I'm anywhere near making my point.  I'll touch on it later.

Paying it forward for a cup of water

Just on the other side of my apartment complex there is a group of enterprising 8 year old girls.  As I took out the trash they ran up on me and asked if I wanted to buy a cup of water.  I had just come off a mildly frustrating painting session and didn’t feel like being bothered and so I offered to buy tomorrow provided they were outside.  And to top it off, they're out there in this dreary overcast weather, nowhere near hot enough and my first thought was 'they are seriously wasting their time'. But as went back inside and shut the door it hit me like a steel chair, these girls are in the same boat as me; they’re offering a service, they have a product, and nobody is really of a mind to buy.  Yet and still they out here hustlin' like a sonovabitch.  I had to respect that. Seriously what kind of asshole would I be to deny them the experience of owning a service stand.  Soooo not wanting to be that guy, I went out and bought a cup.  Those smiles man.

Their parents were happy too.  Clapping and cheering, telling me I made their kids' day.  I don't care for capitalism in any form, but I'm not gonna sit there and discourage ANYONE from their goal.  Buying that water didn't get me a job or a payday, it didn't get me a gallery opening or a girlfriend, but fuck if I didn't walk away feeling good about myself. Feeling...human.

I guess what I'm trying to say with this rant is that a little bit of encouragement and acknowledge of one's actions and efforts can go quite a ways for both parties.  Keep on rockin' little rockers.

I'm so full of hate it's not even funny

I hope they never stop protesting in Ferguson...I hope the violence escalates.  I hope the body count rises and all this hate and murder bleeds into every surrounding state including this one.  I hope every single southern state wipes itself off the map and when I hightail it to the north west I'll look in my rear view and laugh like a maniac...Any part of the world OOZING with this much STUPID deserves to be destroyed completely.

Depressed? Maybe...A little...I don't know.

8/11/14

A comedian died tonight.  Just found out Robin Williams is dead.  63 years old.  My dad was a year older.  Both died within a week after my birthday.  There is no correlation between the two, I just wanted to point out that lately my birthday isn’t that great an event…who am I kidding, it never really was.  When I was a child I at least got a cake and a VERBAL happy birthday.  Can’t even say I got a card this year.  But I digress.

Williams’ death was reported as a suicide, as he had been grappling with depression.  Anyone that manic and funny in his performances, anyone who gives that much of themselves to their craft has to be fighting more than a few demons.  I’ve had the same suspicions about my mom.  Years and years and years spent trying to be happy, trying to make herself happy.  Hard to do when you have a boorish husband and spoiled, nerdy, self-absorbed son.  She’s been piling up losses for a while now, but that’s another story. 

I am now 32 years old, the exact same age as Bruce Lee when he died.  I thought to myself, ‘what a good age,’ still in your physical prime; handsome, strong, still able to something, anything, everything.  Robin Williams, twice my age, accomplished everything he set out for (and a lot of things he didn’t), and then some.  Bruce Lee, arguably the greatest pure fighter of his time, and one of the most revered martial artists of ALL time, at 32.  One died unexpectedly, his best years and work still ahead of him, the other a seasoned showman, possibly weary of life, weary of the world around him and didn’t see anything more he could do.  

Bet you can figure out where this one is going.  No?  I’ll spell it out for you.  Yesterday (August 10^th) was my birthday.  I wound up getting a fuck-ton of face book posts wishing me happy birthday. I thought it was convenient more than anything.  For the well-wishers I mean.  If not for the reminder on their timelines I doubt ANYONE would remember another human being’s birthday anymore (just how I feel).  I received a few unexpected and cheery phone calls.  Hearing from them did make me smile a bit.   Regardless of this, all that ran through my head was that I was 32, still not enough done, not enough to say that I am be wholly self sufficient. Not enough to say ‘this shit fucking matters in the long run’.  Life will always be a zero sum game, one that even at my relatively young age I am growing weary of participating in.  Another year…of what?  Worrying where my next meal is coming from? Worrying if my work is good enough to build a solid career?  Worrying if I’m going to have to break down and get some shitty nine-to-fiver, or worse actually LIKE IT like everybody else around me seems to do...

I was seriously contemplating taking ALL of my blood pressure medication along with my dinner yesterday, and wound up deciding against it.  Then I hear about Robin Williams…Along with that come thoughts of my dad on his deathbed, my mom in the hospital, this kid I knew in the 7^th grade that drowned and how my neighbor came to me and delivered the news in tears, Kurt Cobain Chris Benoit, and Yukio Mishima’s beautifully written short story Patriotism.  All you accomplish, all you give…All I can think is ‘I couldn’t go through with it, but someone did.’  They ran their race then decided not to run anymore, they’re decision and no one else’s, the conscious decision to no longer exist.  I spend days, DAYS on end wondering if it could ever get that bad for me.  Could I ever make that choice? It scares me.  

-Ryan Scales, 2014