Spicy Dreams, Episode 2

I am freaking out. FREAKING. OUT. I have a job interview 10 minutes from now and I'm at least 30 minutes away from the place of the interview and I haven't even left the house yet. I'm getting things together, shuffling papers into my messenger bag, throwing it in the blue Astro van that I drive, and I'm pealing out of the driveway. 

This isn't good. My first job interview in months and I'm going to be late. There's no getting around it. I'm going to be late, and that's that. Should I even go? What would the point even be? I should just get back in bed.

Yes, I think I should. But at least if I show up late, and try to explain, that will show them I follow through with commitment, and if I am humble enough, that will show I'm willing to take responsibility for my mistakes. Or, at least, that's what I hope.

I had no idea the Astro van could even go this fast! And why does it sound like a Formula One race car? This is weird. 

Even now I know this is just a dream, and weird things happen in dreams, but my subconsciousness, for whatever reason, can't accept that this van could ever do anything impressive, besides not blow up or cost ridiculous amounts of money for gas.

Despite the fact that I was just driving like 200mph, I'm still late by half an hour. But I'm here and it's time to bite the bullet, be a man, and get a job. 

Just explain what happened, be honest, be genuine, if they don't understand that, then they aren't people you want to be working for anyway. 

I grab my messenger bag, exit the Formula One Van, and head for the door of the building where my job interview is, which is oddly featureless… Problem is, I can't find the door… 

What the heck?! Where is the door?

I begin walking around the nondescript building looking for a way inside. Finally, I find a door. Above it reads, Lee's Famous Recipe Chicken. 

What the crap! I'm interviewing for a job at Lee's Chicken… This dream is stupid. I hate this dream. I just want to wake up. Why couldn't I work someplace cool where I'd be successful and respected… I hate my life and my dreams.

I enter through the double doors and I am assaulted with the aroma of fried chicken. It almost knocks me to the ground, it is so overpowering. Struggling to regain composure, I am confronted by a little old lady who asks, "You here for some fried chicken?"

"No, I'm here for a job," apparently. 

She's not alone. In fact, there are about 6 or 7 other old people and they're all licking their lips ominously. I look down, and I am now unreasonably dressed for an interview at Lee's Freaking Recipe Chicken. I have the most expensive pair of shoes I own, shiny, black, fancy and what not. I have a white dress shirt and tie, and a grey v-neck sweater over that. My messenger bag is now a full on leather suitcase, and apparently I'm trying to get a job frying chicken. 

"Oh, I see, well let me take you to your interview."

What? I honestly just thought she was a customer, since she was just amongst the ravenously geriatric chicken eaters, moments ago. Now she works here? Whatever. This is weird.

She leads me along, across the building, my fancy shoes clopping with every step. 

Gosh, they're so fancy and loud! I know they're fancy because fancy things are always loud. That's how you draw attention to the fanciness of things. You make them loud!

Everyone is looking at me now, I suppose its the shoes and all the noise they're making on the… marble floor? Wow, they spared no expense for this chicken place, in particular. Fancy shoes; fancy floor. I can't complain, I guess: it is quite pretty after all.

Suddenly I'm being led down a staircase to where I'm guessing the interview will be. Case after case of stairs passes by. 

How far down does this go? Good lord, they're making chicken in a bunker... This is weird. 

Finally the stairs lead to what seems to be a waiting area outside of what I'm assuming is the office of the manager whom I will be interviewing with. I take a seat and try to collect my thoughts. I glance at my watch. I'm now 40 minutes late. It took a really long time to get down those stairs. I pull papers from my suitcase and begin scanning my resume. My eyes fall upon actual facts from my real life resume; colleges I attended, degrees I've earned, the honor societies I was inducted into, my class standing, my GPA; each detail seemingly impressive in my own eyes.

I was so certain these accomplishments would have taken me further than the bunker basement of Lee's Chicken… This dream is depressing. I am depressed by this stupid dream. 

I bring my eyes up from my resume and find that I have now been joined by other people who are apparently also interviewing for the lucrative opportunity to fry chicken… And they're just kids… One of them even brought his parents, and he's laying across his father's lap, seemingly nervous about his interview. There are kids everywhere, and they all want this job… I should leave, this is getting weird.

"Mark, we're ready for you."

Crap. I should have left. Wait? Where did that voice come from? I have no idea.

Slowly the door to the office swings open in the most menacing manner imaginable. I get up and clop on in with my fancy shoes. Inside I find what is little more than a makeshift office. There is no actual desk, just some file cabinets pulled together in a cluster to provide a broad surface to work with. There are piles of paper everywhere, it is so disorganized. There is a man sitting at the desk and he has absolutely no distinguishing features, almost like the building itself; the only thing I know is that he's a man; no hint of a personality, barely a semblance of humanity; just some guy. The only thing I can tell about him is that he is tall; really tall; taller than me by half a foot.

"Thanks for coming, Mark. Please take a seat." 

Instead of going right into my explanation of why I'm so late, I seek to give him my contact information, for some reason.

"Here's my cell number in case you ever need to contact me," I say with the upmost confidence. I pull from my pocket a ripped up piece of paper, and suddenly regret the offer I have just made. This is so friggen embarrassing. My phone number is scribbled out on a crumpled up Post-It note, accompanied by a crudely drawn cartoon of a duck with a shotgun. 

Whatever. I don't even care anymore. 

I hand him the paper and he studies it in fascination. Then he offers me his info. It's on a white piece of paper, and none of the numbers make sense. They aren't phone numbers, I know that for certain. But I try to not betray the fact that I have no idea what these numbers mean.

"Thanks," I say, hoping my gratitude will convince him I know what is going on.

"If I asked you to tell a lie about the paintings on the wall behind me, what lie would you tell?"

What? What does that even mean? Wait, where did those paintings come from? Why is this dream so freaking weird?

"Umm, great question! Let me study them for a moment." I'm trying to buy myself some time here so I can figure out what the heck is going on. I focus on one of the paintings. It depicts what appears to be a tea party to which animals dressed in tuxedos have attended. I look at a pair of toads which seem to be deeply involved in a conversation. I try to imagine what they are conversing so intensely about. 

"The market share for the crude exports of horse flies have yet to accrue the dividends we expected they would at this late point in the fourth quarter… Whatever shall I do? My portfolio is quite simply rubbish at this point…"

"Quite right," says the other fancy toad.

I focus back on the larger picture. The location of the tea party is by a gentle stream. Surprisingly round stones the size of grapefruits line the bottom of the stream. And there, lounging in the center of it is a giant dragon, grinning maniacally as the gentle current laps against his serpentine body. 

"What I wish people would understand is that when I say 'lie' what I'm really wondering is what the unifying theme is in all these pictures," the nondescript man interposes between my thoughts.

"Right, of course. Well…" I'm struggling to come up with an intelligent answer. "It seems to me that the unifying factor here is that the dragon is the host of the party in each of these paintings."

*interrupting music* 

My phone is ringing outside the dream, and I'm suddenly wakened from the madness. 

Thank God that's over! I never want to dream again!  

Spicy Dreams

Blackberries… Blackberries everywhere. I'm in the middle of the woods, cramming these dark capsules of deliciousness by the handful into my mouth. I don't believe I'll ever get tired of them, each one bursting with wonderful flavor. Tastes like my childhood every time. 

Suddenly, I hear some commotion. The brush behind me begins rustling. I turn and gaze intently, waiting to see what might come bursting through. Then, all at once, a stampede of people come tromping through the woods.

"RUN AWAY! RUN AWAY!" they beg of me.

Without thinking, I join them, and now we are running through the woods together, screaming, "RUN AWAY!" I'm not sure what we are running away from, or where we are running to. It's just nice to belong, I guess. It's nice to be a part of something important, and, to these people, nothing seems more important than running away. So, yeah, it's kind of nice.

Suddenly, it's just me running. Everyone else is gone and I have no idea where they went. They literally just vanished. But for some reason, I'm still running, though no longer screaming. In fact, it's clear now that I am in fact trying to escape from something. And then, it's all very clear to me. I'm being chased by Tommy Lee Jones and Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson. Now, judging by the movie plots that my subconscious is ripping off at this point, it's probably safe to assume that I am a rather successful surgeon who is also a car thief—just for fun—who has been framed for the murder of his wife. I'm running as fast as I can, hopping over logs and tearing through bushes. Tommy Lee is behind me taunting me, remarking how he doesn't care whether I'm innocent or not, and The Rock isn't really saying anything. He's just running through and splintering whatever he comes into contact with; trees crack like twigs. Somehow I get away. 

It's raining now and I'm in an abandoned parking lot. My ex and I are kissing, because, what else is there to do in the rain with your ex?

She casually remarks, "Did you know that there are philosophical arguments that justify abusing prescription drugs?" 

Interesting. "No, I didn't know that." We go back to kissing.

After a while we stop kissing again and I ask her, "Do you have any Percocet?" 

Before she can answer I awake suddenly from all of this insanity, and immediately think to myself how I really need to start writing all this stuff down. So I did. 

Bulldozing A Boy's Dreams: or, How To Find Beauty In Pain

When I was a kid, about six or seven years old, my grandparents began building a house in the lot adjacent to the property my parents own. The land was surveyed and a foundation was built on the crest of a valley rim that overlooks a quiet creek that meanders through the gentle hills of Butler County, our quiet corner of Ohio. Bulldozers and other heavy machines were brought in to dig up the earth. Mountains of dirt rose into the sky as tons of cement were poured into the ground.

That summer I would walk across the fields from our home to the construction site. Day after day I would go to see the progress of the house. My grandfather and his brother began building upon the foundation, creating a home with their bare hands. Piece by piece it rose from the ground. Being just a child, I could not help but be captivated by the display of craftsmanship, the artisanal exhibition of a self-sufficient lifestyle now lost in the Digital Age. 

As the truss skeleton of the house took shape, my innocent and ambitious young mind went to work. I wanted so much to be like my elders. So I began planning the construction of a tree house that would take its shape in a tree on the side of that valley overlooking the meandering creek. I chose a tree; it was small and, in some ways, a rather ugly tree. It had many imperfections, but I liked something about it, even if I couldn't say what it was. I went home and began drafting blueprints. I carefully considered what materials could be used in its construction: cardboard, toilet paper rolls, sticks, et cetera. In my mind's eye it was beautiful and, of course, fully furnished. I decided to keep my plans a secret until I knew it could be completed. My grandfather would be so proud, I just knew it. Together our homes would rest on the side of that hill.

Just days after my thoughts were overcome with the plans for my tree house, I ventured to the construction site. That day a bulldozer had been brought back to the site to level out the dirt that had been displaced by the foundation. I marveled at the immense strength of the machine that could literally shape the earth. It was more than a child could fathom. I suppose my fascination with the spectacle didn't go unnoticed to my grandfather. At some point, he asked the operator of the bulldozer if he would take a few moments to give his grandson a ride on the gigantic piece of machinery, and, at the same time, get rid of a certain tree on the side of the hill. 

My grandfather helped me up the side of the mountain of steel and pneumatic pistons, where I took a seat next to a sweaty and hairy man that grinned obnoxiously.

"You wanna go for a ride?" 

I shyly nodded that I did.

"Do you want to destroy something?" He grinned and chuckled.

Once again, I nodded that I did.

"Alright! Let's do it!"

I smiled, getting captured by his enthusiasm. 

"So, let's get rid of that ugly tree over there." He pointed directly at the tree in which I had planned to build my tree house. My heart immediately sank. "Whaddya think of that?"

My smile disappeared. I shook my head, that I didn't want to destroy the tree. He laughed and grinned back at me.

"What do you mean you don't want to? It will be fun!"

I didn't know what to do; I couldn't say anything, I just gazed at my tree. And as I sat there in silence, the sweaty and hairy man fired up the bulldozer, revving its enormously powerful diesel engine, causing it to belch clouds of black smoke into the sky above. It began to lurch forward, its steel tracks clinking and squeaking below us. The earth seemed to shake at its treachery as the massive shovel neared, moment-by-moment, the trunk of the tree that I believed with all my heart was full of potential. I cast a desperate glance to my grandfather, who grinned and waved approvingly back at me. My eyes returned to the tree just as the shovel met its base. It released a pathetic pop, barely capable of protesting its own destruction. The remaining sound of its cracks were smothered by the mechanical churning of the unstoppable engine. 

I sat there horrified as I witnessed my innocent dreams become a crumpled tangle of wood. My dreams of making my grandfather proud had come to naught. When the carnage was over, I slid down from the mountain of steel and set out for home, crossing the rolling fields in silent shock. When I reached home I went straight to my room and I tore my blueprints to bits and sat alone in despair for the rest of the day.

I am now twenty years older than I was that summer. And as I think back on that day, I can't do anything but smile. What seemed like the shattering of my world has now become a beautiful memory for me. Since that day I have been through much more traumatic things than that. And I know that one day I will be able to look back on those things, too, those things that have caused me so much pain and despair, and I will be able to smile at a simple revelation afforded only by hindsight: the world didn't end. We are forged by our experiences; choose, today, to find beauty in your pain; you just might find something worth cherishing. 

A Picture of Loss

One summer evening I was sitting quietly at my desk. My brother Josh was out for the evening and so the room was still and quiet. The events of the day had been unremarkable at best. It had been one of those days when you can't help but slip into a pensive state of mind, basking in the melancholy of having nothing important to do. On those days you find busy tasks to keep your mind off the void of purpose. But when you sit down at the end of the day and you think about what has actually been accomplished, you can't help but wonder why you aren't living a different life, that is, a life with more purpose and meaning. My head was swimming in this.

I was reclining in my chair and staring blankly into the wall when someone came bursting through the door that was behind me and across the room. Normally I am agitated by such entrances without permission but I don't recall even considering the intrusion disturbing as there was nothing to disturb.

"Have you seen Jasper this evening?" a voice hurriedly inquired.

It was the voice of Leah, the youngest of my sisters. For a moment I sat unflinching and then without turning to her replied that I hadn't. Less than a second later she was gone with the door closing behind her. I continued as I was, motionless at my desk. Several moments later I heard some commotion outside below in the yard. The voices of my family were calling for Jasper out in the night. The time was around 10 pm. It was then that I finally began considering what Leah had already indicated. Jasper, our Golden Retriever, was unaccounted for. I grabbed a flashlight from one of the drawers of my desk and went down and out into the night to pick up with the search.

I knew already where I would check first and fully expected to find him there almost smiling at the commotion he had caused. Once out the back door I was met by my mother and Leah who were standing out on the deck appearing slightly alarmed. My mom asked me the same question Leah had several minutes before. I don't recall if I even answered. For some reason I felt agitated by the situation. I passed them by and remarked that he was probably under the very deck we were all standing on, just were he usually was. I descended the stairs and onto the brick patio and turned back around to look below the structure. At first I bent only partially and pointed the flashlight into the dark space there below. There was nothing there. My mother and Leah were still up above on the deck and were now staring at me intently waiting to hear of what I might find. Surprised that I hadn't resolved the conflict, I bent lower to get a better view. The adjustment soundly confirmed that he wasn't there. I told them so and felt a flashing sense of failure.

"Where could he be?" broke from Leah as fear began to take its hold of her.

Without saying a word I began walking around the side of the house, counter clockwise, searching as I went. My mother and Leah trailed behind verbally assessing the situation in circles. I mostly ignored their words and only searched. An entire sweep of the immediate perimeter of the house yielded nothing. To the best of my ability I approached the situation with reason and tried to remain in an objective state of mind. It seemed to me that the search of those with me had been dominated by emotion and impatiently observed how blind it seemed to have made them. They were talking in circles and they couldn't even tell. I considered the positive notion that I was already narrowing the possibilities of where Jasper could be and continued searching.

From the area surrounding the house, I went to the perimeter of our property and began searching clockwise along the fence. By then my mother and Leah had left me to search in other places. I continued on my own traveling north and into the night where porch lights couldn't reach. Behind me, my family continued the chorus of the lost puppy's name. At some point I prayed a simple prayer, asking that Jasper would be found safely and that no harm had come to him. In a way, that prayer was little more to me than an objective task that needed to be eliminated. I was still trying to operate reasonably but it was becoming more difficult with every moment that Jasper remained lost.

I came to a corner in our property and turned east. 75 meters to my right was our house. It was wrapped in a halo of light that emanated from the outside fixtures, each and every one of them lit. I could see my family shuffling along in places I, and probably they as well, had already searched. I refocussed my attention before me and continued on my way. I eventually came to the largest of our two barns. Most ofthe entrances where sealed, except for one lower opening. I entered slowly. The darkness filled with the light that sprayed from my flashlight, instantly casting the shadows into the corners of the space before me. For the first time I called Jasper's name, quietly. He wasn't there. I exited and made my way to the second barn which was diagonal from where I was approaching.

I advanced from the rear and went under the lean-to. I called to Jasper again and inspected the area as best I could. He wasn't there. I left and made my way to the front of the barn. The door was opened and I entered slowly. The light made a circular view into the dark space before me, seemingly darker than the other barn. I navigated the maze of tools and workbenches while calling Jasper's name, louder this time. Everything was still. Little specks of dust floated through the bright beam of light projected before me. I exited and continued on.

I began searching along the fence on the east side of our property heading south. The path brought me through the orchard and finally to the corner which meets perpendicular with the road. I turned the corner and began making my way west, now parallel with the road. As I went, I began shining the light in the direction of the road every so often, just checking if there was anything to see. I hoped with everything within me that I wouldn't see him there on the side of the road. I continued on, casting a flash in the direction of the road every so often. I realized then that, not far from where I was, my sisters were watching me as I made my way along. I didn't want them to come to realize the significance of why I would be so fixated on the road. I tried to be more discreet, but the suspense of the moment kept drawing my attention back to the road, almost involuntarily. Thankfully, I found nothing there.

I eventually searched the entire perimeter of the property. From there I began searching loosely through the internal area within that perimeter, which eventually yielded nothing. I knew that I had checked everywhere on our land that he could possibly be. I realized that there was only one solid and dreaded explanation. He was gone. This simple notion came as an unwelcome conclusion that insisted the attention of my entire mind. I couldn't think of anything else. I knew that there was nothing more that I could do and went back in the house. My objective search had yielded an assurance that I would have never willingly welcomed. And though I couldn't see it at the time, while my mother and sister had been talking in circles, blinded by emotion, I had been walking in circles guided by ostentatious reason.

I ascended the stairs that led to my room on the second floor, feeling nothing. Just as I reached the top of the staircase, my other sister Elizabeth came stumbling from the bathroom drenched in tears and muttering inconsolably,

"I want my doggy back..."

She passed right by me and went straight into her room and slammed the door behind her where I heard a deluge of sobs come bursting from her. I quietly went into my room and sat back at my desk for several minutes. I tried to think of something other than the enveloping ordeal that surrounded me, but all attempts to cast my thoughts elsewhere were futile. I decided to go to bed and hoped that I could let it all go, expecting it all to just drift away.

But sleep wouldn't come. I tossed and turned for several hours, my mind racing the entire time. I kept revisiting the conclusion that I had reached earlier. Jasper was gone and there was nothing else that I could do. Logic took hold once again and began grinding out the possibilities of where he could be. The first notion that came to mind was that he had somehow gotten through the fence on his own. He was a mischievous puppy that always seemed to crave adventure. It seemed to me that the most likely place that he could have gotten through was the large gate that sealed our driveway. Just several weeks before my father had given me the task of covering the large spaces of the gate with mesh wire so that Jasper wouldn't be able to get through it. I couldn't shake the notion that I might have in some way allowed for his escape to happen by incompetence as I had completed the task, but not well. In any case, what might have happened to him after the escape remained a mystery. It seemed most likely that he had just taken off on some big adventure and was probably enjoying every minute of it.

Eventually my mind began considering what might eventually happen to him. I kept thinking that if he had stayed close to the roads, he might very well end up getting killed by a vehicle. The roads near our house have always been unnaturally busy for the country. I hated to think about him laying on the side of the road dead. Other than this I considered that he might have made his way into the sea of cornfields that mostly surround our property. If this were the case, I knew that we would never be able to search for him there. Out of nowhere the danger of coyotes came to mind. I envisioned Jasper out somewhere in the night, miles from our house in a corn field surrounded by a pack of coyotes mocking him with shrieks just before tearing him to shreds. The thought was unbearable.

I forced my mind to return from imagination and back to reason as I identified another possibility of how he might have gotten out of the yard. It was, at first, just as unsettling as anything else I had thought about. I realized that he could have been stolen. I envisioned the thief driving by our house and seeing Jasper frolicking in our yard, deciding to take him from us, maybe plotting for days or even weeks. I began feeling an anger within me that I didn't want to control. My mind slipped away from reason once again. Hate began painting the imagined culprit in an increasingly sinister manner. I even imagined what I would have done if I had I caught the thief in the process. Seeing myself beating him senseless entertained the anger inside of me.

I continued examining the notion of theft for a while. Eventually I came to the conclusion that I might very well prefer theft over the alternative. At least he would be in someone's care. I then realized that even if he had gotten out of our yard on his own, he could have still found his way into the care of someone who would look after him. I imagined that he was now in the possession of some family with kids that would play with him and not take him for granted. I drank in the notion that even if we never saw him again, at least if some one had him, he would have the chance to be happy. He would forget about us and eventually live a long and happy life. I knew this was better than his untimely death. We would have to live with the void of his absence, but I'd rather deal with pain than know that he had to. I knew that such an innocent creature couldn't understand pain. I fell asleep comforted by the thought of some lovely kids playing with him and caring for him. Weariness had dissolved all reason and emotion had emerged through subconsciousness and created a fantasy that consoled the pain that I felt.

The next day I came awake and my mind immediately went to Jasper. I wanted more than anything for it all to have been a dream. But I was awake and there was no changing any of it. Grief crept inside of me and filled my chest.

"It's just an animal. Why am I allowing this to be such a big deal?"

I tried with all of my will to deny the pain that I felt for the little dog, but I couldn't. My mind replayed all that had happened since the night before. And then I realized that it didn't matter if he was only an animal. I conceded that if you love something, that thing has value no matter what it is. I realized that this couldn't be denied. I cared about the dog. I cared about what happened to him because he had value to me. I cared because my heart told me to. The pain that I felt hurt just the same as anything else that could have mattered to me. And although it was subjectively determined, my love for that dog existed objectively. I was drowning in this.

I was sitting in my room at the desk where I was the very night before. My feet were propped and I was leaning back in my chair trying to breathe deeply, hoping that I could exhale the pain in my chest. I picked up a book and began reading words, not comprehending their meaning. I was just reading and trying to forget for just a moment.

Then the door opened behind me. I turned my head and there was Leah, just as before. 

"Dad found Jasper! He's home!"

Joy Unprocurable

I believe that there are some things in this life which can only be learned through experience. These are the things that you can be told over and over, but until you see it for yourself with your own eyes, you wont fully believe it. One thing that I had always heard was that the best things in life are those that you can't earn. While I never denied this outright, and actually considered it to be true, I never really appreciated the depths of that truth until I saw it in the life of one of my friends. I learned that truth on a summer's day back in 2011. 

One thing that I would consider to be a priority in my life is literature. I love to read. One morning about a year ago I  was reclining in a chair, feet propped, and drudging through the arduous journey known as Moby Dick. Sometime during that morning my brother's phone began to ring somewhere in the house. I pulled myself from the distraction and ventured back into the archaic realm of whaling, revenge, and obsession. Looking homeless and drunk, having been awoken from sleep, my brother came to me and relayed a message.

"Pat wants to know if you want to ride horses... or something." He slurred.

"What? Horses?" Something about his words couldn't be balanced.

"I don't know, man, I couldn't really tell what he was talking about.. I was half asleep and the phone kept cutting out." At this explanation I was certain that the message had been lost somewhere in translation. However, I did my best to make sense of what I was being told and assumed that Pat, a friend of ours, must have wanted to go to a horse track, which in many ways, I now recognize in retrospect, would have been just as absurd as if he were wanting to ride horses with me.

"The nearest horse track is in friggen' Kentucky dude! That's just ridiculous..." As far as I was concerned the matter was settled. I ignored every bit of the previous several minutes and went back to reading. Just moments later Josh began again.

"I'm giving him your number." I persisted in ignoring the situation until it was absolutely necessary to engage. That point came when I answered my phone with quiet frustration.

"Hello?" I did my best to not sound annoyed but rather cheerful. If that were even possible for me, I don't know.

"Hey. What are you doing today?"

"Um, not much, really. Just reading, I suppose." I tried to formulate my response in such a was as to not betray the fact that I had absolutely nothing to do. I suppose that it is generally understood that when someone has reading on their agenda, they aren't doing anything, this being only true for the fact that most people don't consider reading a priority.

"Right. Cool… Hey, you want to go to a race track with me?"

"Well, I don't know… Did Josh say something about horses?"

"No.. Wait, what?"

"He said you wanted to ride horses, or something?"

"No!" He chuckled. "Porsches! A guy from work invited me to come to a Porsche rally and I don't want to go alone. It's at a track in northern Ohio. We can even ride in them!"

The missing and distorted pieces of the message were coming together clearly and my interest was instantly sparked. "Really? That actually sounds pretty awesome, man!"

"Yeah, so you want to go?"

"Of course I do! I mean, when do people ever get a chance to do this sort of thing?" I was now trying my best to not betray the fact that I was actually quite excited by the proposition of hanging around really expensive cars all day. The White Whale would have to wait; Ahab's obsession could endure another day.

Upon learning how long it would take to even get to the race track―3 hours―I felt regret for a fleeting moment. I couldn't help but consider how many pages I could read in that time. I consoled myself with the thought that I would probably never get the chance to experience something like this ever again. I knew my books weren't going anywhere. 

When we got to the track we were ecstatic. Everywhere we looked there were unbelievably expensive cars. They roared around the track, RPMs spiking, gears shifting, adrenaline pulsing. We gawked unashamedly. Pat parked his brand-newish Honda Civic between two Porsche Carreras, laughing to ourselves. One of these things does not belong.

We strolled around snapping photos of every car. Some were race modded, others were stock, all were impressive. Their owners sat in lawn chairs, told stories about their cars, and reveled in the attention and envy their cars evoked in us. License plates from New York and California. I imagined they were CEOs, owners of companies, stock brokers, lawyers. I was envious to the core. But I wondered if they were happy. Really happy. Something in me kept trying to tell me that if I had a car like they did, something in me could be satisfied.

We came across a very self-concerned man. He wore designer clothes and spoke definitively and authoritatively into a blue-tooth headset. Pat approached him and tried to start a conversation. I thought to myself, what are you doing man, this dude has 'not-to-be-trifled-with' tattooed on his forehead. Pat wanted to know who we had to talk to in order to set up a ride-along around the track. I became distracted from the conversation as a bright orange Porsche rolled up before us and stopped. Others began lining up behind. They were queued for the next heat on the track. The kid in me began lamenting that I never became a race car driver. I became aware that the self-concerned man had broken conversation with Pat and walked up to the first car in the queue, got in and led the pack onto the track. What in the world just happened, who was that guy? I couldn't help but imagine him roaring around the track in his Porsche, blue-tooth at ear, negotiating a business deal at a hundred miles per hour. Who were these people? 

We eventually found out that we had missed our chance to participate in the ride-along. Instead we watched the cars fly around the track. It was a road course, with varying elevations, which wound all through the hills of north central Ohio. After taking pictures of just about every car, our favorites from multiple angles; and after speaking at length with a gentlemen who owned and introduced us to his Formula One race car, we left for home with a virile, masculine satisfaction. Driving through the country side in the Honda Civic we recounted all of our favorite cars. We decided that one of our favorites was an Audi R8, obviously misplaced at a Porsche rally, but no less appreciated. As we made our way home, we passed an Amish Buggy, drawn by horse, clopping along the side of the road. We were in Amish country. It occurred to me then that many of the cars we had seen that day were worth more money than these people would ever own in their entire lives. It further occurred to me that this was not something that I should feel sorry for them about, even despite how much I had envied the people of that rally all day.

When we got back into town we decided to stop in to see Phill, one of our best friends. In our minds, we had just experienced one of the coolest things we might ever experience, and we wanted to share it with him. Once inside, we found Phill and his wife Christina in their living room playing with their 6 month old son, Eli. We were greeted warmly, but briefly, their son regaining all their attention. We sat down beside Phill and proceeded to show him the photos of the exorbitant vehicles, hoping to evoke from him the same awe that we had experienced. At first he paid us mind, but soon his attention went back to his son, laughing jovially at the various baby noises and expressions that his son made. He had only one priority; one care, and it wasn't some worthless sports car. I noticed it right away, rather more perceptively than I tend to be. I shut off the camera and put it away and just watched a man play with his son. There was more joy then and there than I had ever seen in quite a long time, certainly more than I had seen or experienced all day. True joy. It had nothing to do with something that could be bought. It wasn't due to something that could be earned. I would dare even say it was a gift that none of us really even deserved. And after an entire day of gawking at possessions, wishing I were more successful in life; after watching grown men play with expensive toys and then a young man playing with his son, I finally got it. 

You cannot earn joy. It cannot be bought.

Art

Ever since I was a child I have always felt the need to express myself artistically. When I was young this expression was manifested through visual art. I spent most of my waking days illustrating the world around me. It was no secret to my family that I was artistically inclined. My parents in particular appreciated my art more than anyone. But although they consistently praised every picture that I produced I never felt as though I was satisfied with anything that I drew or painted. It was never good enough.  

I was a realist through and through. I wanted to capture images in a detail just as crisp and comparable as what my eyes perceived. However, I was seldom able to do so. I would draw and redraw a particular detail a hundred times over just to get it right. Many times I would rub away an entire eraser just trying to complete one minute detail. It was in those moments when, after many failed attempts,  frustration would begin to set in. Tension would fill my strokes. The tip of my pencil would penetrate deeper and deeper into the paper, until finally my failures were etched into the paper itself. And though I tried, these were the marks that couldn't be erased. I would turn the pencil on its eraser and then rub to no avail. On one occasion, when working on a picture of a wolf, I was having a particularly hard time illustrating a satisfactory nose. In my frustration I erased a hole right through the paper itself. It now seems ironic to me to observe that when no paper remains, neither do any of the mistakes; the indelible marks of failure.  

This process occurred on many occasions; inspiration, failure, further attempts, further failures, frustration. Though I couldn't see it myself, I was told that I had an innate talent for visual art. When in elementary school I won a contest that awarded me with lessons at an art institute near where I lived. Later on I began entering my pictures in various art contests and placed first more than several times, though I honestly couldn't see why.     

Over the years, though the task was never mastered, I became much better at capturing detail. The best I could do in my own eyes was make something satisfactory, never anything exceptional. But it was then that a new vexation emerged in my art. I then began finding that, in my obsession with detail, there was an adverse neglection of the bigger picture. This problem could only be perceived after the completion of a picture when I surveyed my work only to find that the larger image was slightly askew. Though the details in and of themselves were satisfactory, I would find that I had failed to properly coordinate them to each other. Unlike the problem of accurately capturing detail, this problem was one that I never sought to correct. Rather, I slowly turned from expressing myself through visual art all together, the urge for expression remaining all the while. 

Now, I want to be a writer.