Mar 19, 2013

I Want

Since I've abandoned the life plans that previously kept me tethered to the ground,  I've been floating around in the sky like a balloon some little kid let go at a birthday party.  Whatever direction the wind blows me, I go, narrowly avoiding trees and power lines along the way.  Eventually, I'll hit the atmosphere and pop, and now I'm just living in perpetual dread of that day.

The grand plans are hopeless. They're too big for me to imagine, much less obtain.  So maybe I should shift my focus.  What do I want for my life on a small scale

I want to have a job that makes me feel like it actually matters whether I roll out of bed in the morning or not, as cliche as that sounds.  It seems like the worst thing in the world to me that I could have a job that contributes nothing, a replaceable cog on an assembly line.  I want to fill up the position I have with all of me; I want to leave some kind of mark. I want people to know me by my first name first and my job title second.  I want to utilize my meager talents and apply them to a cause that in my heart I know is beneficial.  Generally, this means writing and literature or education because that is what I think is most beautiful and perfect in this world.  To disconnect myself from it feels like unplugging my own life support.

I don't much care about the money.  I would like to have money, though.  Money enough to buy subscriptions to The New Yorker and Rolling Stone.  Enough to spoil a cat and take him or her to the vet too much and buy an unnecessarily luxurious scratching post and the name-brand kind of cat food and treats.  Enough to have a lot of tv channels and NBA League Pass and NFL Sunday Ticket.  I'm very selective with my luxuries--cats, sports, reading material--but I'm very attached to the ones I'm accustomed to.  But they pale in comparison to the cost of being happy in my work.

But perhaps if my job must suck and I must be poor, I could make up for it with a good family.  A good husband.  A man who I believe when he compliments me.   A man who appreciates low brow and high brow pleasures equally, without too much discretion.  Who doesn't give me that itchy, uncomfortable, "must run" feeling in the pit of my stomach.  Who makes me feel like a whole person, not just a body and not just an amusement or accomplishment and not just somebody to tell his friends about for some false validation.  Who doesn't make anti-feminist jokes not out of fear of my disapproval but because he just doesn't.  Who never make decisions based on my disapproval.  And who weaves himself into my little family without much ruffling and doesn't make my dad get all stiff and awkward and doesn't mind my mom's occasionally racist comments.  And who doesn't care that I'll never look very impressive on his arm, because my hair is frizzed out or my clothes look like a librarian's or that I'm not good at putting on make-up.

I want a few good friends who love me and know me and can talk for hours without doing much else.  I want to always feel the urge to write beautiful sentences in my little yellow notebook.  I want to always care as passionately about the world as I do now.  I want to travel, even if I have to always stay in hostels.  I want to stay up late occasionally and experience the solitary hours while the world sleeps and  I want to mourn each season as it's about to pass and I want to always notice the feeling of walking out of a cold air conditioned building into the warm sunshine.

I don't want to be full of regrets, even though I'm probably already about one forth full.  I want to look back on this rant in thirty years and smile instead of cry.