“We are here!” — Theodor S. Geisel

Periodically, I marvel at the fact that, in the grande schematic of our dimension, here is a toenail-sliver of time/space in which I exist.

Churning organs and mitochondrial whatnots comprise the machine sheltering my singularity, and I am breathing oxygen, and I am alive. Time extends its insouciant fingerlings before and after my presence on this planet, but right now — I’m a Dr. Seuss’s Who-in-Whoville, bellowing atop a dandelion — I am here! I am here!

Among a fleet of other personages like (and unlike) me, whose inner cosmoses I have the capacity to ripple-affect, if only/especially by asking with sincerity, “How are you?” and raptly listening to their answer, then reciprocating with my own.

However long or fraught/excretory-reeking (at times) it may be(/seem), I have my lifespan to cram as much zesty seasoning I can(ister o’ flava) into these ever-depleting days. I try to nix multitasking and do/experience things fully, like lose my inhibition in an ethereal song … or savor the juicy decadence of a Chick-fil-A spicy chicken sandwich … or cuddle with warm laundry … or EMOTE; all brim with holiness.

I’m improving on ’preciating the “priceless” day-to-day minutiae (I say as I drop $150 grand on a fuckin’ education I coulda got for a dollar fifty in late chahges at the public library):

One midmorning, I meandered chilly grocery store aisles as Taylor Swift’s new single stereo’ed overhead, feeling grateful for anonymity. How suffocating/paranoia-engendering would it be to be a name brand (T.S.) whose subsistence is punctuated with paparazzi, prowlers and visceral scrutiny?

I want recognition and response(s) for and from my writing-work, but I don’t seek personal popularity/gobs of dough for my perspicaciousness of the pen.

I’m wildly un-enamored with our culture’s materialistic model of bigger + more = better, where career acquisitions and “climbing the (workplace) ladder” are, like, lauded (although I’m a “fan” of shattering the glass ceiling! INTERSECTIONAL FEMINISM!!! Eyeball the Venus symbol stick-and-poke I tattooed on my ankle one afternoon, bored, with a needle and India ink!).

I’ve been a-cogitating short-, mid- and long-term goals o’ mine o’ late. Anyone else forking the spaghetti-maze of an existential labyrinth? To whimsically paraphrase my mama, whichever strand of the spider web I choose is going to contribute to the person I (will ever continue to) become. Practicing my phrase-painting via this weblog helps me process.

I’m trying not to overanalyze either the overarching “character arc” of my narrative, so to speak, or fixate on its intricacies to a detail-decomposing degree — challenging because of my brain and its obstinate mode of functioning. BREATHE. To diminish my own narcissism, I zoom out.

Not to the “educational” institutions I propagate that stamp-validate my employability through an arbitrary checklist of assignments and the acquisition of a $100,000 piece of paper — college is rankling me — but to the wonkily-shaped vinyl record gyrating atop my turntable, the turquoise faux curls cascading atop my head and other beatific aspects of my ecosystem.

I am here. I am here. I am here.

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