On A Galaxy Far Far Away

I have written fondly of Star Wars previously in this blog. So it was that, Thursday evening, at a movie theatre whose bar and restaurant upfront were blaring cantina music, and whose crowd of people contained a veritable onslaught of people in Star Wars clothing, I found myself eagerly anticipating the movie that I had been clinging to for so long, in a fictional universe that I have loved like no other, and continue to love like no other.

There was a period, without about 30 minutes to go in the film, that I realized that I did not want it to stop. I was in love, although one has to ask if I ever fell out of love in the first place (nope). I went home with dreams of Star Wars floating in my head, of how much I'd love to create a Star Wars story one day, of Jedi and Sith and bounty hunters and the like.

I would see the movie again, on the following Sunday, an evening show where I adored the movie just like the first time, warts and all, it is not perfect but it is perfect for me, I suppose, isn't that what relationships are really, anyways?

And yet even the afterglow of a galaxy far, far away can't diminish the reality of the lead actors being younger than me, of them being born into a world where they can live out their dreams, of the reality that I will never create something that will touch someone so, that I will never do anything of significance, that most people don't and won't, until they die and are gradually forgotten; and so then why am I attached to the idea of significance, when a mere 50 years is all I have left, and death is a much longer state? We all are, I suppose, headstones aren't for the dead but the living, but it's true that this living person will never create a galaxy far, far away, much less one near.

Parental Compliments

A good parent, it is said, should encourage and foster in their children, the pursuit of their dreams and aspirations. Given, however, that dreams and aspirations almost never come true, one wonders why this standard is established as such, and why parents aren't expected to instead support the validity of dead-end, pointless jobs and careers that the vast majority of their children will inhabit. To wit, the present author's parents continue to assert that said author has innumerable talent in certain areas. Given that this supposed talent has not; A) manifested itself, or B) resulted in any monetary or critical affirmation, it is easy to say, then, that said parents are enumerating impossibilities as potential realties. While some may take this and use it to further their delusions of grandeur, most will take it as a sign of failure, when in reality, the expectations were never realistic to begin with.

My Body and I

My body and I don't get along. I will swallow the pills at 8pm, every night. By 10pm, the pills will be kicking in, and my body will be telling me it is time for bed. On nights where I forget my pills, my body will tell me no such thing, and I will lie awake past 2am, 3am, 4am, mind racing and brain hyperactive.

My body and I don't get along. One set of pills tells me I am always hungry, causes a sharp increase in weight gain and chance of diabetes, the same set of pills that cause the fatigue and will me into bed will me towards snacking when I am not sleeping.

My body and I don't get along. My wrists look like they could snap but the weight gain is getting to me and the skinny jeans don't require quite as tight a belt as they used to, the pants fit a little more snug.

My body and I don't get along, the nightmares are common and so are the night sweats, and my pajamas are sometimes done after one use, tossed into the laundry pile because to sweat through them again would be gross.

My body and I don't get along, never had a full hairline up front, it's not receding, it just never filled in, when it's cut short you can see how high it is, it makes bangs nearly impossible.

My body and I don't get along, the yo-yo master chose me to knock the chip from my ear in 4th grade with his yo-yo because I had "big, floppier ears."

My body and I don't get along, sore back from 9 hours a day at work sitting at a desk, jaw popping and snapping and locking from a condition my mother passed along, spine curved and causing the left side of my chest to protrude past the right side, I am unsymmetrical.

My body and I don't get along, need 60+ ounces of water a day just to prevent cramps, permanently thirsty and dry mouthed from drugs that rendered my lips and mouth parched in perpetuity.

My body and I don't get along, body forever seized in akathisia from the sudden quitting of one pill, I was fainting and they feared seizures, wore a monitor around for a day because of it.

My body and I don't get along, because through it all, I hate it, and I suppose it hates me, and I will forever cover it with clothing, even when swimming, or summer, I will forever hide it, and neither of us will get along.

Jokes

"I support global warming," he says, smiling, chuckling to himself, apropos the general positive reaction in such a statement from the table, people tired of snow, of cold, of endless gray. But knowing - knowing indeed, the results of the joke - of catastrophic global warming, of droughts, and storms, and fires, and blizzards, and lost lives and lost money, the joke loses its appeal, a light-hearted reference that underlies the relative disconnect between public knowledge and scientific knowledge, the relative public illiteracy on the greatest challenge facing human kind. Nobody would laugh at a bumper sticker that read "I Support Superstorm Sandy" or "I Support California Droughts," but the information imparted is the same, and feigning ignorance is not a feign worth indulging when much of the public will plead it.

Killer Mike was Wrong

He said "be the best you you can be. And the best you is probably about average." It is obvious, then, that Killer Mike was not speaking to the present author, whose "best you" is decidedly awful.