I took my first sick day yesterday. I've taken vacation before, but this was the first time I missed a whole day of work due to an unplanned event (in this case, the plague). It was very disconcerting. I spent the whole day lying on the couch of my apartment convalescing. I can't really remember the last time I was sick with a cold, but it's been a while.
Strangely enough, I'm not really upset about it all. I could have used the time at work, and I hated sitting inside all day while everyone else was busy and productive, but now that it's over, it seems to have faded away into memory.
Granted, I'd be hopping mad if I were still sick (which I am) and the weather for the upcoming three-day weekend was forecasted to be sunny and warm (which it isn't), preventing me from fully enjoying nature's goodness. However, given the reality of the dreary, abysmal, weekend conditions outside, it almost seems apropos to be sneezing, dripping mucus, and coughing.
If nothing else, this weather has brought everyone else down to my pathogen-inundated level.
Most of the time, I let apathy anesthetize my anxiety. It can be immensely comforting to let warm, soothing, ambivalence wash over and coat your troubles. One of my picture links at the top is to a page about the Roman stoic philosopher Epictetus. He had an interesting take on dealing with confrontation and interacting with other people: much as you would not let someone cut off your hand (or any part of your physical being) and take it with them, you should not let anyone bother you to the point that they take up residence in your head (by occupying your thoughts) and steal that component of your mental being as well. I think the same line of reasoning can be applied to concepts more abstract than people. Much as one can't cede mental ground to another individual, one has to repel other thought-invaders as well (fear of defenestration, fear of social interaction, fear of the ubiquitous insects trying to burrow into my flesh, etc).
Apathy happens to be my heavy artillery of choice. I feel the use of such extreme measures is justified. It's my head, and I'll use whatever means necessary to defend it.
[I know I started out with a medical metaphor and then switched to a military one, but go with it]
My friend Nate returned from an extended stay in the wilderness. He spent 5 months growing a beard, as well as refurbishing trails and such. The strange thing is, that some of his fellow volunteers in the woodland had last names like "Camp", "Kindling", and "Drinkwater". This rather odd coincidence made us wonder. There's a certain cliche school of self-centered thought which claims that only you exist, and others around you are merely constructs - agents to facilitate or impede your progress along the path to your ultimate destiny. What if that destiny were written by some sort of celestial writer (the fates, gods from any number of pantheons, etc.)? Perhaps, as Nate put it, the author of his life was getting lazy, and couldn't come up with any decent names for the peripheral characters (he was an English major).
We then realized that his last name is "Forst". Not "Forest" - but close enough that it would require minimal thought on the part of this cosmic literary hack. This would mean, however, that Nate himself was merely another ancillary individual with an apropos name in the life of the protagonist.
Maybe we're all just here for context. Some of us human beings might be better developed or fleshed out a little more, but we're still part of the supporting cavalcade.
Anyway... it's pretty trite, but it's a good argument against ego-centrism. Plus that "fleshed out" pun was really satisfying.
You know that dream where they're trying to force you to bathe in barbeque sauce against your will, and part of you wants to succumb because it's so tasty, but then you realize that you probably shouldn't because you would get used to it, and subsequent barbeque bathings would be bland?
Don't give in! It turns out that the real reason they want to lather you with molasses and honey-spiced sauce is because they're marinating you. That stuff about getting jaded and used to the taste was just a thought-decoy to distract you from the fact that they're going to eat you.
I burned the hell out of my feet. They're bright red, itchy, and peeling. On top of that, a full week of wearing flip-flops of nearly disposable quality had rubbed the outside of my insteps raw, causing quite a pair of abrasions. I laid awake in bed for over an hour last night vacillating between making a concerted effort to ignore the itching of the dead skin and the scabs and furiously scratching at them.
Then I thought of how they came to be like this.
Visions of long sandy Hawaiian beaches filled my head, followed by apparitions of my friends on surfboards. I recalled hiking through a rainforest to arrive at a series of deserted freshwater pools, shrouded in foliage and fed by a thundering waterfall, with the roots of overhanging vegetation puncturing their otherwise glassy and serene surface. The subsequent jaunt through dense surrounding groves of bamboo followed this recollection.
I thought of strolling on the extra-terrestrial surface of a long-dormant volcano and how it contrasted perfectly with the lush, verdant hills over which the sun set that evening. I couldn't forget the many rides through the expansive sun-drenched fields of sugar cane, or along the misty coast, stopping periodically to purchase and devour fresh mangos and pineapples. Snorkeling off the side of an anchored catamaran sprung to mind. And of course, there was the boundless magnanimity of our hosts.
One particular remembrance came to mind: lying on Baldwin beach, situated down the coast from the airport, and watching planes periodically take off over the ocean. It seemed a cruel reminder at the time that my stay there was fleeting. It was, as one tripmate put it, as if they placed the airport there to not-so-gently remind you: "one day, you too will leave this paradise."
[ of course, one could take this as an existentialist affirmation, and squeeze every last ounce of vivacity from the moment, but Camus I am not, and my glass-might-later-be-half-empty paranoia got the best of me ]
So last night in my shoebox-sized Manhattan bedroom (a room usually permeated with dull insouciance), furiously ravaging my poor feet, and thinking about the previous week's delights, I heard a plane fly overhead and thought: "one day, I too can return."
I hope my feet never heal. Anything that reminds me of Maui can't be all bad.
I had the pleasure of traveling down to chinatown to wait in line at the city marshal's office so they could collect the $485 (cash) in unpaid parking tickets, taxes, and towing fees I owed them. Then they gave me just what I was hoping for: inscrutable convoluted directions to the impound yard! After several subway and bus transfers, I found myself standing next to a metal trailer at the edge of a decrepit lot rimmed with chain-link fence and barbed wire. A small hole had been cut in the fence, above the plywood dais on which I stood, allowing me to reach through and tap the window to the trailer. The attendant informed me that I owed $479 in storage fees - again in cash (it's always a good idea to carry $1k on you when wandering about the city, especially in the dodgier parts of Brooklyn). After clearing a path by wantonly and recklessly towing the other cars blocking mine (you're in good hands with city labor), the van was free.
I immediately drove it to "Car Cash", where they cut me a check on the spot. They undercut their own previous estimate by 25%, but I had lost my will to fight by then, and capitulated.
That van was essentially my common-law spouse for the past year, considering the time and effort I devoted to it (and also with respect to the many times it prevented me from having fun). I have finally slain the beast that was my obligation. I never thought a divorce would feel so good.
Hello. Sorry about the delay, but I was in Hawaii for a week. I wish I had a damn digital camera to share all the pics from the trip, but alas, I am poor (more on my poverty and the $1000 I owe to NYC parking authorities later) and was too busy having fun to take pictures anyway.
On an interesting note, I returned to find that some acquaintances of mine have constructed a site dedicated to my demise: http://joshalexis.tripod.com/.
It's less frightening than it is plain strange. Most unsettling.
UPDATE: Josh seems to have taken this page down temporarily for construction. I'll remove this update when it's back up.
