Entries Tagged 'Life' ↓

The ape was clearly having a good time. Putting on a show, shouting and flailing his long arms, climbing up the branches of the Big Tree in his glass-encased little paradise. He was the joker, it was clear; the King being the fat one with his back to the people, sitting on the ground and eating leaves. The people, safely crammed into an auditorium on the other side of the glass, were pressed up against the window, taking movies and gawking at the show. It was their highlight of the day, to be sure. Most of the time, the animals at the zoo were content to lie around. At most, they’d flick away flies, get up, stretch and plop back down again. They seemed to know that it didn’t really matter what they did, they were stuck in their compounds anyway, and doing something like, say, walking around or making noise, why that would only attract the weirdos – crowds of ‘em — all popping pictures and squealing like the chimp who was putting on the show up and down the Big Tree. Most of the veteran animals really had no time for that sort of nonsense. They got their three hots and their cot whether they scared the little kiddies or stayed planted on their rumps all day.

The chimp was clearly too young to understand this. And the people were delighted, after a long day spent trudging up hills and standing in front of tiger dens and panda exhibits, only to glimpse the occasional emancipated tiger lift up his head and yawn. Predators are the worst for doing nothing at all, because they don’t have to and because, well, the meanest group of any species is inherently lazy and arrogant. They’re the ones with the big teeth and the raw attitude. That in itself will get you farther in life than a nice personality and a good show routine, something the Democrats have yet to figure out. Republicans know all about Big Teeth and bad dispositions, which is why they win most elections, then lie down and dare the little Dems to do something about it. They don’t, of course, because of those teeth, mainly, and because little chimps are apt to run away and hide when talk gets down to raw meat and white bones. Yea, this time around may be different, for the chimps can sense that the jackals are bleeding and the crowds are mad because, after all these years, they’ve been waiting for the damn dogs to do something – anything – to show how they’re still Meanest of the Jungle. It gets to the point where they’d rather go to the chimp exhibit and watch the funny ape making faces in the glass, until, of course, he does what he always ends up doing – drinking his own pee or flinging his own poo.

When that happens, the people shut off the cameras and head back out to the jackal compound, waiting, hopefully, for that damn mangy dog to get off his ass.

The bitter part of the sweetness of life is made of bad decisions and laced with good intentions. It is part of the mystery: you make a choice and live with it, sure that you one day will wind up somewhere, hoping only that your end is as close as possible to where you planned it to be. Dreamers and fools think that it will happen just as they imagine it will, but the reality is that it very rarely is so simple. Life never takes a straight path to death, and as such the best laid plans are, indeed, still plans based on the hopes and aspirations you think you want, are sure you want – only to discover that when the day is done, it was nothing like you imagined it would be. It’s the journey that makes the struggle sweet, the experience that makes life and love and labor a thing of joy.

There’s simply no accounting for change. Like a river that flows and tumbles on its way to the ocean, change never pauses, always pushing forward to the ocean with violent grace and single-minded determination. You can jump in and let it carry you along, and live in the current of the world, or you can stand on the side and watch it pass, content in your place and time, happy to watch the river flow along without you. You can stick a toe in the water, pull it out, and debate whether or not it’s too cold to slide into the current, wanting to but afraid to all at the same time, never sure, non-committal and too scared to make a decision, to take a stand and either build your house along the side, or jump in and see where the water takes you. That is the great unknown; that is your defining moment. Jump in, or stay out. The water is cold, and dark, the current strong, and the only thing you know for sure is that on its way, the river carries with it only the rocks and pebbles it can hold, discarding the old and picking up new at each bend, leaving behind the large and heavy boulders as markers to where the river flowed.

Peter Cook, middle-aged and unknown architect, boinked his 18-year-old assistant and was promptly dumped by his wife….Christie Brinkley.

Dude.

Now this is more like it. After seven years of the iron will and shadowy intrigue of Lance Armstrong, America was finally represented by a Tour De France winner who truly embodies the American Spirit.

Floyd Landis. In one grueling race, he showed every aspect of what it means to be American – the courage to ride into the unknown, the frailty to fail and the strength to come back. Where Armstrong seemed to always be motivated by what others said, Landis motivated himself, not caring about the headlines or the doubts. Landis, he’s all about the winning.

He’s funny looking. He rarely says the right thing. His courage is silent, and his perseverance runs deep. Armstrong, to my memory, never had to battle a chronic injury during the Tour; he seemed always to be in the utmost shape, with the best team – which allowed the Texan to conduct the race on his terms. He was too cocksure, too arrogant. Landis rode in pain, for a team that many considered second rate. In interviews he seemed always to show his true self. When he cracked, he said so – and even agreed that he was done for the Tour. When he mounted his incredible comeback, he didn’t preen about, insult his competitors. He let his actions do the talking.

That’s what it means to be an American. Strong – and weak. Courageous – and cowardly. To be American means to be all of these things, like it or not, love it or hate it – but to always have a burning desire to succeed – no matter what the odds.

Landis may never ride again. And that’s okay. In the Alps of France and on the city streets of Paris, he shone as an example of what it means to be American – the good, the bad, the ugly, and the oh, so beautiful.

The dog died. And that was it — no reason, no whys or explanation, she just died after one solitary night away from her family. The family had dropped her off at the local pet hotel the day they went on vacation, and the dog never came back.

They were back soon enough, stunned and mourning the loss of a family member, each wondering why such a healthy, happy creature such as she would just up and leave this earth. But there was no why, nothing to write down on the paper, nothing to fill that empty place that comes only when a loved one passes along; no way to reason it or accept it. Just here, then gone, leaving one plausible but unscientific explanation:

That dog died of a broken heart.
Dogs have no protective filter with which to view the world. They are totally loyal and completely open; they are what you see, an expression of the world around them. They are kind if shown kindness, loving if given love, fearful if made to be afraid, violent if taught to be angry. Granted, all dogs carry with them the engineered genetics of their breed and their inclination toward a certain personality, but it is their environment that dictates how the personality expresses itself. For her, she didn’t understand why she was put in a cage and sent away. Didn’t understand, and thought that she was unloved, unwanted and discarded.

And she just died at the thought of it.

Talking to a million people is the loneliest thing. They sit you in a chair on an island, connected to the world by a rubber earpiece and a microphone. You sit there, for a long time, for forever, staring into a black hole and pretending that you’re good, you’re fine, that you’re ready to tell a million people a story as if you’re right there with them. There – sitting next to the harried businessman eating a sandwich at the airport terminal. Sitting at the kitchen table with the old lady who has the television on in the other room, just so she has some noise in the house and doesn’t feel so lonely. There – with the bored housewife, the unemployed guy lying on the couch, too beaten down to go through the classifieds one more stinking time.

You aren’t there, or so you tell yourself. You’re just sitting in that chair, on that island, and this is the easiest thing you will ever do. But then the lights begin to beat down on you like the sun, and your head starts to swim laps as the machine prepares to lift your image and your voice into the airwaves, shooting you across the nation and into the sky, bouncing it off satellites and delivering it to the bored housewife and the distracted businessman. The machine blurs the line between real life and a fake recreation that churns your image and intelligence into the endless torrent of noise.

You will die. But the machine will always be on. What’s real? You can touch the cheap chair, sitting in the middle of an island, the bright yellow smiley face mocking you from the front of the camera. Your friend smiles from the side and give you a thumb’s up. The tarted-up forty-something makeup girl tugs at your shirt and dabs your forehead, yells at the camera guy about a crease and those damn lights that are making you really sweat.

Then, suddenly, the crackle in your ear comes alive. It says hello, passes along a pleasantry, and drops THE BOMB: You’re on in ten. Are you ready? You don’t say no, not with ten seconds. Ten ticks and who you are will no longer be a secret. Ten seconds that feels like a day spent digging a ditch in a rubber suit.

Then it’s nine seconds, and your pulse begins to race. Your hand shakes when you pick up a cup of water to whet your parched lips.

Eight…you forgot everything you wanted to say, then seven comes and you no longer remember why you’re sitting in that chair, and would really like another sip of water.

Five, and your vision gets cloudy, your brain dives into the deep end, and everything you studied, all the angles, all the training and friendly advice swirls back down to the bottom of the cup, out of reach.

And then you are alone.

Alone — and in front of the world, a convict in an electronic cage. You are a clown, wearing a tie and looking like a dog on his last day at the pound. You take a deep breath as a man 3,000 miles away tells you that in five seconds, you are no longer going to be a secret and what you say will define you to a million people for at least the minute or so they spend thinking about what you have to say, just another speck of color in the torrent of noise that runs like a long and cold river. The crackle in the ear goes off. The lights get brighter, and you’re on.

Talking to a million people is the loneliest thing.