James In Context

Shhh.

tumblr does proposals now?

piratekitten:

i really hope she says yes, sheesh.

The things people will do for a boost in their Tumblarity…

This kind of inspiration is such a healthy, wonderful kind of Hollywood cliche

realrealsoft:

the scene is this: i am buying peppermint patties at ralphs at 12:30 in the morning yesterday. three people are behind me and i am fourth from the cash at the only open checkout. two girls in chic, fitted coats are ahead of me, shivering and mussing up their dark hair and shaking it out again. we are all waiting because a man with a pockmarked face is being insolent with the cashier.

the man is exchanging an unopened bottle of astroglide for one of a different brand. he is wiry and looks like the kind of person who would talk loudly on his phone in a crowded area while flitting his eyes around to see who is eavesdropping on this interesting world he is creating with his amplified conversation. right now he is subjecting us to his qualms with ralph’s return policy. his voice carries. “why do i have to give a reason? and my zip code? what a time-waster. every ounce of my time that you’re wasting is not good right now.”

i am sympathetic towards the cashier, who is patient and kind. i tap my phone against my lips and am careful not to break my stare with the selection of pocket word seek books on the rack front of me. one of the girls in coats is dealing with painfully tall high heels; she balances on one leg while taking the pressure off the other by bending it backwards, like a flamingo. she and her friend are resisting the urge to sigh loudly, which is achieved by exchanging silent, knowing glances at each other, glances that convey: “get on with it.” “fuccck thisss, he’s taking forever!” “gross. we should have gone to a pavillions.” it makes me feel alone, but included, being close enough to see these wordless ruminations.

the cashier leaves to check something with his manager, so the astroglide and its less expensive counterpart sit on the stationary black conveyor belt, and the wiry man with the pockmarks has puffed his chest out and assumed a posture of exaggerated indifference to protect his pride from this public situation of private subject matter. the tinny christmas music that floats from the store speakers is not relieving the silence and tension in this lineup. it builds like the songs churned from jack in the boxes.

he speaks to one of the coat girls: “honey, i tell you, when you’re older and uglier and you get lucky, it feels good. it just feels good.” following this is a laugh that suggests he would like her to affirm this statement. but she is very young.

i think she may respond- if forced not by true sympathy, then by her ink signature on the social contract, which dictates the rules for situations like this: be polite, try to ease his anxiety without burdening yourself. i think i would respond, if it were me. he is asking for relief and it would be a courtesy to extend it to him, like holding a door. he’s seeking comraderie, understanding, a nod, a wan smile - anything. but she bows her head and i can see her pained expression behind a curtain of layered hair. she is embarrassed now, too, by proxy and proximity.

this rebuff has intensified his i-don’t-give-a-fuck stance. i wish he was just returning dog shampoo or spoiled meat, i wish he could relax, i wish that he had been nicer to the clerk, who returns then and exchanges the items. the man leaves.

there is no feeling so powerfully unifying between strangers as the relief upon the exit of someone like this: who has not signed the social contract, who is not paying polite dues. i feel guilty that i am included in this collective relief, because i feel like an impostor.

i have signed the contract, of course. but my left hand was behind my back.

fingers crossed.

the breeze

cwphoto:

the oceans were made by the breeze
that wept and fucked through the trees
and all the leaves fell, bastards from the swell
now cracking beneath both my feet

I need the strength to create a new beginning. I need to get my shit together and I need to make some decisions.

I don’t want to go to Grad school. I should go, though. I can go, too. I miss having the intellectual stimulation provided by daily classes and weekly readings. I miss feeling proud of my ideas and my subsequent papers. I miss the praise and I miss the inspiration I feel when I’m around people who are infinitely smarter than I am. A graduate degree in Anthropology might bring me closer to the dream job of writing and/or photographing for Vice Magazine, or the National Geographic or some other related publication (yes, I realize how naive this dream is). Listening to Wade Davis speak was the best and worst thing I could have done on Halloween. The man is everything I want to be and he has done everything I wish I could do. However, the idea of being stagnant and living through other people’s publications for another two years is nauseating. I want to travel. I want to take off and wave farewell to this banal life.

I have a stress-free job that pays well and brings me into the city everyday. Living at home is shit, but cheap. My family is disconnected, but not dysfunctional. Of the three other people who live in this house, I can only hold a peaceful conversation with one. Pops is coolest guy I know, but we have little in common and, as a result of this, the conversations we have are brief and few and far between. I really do wish we could be closer, but I can’t foresee any deep connections being made. I’m fairly certain that I’m not the gear-headed, image-oriented son he’d hoped for 22 years ago. Sorry, Pops.

I need to break free. I’ve run dry. March will be an interesting time. I’ll be out of work once again with a lump-sum of money I’ll likely want to spend on a plane ticket going anywhere. South Korea would be great and, if I can afford it, that’s where I’ll go. I love having the freedom to do whatever it is that I want to do, but being totally and utterly disconnected and uncommitted to anything at all makes me uneasy. Even when I am on the move, I’m determined to reach another destination. However, at this moment, I don’t have a goal and I don’t have a direction. I’ve made myself seem so well-travelled. I’m not. I wish I was, and I hope to be, but being, “on the move” usually only entails an extended car-ride to wherever I’ve spontaneously decided to go. I guess that will have to be OK for now. The act of travelling isn’t defined by a measurement of space, anyways.

I want something of my own. I want to be extraordinary at one thing. I want to be able to do something, or produce something, that is awe-inspiring to myself and others. I want that internal flame which ignites people’s passions. This grey, mundane matter I’ve transformed into has created a mindset driven by perpetual apathy. I want to own something. I don’t mean that I want to own a physical item. I just want something, be it a talent, a skill, or a persona, which is mine. I want to be defined; I want to be multi-dimensional.