The Double-Edged Sword

Always an interesting dilemma how double-edged it would be to be any flavor of psychic. Specifically anything that lets one see the future. How easy it would be to get sucked into the idea of what might happen or who one might be one day. How much awareness of the current environment would be lost in the vision and how far off track would one have to drift before that perceived future shifted irrevocably. 

The irony is that this kind of lost is possible every day for everyone, without any iota of ability.  Too much focus on what might be instead of the present moment. Too much static in the form of video games and TV and projects, self-imposed and external.  And the missing of important, and maybe not so important, things like the blooming of the irises or the singing of the house wren amid the cherry blossoms. 

I know of waayyy too many people in the latter category. Lost in the dream. Too much focus on what might be and then they turn around to find themselves seven years older and having missed the parts that make the journey enjoyable. Unfortunately, unlike a sleeper, these people fight attempts to wake them. They don't even look up to say goodbye to the people they pass by in their fugue.  And they don't notice, or care, they've missed the house wrens.

This type of individual is always looking for others to believe in their vision of future self and will often offer up their ideas for the future-me. 

"Oh, one day you'll be presenting in front of company boards..."  Me "yeah I don't care right now..." and go back to my book.  I learned to value the present moment for every experience, every second during my internship in Baltimore at 17, because I knew, knew, that at the end of the summer I'd be heading back to rural America and would never have those experiences with those people again. 

Give me kitty whiskers and lemon tea, tulips and Sinatra along the path any day rather than some grand illusion of an emerald city. Because in the end, for those who continually live in the future, that grand goal will always be a couple steps ahead. 

visit Samantha Byrnes' gallery online...

The Cape-Wearing Opera-Singing Max

Mr Bunny

It's somewhat interesting to me to realize that I'm not aware of how freaking annoying something is until it stops. And then it's like removing a vise from around the lungs.

Take, for example, my roommate's cat. He's possibly the cutest cat EVER. I call him Mr Bunny with his big eyes and tiny squeaks and fluffy white and marmalade fur. He's only slightly neurotic with his love of strawberry ice cream and his pretending to try other proffered treats so as not to hurt the offerer's feelings. 

Anyway, evidently my impending move with the massing of boxes and furniture in the meaningless alcove known as the formal living room (not to be confused with the family room that actually has couches and stuff) has triggered an additional neurosis in his tiny brain. Now in addition to thinking he's the fiercest tiny lion superhero he feels compelled to sing about it, in the language of his people, LOUDLY, at 4am.  

Now the loft, where I sleep, is, in the traditon of lofts everywhere, open to the floor below with its tile floor, blank walls, and empty spaces. In his tiny mind it's his shower, his grand stage, his destiny. Holy Fuck his singing echoes. I didn't realize just how much it was impacting my sleep patterns until yesterday, when I had him locked in my roommate's office overnight after a week of hiding my head under pillows and offering a variety of things to whatever god might be listening to make it stop.  And the past two nights, since his seclusion, blissful silence and my sleeping through the night for the first time in what seems like forever. 

Goodbye iron vice on my chest, hello sweet sweet air. Here's hoping my impending move has a similar effect. 

visit Samantha Byrnes' gallery online...