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skiesofarcadia
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Name: Greg
Country: United States
State: Oregon
Metro: Eugene
Gender: Male
Interests: Video Games, anime, manga, Star Trek, computers, rifles, reading, writing.
Expertise: Video games, Rifles, big rigs, and Computers. (linux!) :P
Occupation: Opinion Editor/Dishwasher
Industry: Student
Message: message meEmail: email me
Website: visit my website
AIM:  Vicious2061
MSN: snkboarder@hotmail.com
ICQ:  170615025
Yahoo:  dwarvengrandmarshal
Member Since:
12/9/2002
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| Time to think about lifeAs busy as life is, there's always time to think about it.
I got a Tarot reading awhile back and it told me three distinct things:
1. That I had a very powerful soul which was most likely old.
2. That there would be a powerful female figure in my life.
3. That I had a big decision to make, some sort of hurdle to get over, and one course of action would lead to true happiness and the other would lead to a life of quiet desperation.
I've been thinking about that decision...if it even exists...and wishing I knew what it was so I could make it, because I believe I'd make the right choice.
I think maybe it might be about love and this new girl I'm seeing. I'm not insanely infatuated or in love with her...it's just kinda "okay." But the more time I spend with her the more I need her. And maybe that's how love is supposed to be...or maybe you need that infatuation and minor obsession. Should love be instantaneous or should love grow?
And the question I have is that the decision might be to either run away now and set a standard for not being with women I'm not 100% in love with...or...the decision might be to stay and give her a chance because she might make me truly happy. Both ways seem right and both ways seem wrong, and if this is the major decision, I don't know which way to go with it. I think I'd like to wait on it and see if I truly love her and if I realize that I don't, the life-altering decision will be to stay with someone I'm not in love with because it's easy or to keep fishing.
Though, I tend not to believe in this sort of thing. Perhaps the decision is to live life for me, to make the choices I feel are best and that go along with my moral code and if I'm unsure, to take the time to find out how I really feel about it, so I don't get scared and just pick one. Of course, you can never be 100% sure about anything, but you should make sure you have all the facts and you truly know.
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| Camaraderie in San Diego (California Driving: Preceeding Post)The staff here at The Commuter has always been really tight. We get along, we share ideas, we’re comfortable, and there’s a lot of love to go around. And while this may seem idyllic, San Diego made me realize just how many newspapers are disjointed with in-fighting. Half the people I met at the conference hated half of the people they came with, and there was no love lost on the flipside. The fact that we all get along so well is amazing. We have Taco Tuesday every night the paper is finished out of own pockets. If someone’s too poor to buy that night, they get covered. We have a game night every Friday. And so I didn’t even think about it until the conference, when I was attending management sessions that delineated how to minimize drama and how to build a sense of unity and accomplishment at your paper. I realized I was wasting my time, because I already have an amazing staff that loves hanging out with each other and having fun. Over the course of the entire trip there was only one short fight, which was quickly resolved. No one was left behind or out in the cold on the trip. Often times, all 13 of us hung out together. There was some sense of bonding between some of the newer people. And all in all we’re all just best buds now, and for that I am both thankful and lucky. The trip was a blast for all involved. I haven’t felt a sense of camaraderie like this since the military and the bond that forms between brothers when you’re forced into those stressful situations of having to kill or be killed. For the first time I’m happy since the military and I feel safe enough to trust any of these fine people to take point or cover the six. Everyone talked in a Christopher Walken voice the entire time. We even got Rob to do it once. Some people asked us if we were driving. We said no, we’re “Walken”. Christopher Walken. We’re nice guys, give us a chance! Good job, Commuter, on all your hard work. You deserved this. Eyes on.
                                                                                
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| California drivin' on such a winter's day...I started off as a naïve Oregonian driver. There were certain tenants that were adhered to around here. If someone was signaling, you let him or her in. If you were going slowly and someone was riding your ass, you let him or her over. You drove safely and tried to kill the people around you. This all changed somewhere near L.A. Copy editor Gary Brittsan and myself took turns driving down to San Diego this last week for The Commuter’s annual trip to the Associated Collegiate Press conference for the west coast. Things were fine, we enjoyed the higher speed limit and large flat stretches of road between Mt. Shasta and the Grapevine, and it was quite relaxing driving. Then I hit L.A. in rush hour in my Ford F350 Econoline 15-passenger van. And that’s when L.A. hit me. We crawled for about three hours through that stretch of I-5 at which point I was cut off at least 30 times, forced into another lane four times and forced to slam on my brakes about 100 times. I learned quickly that if I wanted to hit my exit or make it into the carpool lane (or even merely survive) that I would have to endanger myself and other drivers, because no one in their right mind in California is going to give you a “brake” when you’re trying to drive. Part of me wonders if seeing Oregon plates is like when a sharks smells blood…and the denizens within California’s borders strike out liberally for any kill they can mark off as a notch on their bumper. I learned to change lanes without signaling as a reflex, to sprint across multiple lanes, to force people out of my way. I learned to fuck-over other motorists simply to get to where I wanted to go. You would think that motorists would have a higher will to survive. That cutting off a huge passenger van or sprinting right in front of it on your motorcycle would seem like a bad idea to them. But the fact that you’re in a large vehicle seems to equate to being slow and having a short stopping distance. It’s like they wanted to be crushed by a large vehicle and they were just hoping I wouldn’t pound the brakes fast enough for their vehicular suicide. Some part of me wanted to commit vehicular homicide. After L.A. I passed the van back to Gary at an In-N-Out burger after realizing that my driving was literally homicidal. The weekend went fine, amazing in fact, as fun and educational times were had by all. Then the trip back started. I was relaxed throughout San Diego and a stop off at the beach near Camp Pendleton as I asked some Marines why they were stuffing a man in their trunk and they just smiled and said because of seat belt laws and they didn’t have enough. Then L.A. before rush hour and times were good. We blasted Queen and sang every word as well as listened to the Wayne’s World soundtrack. I glanced down at the gas gauge and it was below empty. And I was halfway through L.A. Intrepidly, I pulled off at an intersection that said it had gas, but alas, we could only use our gas card at Chevron stations. We canvassed some of L.A.’s suburban sprawl before getting back on I-5 and a few exits down we tried again. We looked and looked for a Chevron, but none were to be had. We stopped at a McDonald’s to ask for directions, but no one would really talk to us. After scrounging up enough change to allow everyone to go to the bathroom, we continued on exploring. After an hour on a reserve tank, Contributing Editor Max Brown broke down and bought us gas at an Arco, at this juncture is was 5:10 p.m. – rush hour, and we were in the bowels of East L.A. The car next to us that pulled up was riddled with bullet holes from a 9mm Uzi and we all thought that it was probably a good idea to leave as it got dark. We started driving north keeping a bearing on I-5 to avoid the rush hour. The intersections were so crowded and bad I found myself dodging between pedestrians, swerving across multiple lanes and turning so hard I had to almost throw the van into a spin to avoid tipping over. Every intersection I progressively found myself doing more stupid and dangerous things just to get through. And I think that’s why we never got shot: I fit right in down there nearly killing myself and everyone around me just to get from point A to point B. We drove to north L.A. in this way before finding a freeway going West and we followed it to I-5. Somehow, without a map, a van full of white kids drove through East L.A. and safely made it back onto I-5! Gary and I fist-pounded our victory and cheers were had by all: L.A. had been defeated by two small-town country boys. On the freeway I took everything I’d learned in two trips through L.A. and fought an uphill battle to make it, judicially, to a stopping point right before the Grapevine at which point I gave the van back to Gary. When I woke up it was Shasta City and it was my turn to drive again. Then I relearned how to drive like an Oregonian again: down steep hills in the pouring rain through a high velocity wind advisory, hydroplaning and being pushed between lanes. I realized somewhere near Ashland that other drivers were no longer my concern and I could drive civily: I had to battle Mother Nature now. Driving home from LBCC after unloading the van, however, I still found myself driving like a Californian down HWY 34 and brutally attacking everyone around me. I never got the finger once in California. But I’ve gotten it a couple times back here in Oregon. And I’ve rarely tried to kill anyone here… | | |
| Smoking is Life.Smoking, ah, smoking. One of life’s little pleasures.
It serves many functions in my life, from a social icebreaker (hey, we already have something in common, we love committing suicide) to a calming solution for my brain. I began smoking when I was 18 and in the United States Air Force on a lark. It was the 4th of July long weekend and I had 3 days off base with a 3 a.m. curfew to my name. My family was down to visit, and I was hanging out with a fellow one rank above me who was also in the Blue Knights marching band.
He smoked, and I decided that since I was both 18 and serving my country, I deserved a little smoky pleasure as well, considering that deployment to Iraq was imminent and I was fairly certain I was going to die, anyway, what was the harm?
And thus it began with a pack of “Sport Lights” a brand I’ve never even seen on the West coast. It was an awful and terrible experience but I was hooked. Because after I started hanging out at the smoke pits on the Air Force Base the number of friends I began to make was staggering. Suddenly, this socially awkward teenager that was bravely going off to do whatever had some semblance of popularity. It was a red headed girl that eventually got me turned onto Pall Mall Red 100s, my brand of choice. There’s just something I love about the taste of myrrh and cancer in the morning. (sniffs the air brazenly) It smells like victory.
Smoking also provides a semblance of sanity in my life. I’m an unmedicated bi-polar, though you would never guess it. I have a large amount of self-control and I care too much about making progress in my life and the people around me to let it affect either. This is where smoking comes in. It’s the only mood stabilizer I’ve ever found that works. The only thing that puts me right back to my center. It can turn even the worst day into an “O.K.” day.
And yeah, I may die sooner. But it picks me up when I’m low, and slows me down when I’m high.
It fills in the free time of my life, ensuring that I’m never bored. And somewhere deep down, I still feel like a cowboy.
Yes, it may be cold and miserable out there (rarely too hot), but for most of us, we couldn’t be happier. It’s a much-needed social break in a society that seems to frown on socialization. The sort of conversations I’ve struck up and the people I’ve met. Even just being at a smoke pit makes me feel social enough to say “hi.” I can’t imagine a life without smoking. And while it may kill me, I would argue that breathing the air in Albany will kill you. At least this gives me two distinct benefits in my life.
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| Memories (See Entry Below)I finally got the gumption to start cleaning this weekend. It's been, literally, a year since I cleaned my house. And while I normally don't do much housework or domestic stuff during school terms because by the time I get home from school AND work AND The Commuter, I'm so dead tired, I just want to watch an hour of TV and then pass out. \
I started to count the beer bottles. And they painted out a history for me. This bottle of Mike's I'd given to this girl, or that Coors my friend Rob brought over. Black Butte Porter I drank to forget my ex-fiance. Each one I could place with a date, time, and person and it felt exact, like recreating the last year of my life.
And then I realized, it's been almost a year since I broke off my engagement with my fiance who used to live here with me. And it was almost like I'd forgotten. But the more I cleaned the more things of her's I found. A dust-covered leather strap used to tie up her dreadlocks, worn with age, still reeking of sweat from all the concerts we attended. A picture of her, she framed herself and placed above my bedstand, fallen off and actually into the air vent on my subwoofer. It reminded me of my life the past year, that no matter what I do, I'm still diverging around the memories of her.
The worst was a stuffed Ziggy vampire doll that reads "I love you!" in a cartoonish font. She gave that to me the first month we were together, all those long years ago.
And I realized why I don't clean. It's not because I'm a messy person, and it's not because I hate hard work. It's because I know, every inch of my room is crawling with memories. And I'm so afraid of what I might find. What things in my past I've tried so hard to forget or move past that will come cropping back up. Things that I didn't have the strength to deal with when they were new. Just...things. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized the golden sheen of time had passed over and all of those memories were happy. And these were just things. Things I could keep if I wanted and put on display, or things I could toss because they meant nothing to me anymore. Just...things.
I desperately needed to clean my room, for my head. And while I'm still mid-process, the fact of the matter is, it feels like it's mine again. It isn't a layer of pain buried with new trappings and things to cover it up. It's just like in your head...you can't just block it out and make it go away.
It was nice to pack up all the memories of my old life in an old hard drive box and put it on the shelf. The military, my rank insignias, pictures of my brothers in arms, their phone numbers and last known addresses, my lucky bullet, a scrap of paper with no words on it that came off a letter a friend wrote me in Basic. A lock of Sarah's hair, her Guild Wars account information, the hemp necklace she made me at the Country Fair in 2006. The wedding ring I would've given her. The first edition VHS Casette of Star Trek: Voyager's pilot episode. Well, maybe that will stay next to my Tholian Web snowglobe.
Two different lives that were different from the first one, lumped together and buried, because they no longer bear relevance on this one. Love and War. In the sands of time, all things are relegated to equality and sameness.
I don't think I'll ever feel love again, but I'm glad to know I'll never feel war again.
Eventually...you're going to have to deal with that pain. I try so hard to be emotionless and unreadable, and it works, because no one is close to me. But maybe I should let go and go back to who I was...before the Military, before Sarah...back to a pristine time when I was proud to care.
You can't run forever...because you're always going to carry that weight, Space Cowboy.
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