mud

The sun radiates behind me, warming my shoulders and back. On my hands and knees, the ground is a thick layer of mud like the frosting of a birthday cake. In it are diagrams and and writings. Most are indiscernible, written in a language I don’t speak or describing events yet to happen.

Drawn in thick lines when the mud was saturated and nearly fluid is my destiny. A definitive path meanders through many crude illustrations. It darts from left to right, circles around itself, reverses and then reverses again. It climbs steep slopes or gradually works up rolling hills. Where the path leads is far off, too far to see.

Many other paths cross it, overlap it and run alongside it. They’re flanked by the same illustrations, changing constantly. Changes I make to my path sometimes influence the others but I can’t change them directly.

Like the knee of an overzealous police officer, an ominous feeling presses on my chest. Behind me are footprints, comments and more diagrams. They have already set, dried as hard as stone. They’ve led me here, to where the mud is starting to solidify before my eyes.

It’s drying more rapidly than ever. The rays are getting stronger, ripping the moisture from it. I can still dig, alter the drawings and erase some writings, but the sun is reaching farther faster than I can keep up. My digging and altering manifests new diagrams or narratives farther along but I can’t move fast enough.

The path shifts and maneuvers with every change to the mud directly below me. The path avoids climbs or drops off in ways that seem arbitrary. The pressure against my chest motivates my hands. Any change here or there could ease the tension, release it completely or make it much worse.

Parts of the path dry before others. When I started the drawings could be manipulated freely. Now the task is arduous and exhausting. My fingers are rubbed raw by graphics or words already set. All the while, the sun beats down.

Ahead of me lay hundreds of events, twists, celebrations and disappointments. I could get off my knees and walk but to stand would mean forfeit. The moisture is being so quickly evicted from the muddy path it would mean defeat. It would mean coming to terms with the ominous feeling. It would mean coming to terms with the path being mostly beyond my control.

Soon, I will only be able to manage small changes, tiny alteration to the drawings and inscriptions. The flexibility of the saturated soil will give way to firm opposition. That will be that.

I claw at the dirt, adding words here, illustrations there or wiping away whole diagrams, hoping to align the path according to my aspirations. I can only hope the work will pay off, that I’ll be able to make large enough modifications.

Once the mud it set, I’ll stand, start walking and follow the course. I’m confident I’ll be able to manage and accept whatever comes. But until then, I’ll keep working the wet dirt, trying to make the walk that much easier.

flooded

I couldn’t pull the cord fast enough. I’d pull it, feel the resistance it tugged the starter, but the engine wouldn’t burst into the familiar choppy thumping and come to life. Dad steps out of the house and makes his way over. I press the small plastic button again, forcing more fuel into the engine.

I pull the cord with similar results and lean down to push the priming button again. “Hold on, let it sit. You probably flooded the engine,” Dad says from the garage, where he’s lifting the edger off its hook.

The only experience I’ve had with engines involved the turn of a key. “Flooding” was never a factor. I didn’t know what he meant, but I do as instructed.

I wait a few moments while he unrolls the extension cord. He plugs in and starts the wire spinning. He attacks the lawn where it meets the base of the garage. I grab the cord again, determined to hear the rumble of the motor and the slight buzz of the spinning blade. I wrench back, feel the cord catch, hear the engine kick over. I push forward and start following the edge of the lawn.

Years later, my head feels like the gas-filled engine. Everything happened too fast. I was pushed from an awkward twelve-year-old to a supposed-to-be-mature twenty-five-year-old without being able to absorb the shock. I was influenced too easily, had too many experiences and still hold misconceptions.

Ignored in high school and then adored in college, I don’t trust girls’ affection. I take advantage, manipulate and am selfish. I take compliments at face value; as shallow attempts to win praise in return. I’m cruel and distrusting. Relationships are short and superficial. Only a couple end with more than general indifference.

The boys I meet are ignorant and pathetic. Their conversation annoys me and their attempts at bravado are depressing. I associate better with girls and learn much. I pay more attention and treat the women with respect. I start to empathize and can give them a male perspective on some things. Still, most remain superficial and relatively short-lived.

Almost all my friendships through high school fade to pathetic blips on social networks. Mostly, it’s the five hour move west that breaks ties, but I see myself being discarded. New friendships are less open. I close myself off and become judgmental, jaded before I can drink at a bar. I try to remain in contact, but many aren’t interested.

Of the friends that are left, only a few are supportive after St. Patrick’s Day. So many I thought were close reduce themselves to drinking buddies when I’m sober. Other relationships appear pointless. It’s all a show, just a pack of people under the influence.

Different perspectives are tossed at me. The marketed patriotism that spews from the 2001 attacks rings hollow against the manipulation and expansion of our empire. I try to discuss how the middle class is eroding; how we are a divided nation and spreading our greed across the globe. No one else seems interested. My opinions are reduced to small bits of awkward humor about an inflated dollar, a coming depression or who we’re going to bomb next.

All I see is consumption. Status is manifested through things. There’s no substance, no deeper perspective, just stuff. I am surrounded by uninteresting, ingenuous mannequins. I read about the ultra-poor, watch movies about battered peoples and learn about fallen cultures. No one else is interested.

In the year I move furniture, the consumption and superficiality surround me like blanket soaked in ice water. The indifference and condescension is almost tactile. It resonates. It is there so often I start to stop paying attention to the people that are genuinely grateful, thankful I’m there assisting them in their transition. I see only the things and how I am looked on as the hired help.

I can’t get past those distrusting glares. Later, surrounded by the same people at the office or at pubs or on patios, every disrespectful word, insult under their breath or ungrateful indifference is amplified through memories of being ordered around, watched like a thief, or ignored completely. I could explain the origins of my distaste for the richest rich, but no one is interested.

Things settle slightly. The ideas and experiences calm. I take in the information at my own pace instead of being flooded with it. I absorb things I couldn’t while being rushed through high school and college, constantly tugging at the cable that would get my life started.

My new status as a near-middle-class mid-twenty fits like a t-shirt that hangs down to my knees. Information comes in through a new perspective that’s mine, developed through so many years of bombardment. I know I’m looking at things through a distorted lens, but I can’t shake the experiences and the impressions they left.

I haven’t met anyone like me and I doubt there are many. I dislike the “hippie” culture, but hold many of their ideals. I see organized religion as hindering progress, but my faith is strong. I see the imaginary “invisible hand” working, but don’t believe that’s a good thing. I see the power of the internet as the only democratic and unbiased media, but feel the “invisible hand” tightening around its neck.

I don’t have anything figured out and don’t have many goals for my future. I pretend everything makes sense. I pretend I know what’s what. I pretend I’m stronger than I am. I pretend I know what I want for myself. The flood of ideas, influences, experiences, perspectives, connections and thoughts has finally started to settle into place.

I’m more primed than ever to kick over the engine to whatever life has in store, but I’m afraid to pull the cord.