Safety in Unknown

So that's wrong, right?

It's the fear of the unknown that we live, or try to pretend that we don't live that, with our false courage, or our real courage but the unknown is still there and the fear is still there. Immovable; irreplaceable. We try to avoid it by filling our lives with our iPods (oops: iPads these days, how outre of me to make that 'out' gaff now that iPads are 'in') and our rushing about, always late, because we always make ourselves late by filling our lives with noise, noise, white noise so we don't notice it, that fear, that we don't even notice the noise-as-substitute, that we don't notice anything, pushing past things (other people) to just get through our lives, racing through it, racing toward our own ...

Don't think about that. Don't think about death. We know death. We know that it's unknown, so we never talk about it, until we gasp out 'call 911!' as the darkness squeezes out the breath from our lungs.

Oh, boy, `phfina you are on a tear here.

Oh, yes, I am.

But I actually argue the opposite. We are not afraid of the unknown. Not at all.

Don't believe me? Well, I have incontrovertible proof.

The unknown is still there. And so are you.

What we fear, we murder. We turn on something, in our fear, and lash out, and destroy it.

I know. I so know. I do it, and I have lots of PMs from you, my dear readers, as you lash out at me from your true selves, lash out at me, to destroy me.

And do you ever.

But the unknown is untouched. Science gives a safe little façade ('lie') of 'progress,' but science (or should I write 'Science' ... as so many of you bow down and worship it every day: the lines are so long at the sbuxen they extend outside the building these days) is just a comfortable pillow you can rest on to say 'oh, we understand,' when what science has been doing is discovering what? not illuminating and explaining and demystifying and deconstructing the unknown. No, Science has shown us the further we forge, o so bravely, at that dragon Unknown, the more, the bigger it becomes.

But nobody faces that truth. Nobody dares speak what nobody wants to hear. Those who do are murdered, gassed, crucified, stoned or burned at the stake.

'Witch' comes from the root word: 'Wit' ... a woman with smarts. Can't have those in our village, nosirree!

'There's a lot here we don't understand; you are acting on beliefs built on lies that you tell yourselves: maya' ... 'PUT HER UP AGAINST THE WALL!'

The truth is (o God, here comes the mob) ... the truth is this. You are happy living your small live surrounded and consumed by ...

excuse me: coughing fit. Ouch. ... must medicate.

I'm back.

Where was I? Oh, yes: ... consumed by the unknown.

Yes: I said you are happy in this state.

"Oh, but, `phfina, no: you're wrong! I'm miserable with my gf or with my life or with my job or with my ..."

After all, you read fan fiction, my stories, too, to escape for a while from this misery you call your life.

The truth however, is the exact opposite: no, you aren't miserable. Or, more precisely, ...

SHUT UP, MISS MUSE!

(she was going to say something about my love affair with precision and has that made me happy, but I am not to be interrupted (too much ... well, yes: too much, but I can deal) when I'm on a roll).

More precisely: you are happy being miserable.

Oh, you say you aren't. Then the path is a simple one to take. You hate your job? Quit. Quit being that stuffed shirt, or stuffed skirt (up the ass), and move to Vermont and start that farm or art colony or fitness center you have always said you wanted to.

Go ahead. I don't even have to bother saying 'I double-dog dare you.' Because I know you. I look in the mirror. I know you.

"`phfina, you have a really warped view of life and jobs and stuff. You weren't fucked up the ass every day at sbux when you worked there, were you? No. So you're so full of shit that you can't even speak without it coming out of your mouth."

Maybe. Maybe. That's a perspective. And a good one if it empowers you. But I do know things. And I do see things.

I'm breathing easier now that I'm not a ... okay, I won't say bad things about my ex-job, bc there were good times ... kinda ... cleaning the bathrooms and stuff. But I know my job was way better than my customers in their slave collars, I mean 'suits and ties' or 'business suits' as they lived their grey-grey lives each second bringing them more despair as they knew that they were one second closer having to go to work.

At least I didn't have to do that. At least I had a job where it was my job to deliver happiness one cup at a time.

Still don't believe me, do you. Well, fancy this: most heart attacks occur at 9 am Monday morning. That's right: people would rather die than go to work.

So the fucking is metaphorical, did you get that? Which is so much worse than if you were actually being fucked by the boss.

I know. I just said that. But here's why. I know, from first hand accounts what happens when the boss fucks his ... whatever you want to call his girl Friday. They end up together, and sometimes happy, too.

I know. From first hand observations. I'll leave it at that.

And I've seen when the boss doesn't fuck his employees (literally) ... well, everyone is living in hell at that shop. Which shop, `phfina? Well, from what I've seen, just about every shop, or: for just about for everyone who has a job.

And you so want me to leave my free state and go right into the workforce so I can be literally or metaphorically fucked up the ass.

And then I get my paycheck ... and see which bills I can pay this month with it. ... I believe they call that 'DP.'

You can look that one up.

But you'd rather do that. Or go to school.

And oh, my God! Professors? You think they are better than bosses? Don't get me started.

Unless you are the professor, in which case it's the students: can they get any stupider ... any more dull and dreary ... this year?

... or ... whatever everybody else is doing. Why?

Because you are in the middle of the herd. Because if you move out to the edge of the herd, or ... God forbid! ... leave the herd, there's that big, scary unknown, and you'd rather live your dull, small life that everybody else lives than face that.

Or so you think.

But there's a symbiotic relationship between the herd and the hunter (the Unknown). They depend on each other.

You don't fear the unknown.

You need it.

You need it there to keep you in your place. You need it there to justify why you know, by every measure, you're not living up to your expectations, you're not living your life powerfully, freely, peacefully, joyfully.

And so what do you do?

What do you do when you see a star shine so brilliantly in the night sky.

"You do not put a lamp under a bushel."

Actually, that's exactly what you do.

You see a person achieving, and growing, and glowing, and living, and what do you do?

"It'll never last!"

"You'll tire yourself out."

"Are you for real? Nobody could be like that."

"Give it up, your crusade, nobody can do that, especially not you!"

You reach up from the shit you are in, not so they can pull you up into the light, but so that you can pull them down, in fact, under you, stepping on top of them: you are drowning, so you might as well extinguish the light.

It's nice and comfy here in this cesspool, and anybody who stays otherwise, with their hurtful achieving ('who do they think they are? Hmmphf!'), with their too honest writing should be tortured first, a lot, and then shot.

After all, the unknown is safe. You can play all sorts of games with it, like worry, and procrastination, and panic attacks, and anything that takes you away from living your life.

You know? Stepping out? In faith? In courage? Into the unknown?

Oh, no, can't have that! ... so ... what's on the TV?

After all, if you did step out, in faith, into the unknown, the unknown would become ...

Known.

And that means you would have to deal with it. It being you. And your life.

So don't write that chapter, `phfina, because you just so know they are going to savage you for it. Don't quit your job, because then you have to live your life on your terms not on theirs, 'theirs' meaning 'everybody elses' ... and 'everybody elses' meaning, only meaning mine. Because if you are living your life like everybody else (like I do) then there must be Something Wrong With Me.

Uh, oh: unknown looming up. Quick: tell `phfina to get a job so I can justify why I eat this self-loathing hate and despair that I cover up with sameness and boredom every day, all the time ... um, I meant, 'my job.'

Yes, there's safety in the unknown, for as much as we play the fear and worry game, the unknown is still ever out there in the Future, the unchanging chimera that it is.

So, ... ;)

I said all this to answer your question: "You've been coughing for a month and you haven't gone to the doctor, `phfina. Why?"

Well, once I go to the doctor, this cough, that's nothing, o God, I hope it's nothing, 'cause It'll Be Okay Someday.

Becomes something.

What it became was bronchitis.

Just a little nothing case of bronchitis that a prescription of antibodies and rest will clear up, or it won't.

But you missed it, didn't you.

That little case of bronchitis was nothing, is nothing now, but before it was unknown.

That little case of you not writing a chapter of a story of a book you'll never publish is you telling yourself 'oh, who'd be interested, and besides, I'm not a good writer anyway.'

That little case of you not asking that girl out is ...

... is, oh, my God does the beast rear its ugly head:

She's wouldn't be interested in me anyway. Why?

She'd probably say no if I asked.

She'd slap me in the face, pour her drink over my head and then she and all her friends would point at me and laugh at me.

If I were to ask her, then there would always be That There Between Us and it'd be so awkward, and I'd have to turn and walk the other way whenever I'd see her.

You ever think of how much it costs to say hi?

I do.

But I also weigh the other cost.

Everything you do, and everything you don't do, has a cost.

Not saying hi to me as I'm passing you?

Do you know how that kills me? Every time, when you lift your phone to look at it, rather than to look at me, and maybe see my eyes, and maybe say hi, and maybe smile?

Do you know how much your smile costs?

It costs a lot.

That's not the right way to say it.

It's worth a lot. It is so, so dear. You know why?

Every person I see. Regardless.

Regardless.

Every person I see, when they burst in to a smile or a genuine laugh, or just a small private grin?

Oh, my God! It's like there was this lifeless wraith before but now, but now, their spirit fills them and they actually glow and you can't compare one to the other, you can't say a person is 'more beautiful' when they smile. Because from lifelessness to lively?

They aren't more beautiful: they are beautiful. Period.

And, but, you withhold your smile. You withhold your care. You judge people, your roommates, your coworkers, your bosses, your friends, and you withhold, and you become cold.

And they cry.

Or, worse, they soldier on.

And you kill people around you, all the time, because you'd rather have a nice, distant, cool, polite relationship with ... well, everybody, because 'nobody can care about everybody they meet,' (fucking lie) so you don't even open up to one person. You don't even open up to your own lover.

You don't even open up to your own mother. You don't even open up to your own sister. You don't even open up to your own daughter.

And you kill them.

And it's nice, safe, and cautious here. Nobody gets hurt. ... except that everybody does; and everybody survives.

But for what.

I'm taking my medication. I'm drinking tea. I'm (trying) to sleep more than two hours a day.

To survive.

But why?

So I can get a job? And be a Productive Member of Society?

Which society is that? Your society is the one you choose to keep.

And that society tells quite a bit about you.

What society are you keeping?

How about this: what society are you bettering?

"Please smile today." "Oh, I didn't smile today, because it was a shitty day."

A day is a day. You make it shitty — not them, you — or you make it joy-filled.

You know what I've been practicing, besides the smile game (that is, I choose to be a person who the people I encounter are better for it and I know that from their smile I now see that I did not see before)? I've been practicing that the instant I think something, like, 'oh, I should write to ...' I don't think about it, I just do it. I step out. In fear. And I type the first work. Or I dare raise my eyes, and breath out a 'h-hi' to the man walking the other way on the park trail. Or I dare to sneak into Victoria's Secret and dare to touch then to take that lace teddy off the rack and I dare to try it on, just because.

Well, almost try it on. Draping it over me counts ... sorta ... it is a big step for me, you know.

And that's the thing. The step. For you it's nothing, and I'm a coward. But I'm not measuring myself by your yardstick. You've walked further down the road. And there's more road to take, and I took that little baby step ...

... and they I ruined it, for you, that is, right? But running away as fast as I could and hiding myself in that big cushy-cushy chair.

But I have that moment where I dared something I haven't dared before, and nobody can take that away from me. And it felt really, really good, really daring to step into that unknown.

Do you have a moment like that? Where you dared something? Nobody can take that away from you.

And you know what? It's more than money in the bank, because money gets used and it's gone, or something, but this moment? You can use it whenever you'd like. You can use it now to do it again, the exact same thing, which is to step out into the unknown, and dare, and live.

And like that first time, you have no idea what will come out of it, and you have no way of knowing who you'll be after you take that step.

And you know exactly what it's like to live, comfortably, in fear, with the unknown over there and you over here, nice, safe, everybody-does-it doing it.

Did I say 'live'? I meant 'exist.'

I have bronchitis, and I walked to the pharmacy to get the meds ... what? Did you think they would carry themselves to me on my death bed?

O, `phfina, so the drama!

And as I was walking home, the sky opened up, again, and the deluge soaked me to the panties now firming riding up my butt crack.

Perma-wedgie. Super-icky.

There's Thor, the god of thunder, then there's me, third day in a row, not the goddess of rain, but more like the goddess of soggy or bedraggled.

And then the heat and humidity after that power shower? I mean, it was a downpour and there wasn't a cloud in the sky and the sun was beating angrily, focused right on my head. I mean: how is that possible! I almost melted by the time I made it back to my place.

And ... okay, well, maybe I stopped at a ... place where food is served, you know? It was happy hour with half-priced appetizers, and I have been told I need to eat, and American-sized portions? I can eat half (being stuffed!) and bring half home.

And while I was at the bar, I had this revelation.

I mean, come on! can the revelations take a vacation from me, please?

And my revelation is this. Frappuccinos? You know what they are?

"Strawberries and crème blended crème drink"?

Write that while having a coughing fit!

Why don't they just say: "Substitute strawberry daiquiri" and be done with it.

People buy a frappuccino to live a surrogate life, substituting fake sugar for the real thing, and the real thing isn't even an alcoholic drink, it isn't even a sense of control and empowerment by ordering a 'decaf soy latte with one pump of sugar free vanilla and, yes, I do want whip ,,, oh, I'll splurge and make that a grande' and watch with the amusement to see if the barista fumbles your drink so you get the freebie card off them.

Honey, I've made more complicated drinks than yours, okay?

No, the substitute is for happiness.

So you wait in a long line, annoyed and impatient, at oh, my God, so early in the morning, so you can rush right out into rush hour traffic, that, oddly enough, isn't rushing at all, but standing stock still for an hour, and so you can be a road hazard as you are dialing your blackberry and sipping your latte that, dammit, the barista made correctly after all, and then you sit around work all day, scared out of your mind that the boss will come by and ask you what you're doing when he knows full well you're doing nothing because he hasn't given you work in weeks, so you make work to pretend to be working and you bitch and moan with your coworkers about what a shitty job this is, gossiping about the slut or the boss or both or about the football game last night and ...

... and that's how you spend your day?

And that's how you want me to spend mine?

Yeah.

Well, it does look really ... safe ... in there, I'll give you that.

You know, you could even live, even at work.

You know what works at work, and what doesn't. You know when you settle (that is, all the time) and when you fix something broken at work, and you're the heroine and everybody's happy because that stinking white elephant went away and now everybody, finally, can breathe easier, and you know you did that. You know what you're happy doing and what you're doing because you're just doing it to pass the time to fill the time because you're bored, no, scared to actually do something and actually live.

Even at work.

Or you know that this work thing? This job? It's so not you, and you know what is you. Don't tell me you don't. You know, so deep in your bones you can feel it in your marrow, what is you and what isn't, because you feel you being you with you're doing what you're meant to be doing. And you feel yourself being fake when you're faking it, or just getting by, or not ruffling feathers, whatever the hell that means.

But you settle. And then you justify it. You even say, 'well, this is just the way that I am' or 'this is just how it is,' using context to justify what a shit you are and what shit you are in.

Sister, that shit doesn't fly with me. You can play that game with yourself all you like, and, boy, do you like it, but don't come round to me looking for me to bend over and take your junk up my ass.

You can play your game. I see how delighted you are to be miserable. I play my own games. Some of them are shitty, too, yes.

But some of them ...

I dare to hope.

I dare to believe in you. I dare to believe in you, even when you don't.

I dare to believe you can do what you set out to do.

I dare not to take the shit that comes out of your mouth. I dare to believe you can do better than settle for or settle with.

I dare to call the bullshit you are saying bullshit, and I dare not to agree, just like everybody else does: 'oh, yeah, you're right. What can you do, you know? That's just how it is.' You want that behavior, you go look for somebody who lives that behavior. Don't look for it from me, gf.

I dare to get caught in the rain and throw my arms out and dance, twirling my head back and around, as I scream 'Wheeeeeee!'

I dare to curse the darkness: "YOU STUPID DARKNESS" and I dare to live in that darkness ... hey, I love the darkness, and the stars and the moon, and I dare to light a lamp, and look right into the flame (ouch, my eyes!) and then hold it up, high, and say, 'hey, over here! You can do this, too!'

I dare to smile. I dare to open my eyes. I dare to see your smile. I dare to have my breath taken away by your smile.

God, you are so beautiful.

And you know why? You know why I call you on your bullshit, and stand here, shouting, that the life you are living is a lie? You know why I dare to see you as you can be, as you are, if you'd only open your eyes and see yourself? Do you know why?

Because I love you, and I care about you, and I want you to be happy.

My cough is telling me I need to lie down now. So I'll do that. Good night. I love you.