Commuting

That's right. The arduous task that many billions of people go through everyday to get from their home to their place of work. Of course, now that I'm thinking of my commute, I wonder what exactly would be the shortest commute. If a homeless man begs for change, is his change from unconsciousness to consciousness a commute? Well, I guess now that all depends on your view, but in the end, I guess the point is that no matter the distance, physical or psychological, it is a task. And I think I have a great commute.

My commute takes approximately an hour, with me leaving me walking to the T (the Boston subway system), taking it for about 15 minutes, waiting another 15 minutes, and then riding a train for about 20 minutes. After I leap off the train with a superhuman jump, I walk not much more than a minute to work. That is a great commute because I don't do anything for that time, it's a period where I can focus on my own thoughts or read the thoughts of others. I love that feeling. It gives me peace for a good 45 minutes, amidst the madness of others rushing from point to point (not that I don't sometimes [read: often] run to the T). But I get to relax for a time, and I like to read or play games on my Nintendo DS. These two activities allow me to settle back and enjoy the work of others, instead of feeling like I should be accomplishing something.

There is something about the environment as well, with the throngs of people milling forward and backward, shuffling and asleep standing up or hyped on coffee, that impresses one with society. Why, I can't really say at this point. [Or perhaps I'm just leaving out a voluminous tangent on crowd dynamics.] But the unique people who don't accept normalcy or strive for that impossible standard are the ones that I love to watch. The man I enjoyed watching this week was a musician in a T station, and I agree with my friends who are impressed by the T performers, he was good. He was a flutist! How about that? And he was playing Ravel's Bolero, a song I don't normally care for (too repetitive), but this man standing in the middle of the crowds playing Bolero, it really was a wonderful experience.

That man made the location. He transformed it with his simple and well-intoned flute-playing. I love that kind of person, and I wonder who he is. What brings such inclination to him? Does he enjoy playing the flute as much as I enjoyed hearing it? When did he start? Was this always what he wanted to do? Probably not, but to him I tip my hat. He was stepping out of the crowd. He didn't hurry along like myself and the thousands, millions, and billions of others. His art made my morning better. And now don't I wish I could pay him to continue his art.

Happy new year

Fears
In new years
That might surface
With no purpose
But end
That tear and rend
A vicious blend
I’m seeking to fight
Late in this night
With victomless might
I’ll try to write
Against those leaders
Ignoring the bleeders
Losing limbs and other parts
Maybe most of all hearts
Can I see you cry
Without celebs in your eye?
I try to fly beyond it,
But I get hit
In the pit of my stomach
Dark and black
Take me back
To where I was
Looking on war
I dropped my jaw
At what I saw
The children dead
The parents bled
Wounds I read
In newspapers and nets
On trains and jets
But I just did nothing
While they cried and died
I think I’m running
From the monster come munching
The grass and trees
He don’t notice the pleas
Masses on their knees
Just more of the same
To put up buildings in some name
Does Dubya get the blame
Or a dedicated building for his crimes
Cause presidents so deserve
No matter how they serve
In these trying times
I’m sick of these rhymes
And their associated subjects
I wish they were rejects
Instead of the headlines
Pumped out for deadlines
That take in the cash
Like Iraq
Overbearing like Shaq
A slowdown for us
We took the wrong bus
I guess I better get off and start walking
Cause I'm sure tired of talking.

Hometown winter bike ride

Today I rode my bike at a time later in the afternoon than would normally be wise. It had already began to feel as if the darkness were coming on, but in the winter time, it always feels like the evening is ready to descend. I love the evening, and one of the strongest determinants of that chilling atmosphere is cloud cover. I detest flat gray clouds hovering far beyond my reach, filling the sky with one somber tone. But I adore when the clouds break themselves up with shafts of blue sky and the sun is always just hidden, granting clouds glowing outlines.

That was today. Cloudy with the sun ever striving to appear. And so I went on a bike ride as the sun started its retreat down into the hills west of Gilroy. The air was crisp and clear after last night’s landscape shrouding rain and my bike felt good, a tool for me to get farther from the city than my legs would take me. So, not foolish exactly, but aware of the slowy descending darkness, I went out to Day Road, just at the northwest edge of Gilroy, and made my trip out into the western hills. After crossing over hills and twisting back around toward the city via Watsonville and Burchell Roads, I finally came up the backside of Mantelli hill, at the cusp of Gilroy’s western side.

I almost always ride the reverse of today, starting by going over Mantelli and returning by Day. I’m glad I broke from normalcy, because just as I rode up the first hill and turned around to one of my favorite lookouts, I caught a stunning sky blending with the hillsides by way of dark blue clouds clinging to the forests. The sky directly over the hills was orange with a hint of pink and purple hues as the sun remained visible only through the glowing seams of the clouds. Retreating east were dark vibrant blues, tinting the dark green hills. Tendrils of cloud and fog hung over the high hills and I wish I had had a camera, though no photo would have done that panoramic view justice.

I say all this because it is such times that I am thankful for my existence, and that I feel that my purpose might be clearly to exist. I imagine you aren’t surprised at my words turning philosophical, so I will state my final point simply here: People question what the meaning of life is, and I say that life is the meaning. Existence, more specifically, is our purpose, the meaning to our lives and the greater universe. One of my great friends says that we exist, and there is no purpose, we just exist, there is no creator, the universe just is. Get that? The universe is. But my feelings, my dreams, my spirituality cries out for more. I say instead that the universe is because it is meant to be.

Purpose. That’s what I put forth. I think there is purpose and meaning, but I think it is simpler than good or bad, large or small. I feel that the state of the universe to exist is beautiful. Yes, I also think we can make it not beautiful, by causing things not to be. I pray for the power to exist and not harm those things that also exist. I can only try and regard everything with respect. To just exist and experience the earth is enough. But of course not everyone allows things to just exist, and to them I put my sincerest hopes that they let destruction be nature’s call. There is enough destruction naturally, and it alone is a thoughtless cleaning and clearing. We, who have sentience, have not the right to such thoughtlessness.